Nobody ever really says that word the way Rude says it, like an animal in a cage that he can poke and torture for so long as it may please him. A latent threat, a distant promise of jaws snapping around his throat and claws ravaging him thoroughly. If Tseng was not already shivering, he'd begin again, right here and now.

"Very good," he says, and it is a special kind of hell to tear himself away from the sight of Rude spread wide open beneath the pin of his boot. He wants to emblazon this image in his mind, but there are things to do, procedures that take priority.

The first of which is locking the fucking door, which is what he should have done the second Rude stuck around after that meeting. Whether it ended here or elsewhere, no contingency would have been pleasant for others to witness. Once the bolt has slipped into place, he strolls around the desk to procure a bottle from one of the drawers, eyeing the amount that has been spent on his way back. These moods of his have been happening more and more frequently. It is abhorrently distasteful.

Whatever. Maybe this will put it out of his system for good, this vile act of slicking up his hands and settling between the spread of Rude's thighs. He lets wetness drizzle over Rude's cock and run and run and run without anything else to soothe the ache, while his other hand works below, massaging that furrow of flesh clenched tight over his hole.

"Mm," he hums, his lips curling with some dark delight, "this is going to be terrible for you."