Breath explodes mercifully into Tseng's lungs. He twists his neck, feeling the bruises Rude's rough fingers have burned into his flesh, and shivers run down his spine at how good it aches. His vision swims for as long as it takes to finally get air and—oh, Rude's giving him no quarter. He would be proud of his Turk if that jab wasn't aimed directly at his face. Make no mistake, he still is, wildly and beamingly and all smiles while he twists to the side so he can feed that forward momentum of Rude's surging fist through the air with one delicately placed snap of his hand. Still not enough air in his burning lungs when he pounces on Rude like a cat.

The distance between them is a short span to cover with his arms and legs outstretched to wind Rude back up again. Not a bad place to end up, considering how wicked and alluring Rude looks with blood drooling down his lips. How long has it been since Tseng has seen him like this? Way too fucking long, that's the answer. But he needs to stay close, or else Rude has the advantage here, and if he can get his arms and legs wrapped around his shoulders and his hips, then Tseng knows from experience that there'll be no disentangling them from there.