Tseng lets off Rufus's throat in little, fluttering squeezes as he feels him spill between them. How gorgeous he looks, with tears dotting his eyes like glittering diamonds, exquisite and used and spent. Tseng wishes he could admire him like this forever.

Instead, he withdraws again, his hands smoothing over Rufus's chest, feeling for the beat of his heart, the rise of his lungs expanding. "Sir..." he murmurs, dragging his lips across every spot his fingers burned into Rufus's flesh. No marks left behind, just like a good Turk.

He will not ask if Rufus is okay, but he will cast his gaze up at him expectantly, as if Rufus is any one of his men and he is expecting a report.