[It would be simpler, maybe, if they kept this transactional to the point of...sterility, really; it's not as though the slot machine had demanded any particulars about the performance, just that the requisite action be done. He'd told himself earlier that the reason for his deviation from the most direct possible solution was for the benefit of their working relationship, for the sake of mitigating the tensions that might naturally result from pushing it to this particular...degree.
Only now there's a competing interest beginning to creep in, rising like the heat of the room (like the heat beneath his skin), because maybe drawing this out a little is just more pleasant. It has to be done either way, and the door is locked. And if all that mattered were getting drunk, then there isn't much difference between house pour and top shelf — but if the price is the same, why wouldn't one opt for the latter?
His tongue passes over his lips, unthinking, when Tseng pulls back to follow his order; when he catches himself doing it, and puts a hasty end to it, there's a moment of distinct relief that it probably went unnoticed in the shuffle of fabric getting pulled up and across Tseng's line of sight. It's less anything to do with the view — he's not so crass as to lick his chops at the sight of another man — and more just that the phantom pressure of the kiss feels like it's lingering on his mouth, like he wants to chew at it to solidify the memory all the more.
And then — at last, Tseng handles it.
It's better, paradoxically, to not have to micromanage each least little aspect of a partner's conduct — for all that that's been his practice in his dealings with strangers, up until now. Maybe there's something interesting to the prospect, that level of absolute obedience, but right now he doesn't want to have to direct every decision, stage manage each look and shift and touch. It wouldn't feel as satisfying, the way Tseng touches him, if he'd had to demand it. There's...anticipation, this way, but more importantly it's natural to how they've always worked — that all he need do is sketch out the greater design, and leave it to Tseng to see to the details.
The details are making goosebumps rise on his skin, just barely visible in the candlelight.]
You're quiet.
[He's not sure yet if he likes that. He's not altogether certain he doesn't.
He is sure that it makes him want to earn a sound — something, anything — for his efforts, not just ask for it but drag it out of him, and so where Tseng is sensual, Rufus shows his claws, reaching under Tseng's raised arm and around to set his fingernails against the muscle at the back of his shoulder, digging in and dragging just hard enough to leave a shallow set of marks behind.]
no subject
Only now there's a competing interest beginning to creep in, rising like the heat of the room (like the heat beneath his skin), because maybe drawing this out a little is just more pleasant. It has to be done either way, and the door is locked. And if all that mattered were getting drunk, then there isn't much difference between house pour and top shelf — but if the price is the same, why wouldn't one opt for the latter?
His tongue passes over his lips, unthinking, when Tseng pulls back to follow his order; when he catches himself doing it, and puts a hasty end to it, there's a moment of distinct relief that it probably went unnoticed in the shuffle of fabric getting pulled up and across Tseng's line of sight. It's less anything to do with the view — he's not so crass as to lick his chops at the sight of another man — and more just that the phantom pressure of the kiss feels like it's lingering on his mouth, like he wants to chew at it to solidify the memory all the more.
And then — at last, Tseng handles it.
It's better, paradoxically, to not have to micromanage each least little aspect of a partner's conduct — for all that that's been his practice in his dealings with strangers, up until now. Maybe there's something interesting to the prospect, that level of absolute obedience, but right now he doesn't want to have to direct every decision, stage manage each look and shift and touch. It wouldn't feel as satisfying, the way Tseng touches him, if he'd had to demand it. There's...anticipation, this way, but more importantly it's natural to how they've always worked — that all he need do is sketch out the greater design, and leave it to Tseng to see to the details.
The details are making goosebumps rise on his skin, just barely visible in the candlelight.]
You're quiet.
[He's not sure yet if he likes that. He's not altogether certain he doesn't.
He is sure that it makes him want to earn a sound — something, anything — for his efforts, not just ask for it but drag it out of him, and so where Tseng is sensual, Rufus shows his claws, reaching under Tseng's raised arm and around to set his fingernails against the muscle at the back of his shoulder, digging in and dragging just hard enough to leave a shallow set of marks behind.]