"You want me to scar you," he echoes, sounding distant. His pulse is pounding in his ears. Imagine. He'd been nothing and no one, and now Rufus Shinra, the most powerful man in the world, is asking to wear his mark. It had been unthinkable before now. It was clear, the terms upon which their arrangement was made, Tseng's place in it all.

This makes it decidedly unclear. But Tseng's blade is moving, carving, burrowing beneath the surface layer and digging into the dermis tissue below. He sees red everywhere, dripping down his face, spread in stark relief against Rufus's pale skin with his trailing fingers. He can hardly contain the moan that escapes him, hardly wants to mute such an honest sound from himself within the intimacy of this moment.

He draws more curves, radiating outwards.

"It will hurt," he promises, raking his nails over the cuts he's drawn, careful not to disturb his craft. The blood wells so beautifully against his cuticles.