Tseng doesn't care about the footsteps either. What he does care about are the fingers in his hair, which he disentangles the same way he did last time: two fingers pressed to the pressure point in Rufus's wrist, held until he feels the grip in his hair slacken. He drags Rufus's wrist lower, stares up at him with narrowed eyes.

"Tell me what you want," he corrects himself, "nicely."

Tseng is aware of the discrepancies between the things he and Rufus have experienced in their respective timelines. Even Rude and Reno, he suspects, do not exactly share perfect memories with him. Which means the impetus is on him to teach Rufus better. It is as much his job as any other duty he owes to the president.

"You are so used to power," he says, eyes on Rufus as he licks his cock closer, sets the head of it against the sharp points of his teeth, a promise of pain he does not yet deliver. "Here, only one of us has any. Do I make myself clear?" His lips curl. It does not escape him that Rufus may be doing this solely to garner a certain reaction from him. "Or perhaps you would like me to teach you a lesson."