That look on Rude's face. It's everything Tseng could have ever hoped for, drawn from that deep dangerous place inside of him that makes him one of his Turks. He's laughing all over again, softer, quieter, darker than before, and his hair curtains his face as he leans in close enough for Rude to strangle him.

"Hurt me," he says, and the hiss of his voice is feral, broken by the force of the thrusts he's taking out of Rude. It becomes a mantra, a whispered prayer that he can speak into a frenzy of hushed sound when his brows tilt and his lashes flutter because it's perfect now, the brutal rocking of their bodies, the relentless plunging of his cock, the heaviness of Rude beneath his clenching grip turned to a weightless nothing by how much he fucking needs this. He arches his back, rolls his belly down over Rude's cock just to give him something that he can take away, to bait him into anger or violence or begging, either one just as sweet as the other.