[Tseng's voice cracks like a whip, and Rufus feels it like one — sharp, overpowering, and intensely satisfying. The fact that his taunting also prompts Tseng to work him over harder at the same time, so that it's difficult to tell whether he's actually stretching him or just out to make him acknowledge the level of control Tseng is able to assert over a body that isn't his? Well, that's certainly not hurting anything, either.
Of course I would hate it, and that's good, it's so good. Of course Tseng should hate the thought of him being with anyone else, even if he's the one who raised the question to begin with. He should hate it because that's how this is supposed to work, because that's what it's supposed to mean when Rufus Shinra owns someone.
It is, as expected, a shame to lose that tension in his hair in favor of having his wrist gripped, but it's hard to feel too bad about it when the new sensation is just as thrilling. He can feel the bite of fingers into his skin; even without looking he knows exactly how perfect Tseng's control is, how the prints of his fingers will linger but not last, red for a while before fading back into obscurity. Just that recognition alone has him choking on a sudden mouthful of saliva, flooded with the realization of it. He's always known that Tseng is a weapon; he's never seen that exacting control turned on him like this.]
Tseng.
[It's a reward, the sound of his name dragged out ragged and hot in a tone like the one he uses. He'd say it a hundred times if it meant holding on to that one perfect moment a little while longer, when he's trapped between the desk beneath him and the wall of Tseng's body behind him, and strangely never safer in the world.
It's so strange, to have lost control of his body even on as minor a level as this, but with the way Tseng's fingers are pushed so deep, are stroking him inside, he can't help the way his body reacts with tremors, his throat with strangled sounds.]
You — sound like y— ! [Now his ability to hold a sentence is falling apart. He gasps, hitching over the lost syllables, and tries again.] — you're. Having fun —
[And isn't that something. Tseng of the Turks, having fun.]
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Of course I would hate it, and that's good, it's so good. Of course Tseng should hate the thought of him being with anyone else, even if he's the one who raised the question to begin with. He should hate it because that's how this is supposed to work, because that's what it's supposed to mean when Rufus Shinra owns someone.
It is, as expected, a shame to lose that tension in his hair in favor of having his wrist gripped, but it's hard to feel too bad about it when the new sensation is just as thrilling. He can feel the bite of fingers into his skin; even without looking he knows exactly how perfect Tseng's control is, how the prints of his fingers will linger but not last, red for a while before fading back into obscurity. Just that recognition alone has him choking on a sudden mouthful of saliva, flooded with the realization of it. He's always known that Tseng is a weapon; he's never seen that exacting control turned on him like this.]
Tseng.
[It's a reward, the sound of his name dragged out ragged and hot in a tone like the one he uses. He'd say it a hundred times if it meant holding on to that one perfect moment a little while longer, when he's trapped between the desk beneath him and the wall of Tseng's body behind him, and strangely never safer in the world.
It's so strange, to have lost control of his body even on as minor a level as this, but with the way Tseng's fingers are pushed so deep, are stroking him inside, he can't help the way his body reacts with tremors, his throat with strangled sounds.]
You — sound like y— ! [Now his ability to hold a sentence is falling apart. He gasps, hitching over the lost syllables, and tries again.] — you're. Having fun —
[And isn't that something. Tseng of the Turks, having fun.]