[His face flushes, and it's not because of the candor — okay, so it's a little bit because of the candor, but that's less from what Tseng actually describes and more from the fact that he's describing anything at all, that he already knew what he wanted to say without even an instant's hesitation. It's strange, though; the fantasy he outlines is one that Rufus himself has entertained before, almost down to the letter, and for all that Tseng's description makes his body light up, there's a moody little undercurrent threaded through it, as well.
Setting aside the question of how Tseng could've possibly known exactly, exactly what he wants — it begs the question, still, are they just that much in alignment? Or is Tseng somehow trying to give him what he wants, and still hiding his own interests even now?
He's not about to ask. But he still thinks he's got a few ways of finding out, regardless.]
Dad would roll in his grave, wouldn't he. Precious me, bent over for a Turk.
[He unfolds himself languidly, sliding off the desk so that he's standing right up in the circle of Tseng's personal space, and drapes his arms over Tseng's shoulders without preamble. His cheeks are still lightly pink, his eyes still dark and hungry; the difference between them is that Tseng looks like he's holding himself back within the cage of his own body, and Rufus is slipping through the bars because he can't stand the thought of that barrier between them.]
But I don't want you to do it just because he'd hate it. I want you to do it because you'd love it.
[This was a risky move, getting this close. He'd meant to tempt Tseng with it, but the backlash hits him harder than he'd thought it would — wanting that promise of worship, that indelible connection, wanting to be wanted so bad he might go a little crazy from it.
He leans in a little desperately, drawn like a magnet, pausing before claiming a kiss from Tseng's lips only long enough to murmur against his mouth: ]
no subject
Setting aside the question of how Tseng could've possibly known exactly, exactly what he wants — it begs the question, still, are they just that much in alignment? Or is Tseng somehow trying to give him what he wants, and still hiding his own interests even now?
He's not about to ask. But he still thinks he's got a few ways of finding out, regardless.]
Dad would roll in his grave, wouldn't he. Precious me, bent over for a Turk.
[He unfolds himself languidly, sliding off the desk so that he's standing right up in the circle of Tseng's personal space, and drapes his arms over Tseng's shoulders without preamble. His cheeks are still lightly pink, his eyes still dark and hungry; the difference between them is that Tseng looks like he's holding himself back within the cage of his own body, and Rufus is slipping through the bars because he can't stand the thought of that barrier between them.]
But I don't want you to do it just because he'd hate it. I want you to do it because you'd love it.
[This was a risky move, getting this close. He'd meant to tempt Tseng with it, but the backlash hits him harder than he'd thought it would — wanting that promise of worship, that indelible connection, wanting to be wanted so bad he might go a little crazy from it.
He leans in a little desperately, drawn like a magnet, pausing before claiming a kiss from Tseng's lips only long enough to murmur against his mouth: ]
So tell me you'd love it.