In his head, he's counting, calculating, watching. His hands smooth over the pulse point in Rufus's throat, smearing brilliant, too-bright trails of blood, feeling. There's only so much that Rufus can give before Tseng fails him. He will not let it get to that point.

But they are not there now. This moment is blood bubbling like seafoam between their twisting bodies, Rufus's hands wrapping around him, painting him. The weight of his blood is thick, heavy, and Tseng shudders beneath it. He reaches for his belt and loosens it. His fingers coast along the line of Rufus's jaw, admiring him with his touch.

"Beautiful Rufus," he purrs, licking the blood from his lips, from his cheek, from his jaw. There is not a single part of him that does not taste like life. "Do you feel it yet?"

He drives his hips between Rufus's legs, pressing there, shuddering. Tseng has never wanted him more. He wonders aloud, "Or do you need more?"