Of course I would hate it. [ tseng's voice is like the crack of a whip, too honest. he shoves his fingers deep inside rufus and curls them forward, pressing down until rufus' hole is stretched wide open, clutching around nothing. it must ache, but tseng doesn't stop. ] But it doesn't matter. You won't remember anyone else when I'm through with you.

[ at this distance, as closely attuned as tseng is to every single straining inch of rufus' body, he practically sees the decision before it's made, reading the twitch of muscle fiber that precedes the movement of rufus' hand from the surface of the desk. he moves the hand tseng can grab, and tseng knows that's intentional—rufus could get away with this, if he moved the other hand, so the fact that he doesn't tells tseng that rufus wants something.

wants this, probably: tseng letting go of rufus' hair and instead gripping his wrist, tight enough leave marks but just shy of tight enough to bruise. he pins the fine bones of rufus' hand down against the desk and leans forward over him, so that when he speaks, his low voice will carry. ]

Don't. [ it is, perhaps, the first time tseng has ever given rufus an order. in the waking world, he would sooner die. ] Let me. ]