Tseng is moving beneath Rufus's hand before he's even aware that he's been touched. A low growl starts up in the pit of his throat, sharpened by those fingers smoothing over his skin. Imagine, he thinks, and then elects to realize it instead, sweeping blood from Rufus's stomach until it drips over his hand, spreading it over Rufus's fingers, across his cock, until every part of them is coated in a glittering ruby sheen.

"You will," he promises, switching the blade in his grip. He knows Rufus's body so intimately well, knows all his favorite places to dig his fingers in when he's fucking him, and now is no different. Except that he scores them now first before he reaches for them, drawing two deep cuts across the swell of Rufus's hip bones, perfectly arranged for him to squeeze into while he grasps Rufus and drags him closer.

"Rufus," he snarls, letting the rush of blood smooth the drag of skin between them as he works his cock inside. Just lingering here, feeling how Rufus's body strains as he pushes against muscle and flesh, demanding to be permitted entry, is enough to drive him out of his fucking mind. His nails dig into those fresh wounds; he feels blood welling beneath them.