[Now there's a thought so incongruous it almost makes him laugh. There are many people in the world for whom it would be hyperbole to suggest that they would sooner cut off an arm than be caught begging; Tseng is one of the rare few for whom he'd actually believe it.
But luckily, he doesn't want to think about his father any more than Tseng does in a moment like this, save perhaps for the petty aside of considering how much the old man would roll in his grave to know what he was doing, inviting so much intimacy with a direct report. He almost, almost wishes his father were capable of knowing that Tseng has fucked him; curiously, he finds he's not nearly so eager to share the recognition of this.
Maybe it's just because he doesn't want to share Tseng with anyone, like this. That the world outside this suite can have him powerful and polished and perfect, and only Rufus gets to have him like this.
He can feel Tseng's eyes on him as he resumes his attempt at fixing his morning coffee, using the time and the excuse to keep his hands occupied to consider and take stock of his own feelings. His available options. His wants.]
Well. I imagine — [He begins a little deliberately, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug; the tone he chooses is as nonchalant as the gaze he levels at Tseng isn't.] — the president also wouldn't get on his knees for his director. And certainly not over breakfast.
[There's an offer there — implicit, but there, and he watches Tseng carefully for a signal.]
no subject
[Now there's a thought so incongruous it almost makes him laugh. There are many people in the world for whom it would be hyperbole to suggest that they would sooner cut off an arm than be caught begging; Tseng is one of the rare few for whom he'd actually believe it.
But luckily, he doesn't want to think about his father any more than Tseng does in a moment like this, save perhaps for the petty aside of considering how much the old man would roll in his grave to know what he was doing, inviting so much intimacy with a direct report. He almost, almost wishes his father were capable of knowing that Tseng has fucked him; curiously, he finds he's not nearly so eager to share the recognition of this.
Maybe it's just because he doesn't want to share Tseng with anyone, like this. That the world outside this suite can have him powerful and polished and perfect, and only Rufus gets to have him like this.
He can feel Tseng's eyes on him as he resumes his attempt at fixing his morning coffee, using the time and the excuse to keep his hands occupied to consider and take stock of his own feelings. His available options. His wants.]
Well. I imagine — [He begins a little deliberately, wrapping both hands around his coffee mug; the tone he chooses is as nonchalant as the gaze he levels at Tseng isn't.] — the president also wouldn't get on his knees for his director. And certainly not over breakfast.
[There's an offer there — implicit, but there, and he watches Tseng carefully for a signal.]