[ Tseng's hands slide down to cradle Cloud's arching back. It's a solid, strong place to lean while he runs his mouth down Cloud's chest—down, down, and further still, until he's working his tongue between the unclasped part of his bodice. He hated it before, but he thinks he likes it now, the half-undone, trashy look of it.
The sounds Cloud makes are decadent. And they have only come this far; Tseng's head is swimming with possibilities. ]
What whorish sounds you make.
[ He says it the same way he's said everything tonight: a deceptive politesse in his tone, something that is too courteous to not be cut-throat. ]
no subject
The sounds Cloud makes are decadent. And they have only come this far; Tseng's head is swimming with possibilities. ]
What whorish sounds you make.
[ He says it the same way he's said everything tonight: a deceptive politesse in his tone, something that is too courteous to not be cut-throat. ]
Do you like to be treated like one too?