[If he had expected any other reaction, he shouldn't have. Rumlow's tastes and preferences had always been obvious to him, and his lover itched the scratch of rough treatment and finely precise pain infliction at times. A thumb to a bruise, expertly pressing. The rub of a nail against a healing scab. The swipe of a tongue against an open wound to gather up the oozing blood.
It wasn't that he, himself, was trying to itch that scratch for Rumlow, but his level of trust in his lover's skill and presence was enough to know that it would be. They would both be receiving exactly what they wanted, and already, there was an anticipation of relief to the mess that his head was currently in. He exhaled sharply at the grip to his arm, the sharp swell of pain that spidered through the cracks of his disjointed thoughts and emotions, all left over from the days away and his recent nightmare.
His eyes easily adjusted to the return of darkness, and he was on the move to head back to bed at the same moment of the order to do so. He walked with confident, with purpose because he had order and anticipation, but he didn't show his eagerness. In the end, he was still a professional, and he seated himself on the corner of the bed, his feet flat on the floor, his mismatched hands folded together and hanging between his parted knees. He tracked Rumlow with his eyes, his face impassive other than his eyes which were both needy and troubled.]
Do you want my wings out? [It wasn't an offer he made often, if at all. They were a point of weakness after all, one that could mix the pain and the pleasure if Rumlow wanted to.]
no subject
It wasn't that he, himself, was trying to itch that scratch for Rumlow, but his level of trust in his lover's skill and presence was enough to know that it would be. They would both be receiving exactly what they wanted, and already, there was an anticipation of relief to the mess that his head was currently in. He exhaled sharply at the grip to his arm, the sharp swell of pain that spidered through the cracks of his disjointed thoughts and emotions, all left over from the days away and his recent nightmare.
His eyes easily adjusted to the return of darkness, and he was on the move to head back to bed at the same moment of the order to do so. He walked with confident, with purpose because he had order and anticipation, but he didn't show his eagerness. In the end, he was still a professional, and he seated himself on the corner of the bed, his feet flat on the floor, his mismatched hands folded together and hanging between his parted knees. He tracked Rumlow with his eyes, his face impassive other than his eyes which were both needy and troubled.]
Do you want my wings out? [It wasn't an offer he made often, if at all. They were a point of weakness after all, one that could mix the pain and the pleasure if Rumlow wanted to.]