[Wriothesley doesn't say anything nor questions Rufus' actions as they leave the room for a moment. He sits there, perfectly still, waiting obediently for the other to return. Despite having a nature that wasn't tamable, Wriothesley knew how to be an obedient dog.
He closes his eyes at Rufus' words and waits. There's a stiffening of his shoulders as Wriothesley seems to be making out what he was feeling and what the implication meant. Eventually, the man lets his shoulders relax, hands settling on his lap.
Relaxed. Accepting. He waits for Rufus to tie it around his eyes.]
[When no reluctance comes, he carefully ties the long, narrow strip of cloth around Wriothesley's head, leaving the knot to sit at the back of his skull while the soft expanse of it fits snug but not tight against his eyes. A little sensory deprivation can go a long way toward enhancing obedience, he muses to himself, reaching to free the ends of Wriothesley's bangs from the trap of the makeshift blindfold and let them return to dangling comfortably instead.]
[The fabric is thick enough that even as he opens his eyes, all he can see is blackness. The strange things about senses is that when you are denied one, your other senses try to make up for it. It makes his mind want to focus on other things. The rustling of fabric or the other man's breathing. Wherever every touch lingers on his body, leaving him warm.
A shuddering breath and he finally nods in response.]
[There's a strange sort of lull that comes over the room, in the moments that follow — it's not just Wriothesley that's been coaxed into the rhythm of this, into the warm drowsy cadence of forgetting about everything else. There's something to the submissiveness and silence that's starting to ensnare Rufus, too, in the tempting allure of a softer sort of dominance, absent the adrenaline rush and jagged edges.
Before he quite realizes it, he's sunk down onto one knee, letting him draw closer to where Wriothesley remains still and crouched on the carpet; it lets him lower his voice, feeding into that remark — yes, it's quieter like this, soft and easy and quiet, and there's something so powerfully compelling about that.]
A good dog can heel without a leash.
[He runs the pad of his thumb over Wriothesley's lower lip, as if to add a tactile element to the moment to help keep him grounded against the risk of drifting off on his thoughts.]
So let's go for a walk.
[It's a healthy-sized apartment, after all, with multiple rooms. Plenty of space to work in a little following.]
[With his sight taken, the only thing he can focus on is the sound of Rufus' voice and the feeling of the man's gentle touch. It's easy for his mind to latch onto it. Rufus speaks softly, like each and every word is just for him. And isn't it? Who else is here but them?
And he finds his body crave those sweet touches. The man's attention. Affection. Real or not. He leans into it, searching for that hand.
If he hadn't asked for this in the first place, he might balk at Rufus' words. Instead though, he obeys the other like a good pet. He crawls on all fours, ears straining to listen for the blond's steps and to follow after them loyally.]
[There's one thing, significantly, that Wriothesley won't overhear as they move through the suite: there's no rattle of a lock or whisper of hinges that might be indicative of the main door opening. This game is about release, not about humiliation; he's not about to be paraded around where others might see, their activities kept safe in the confines of his own four walls.
And there are tells, as he walks, that make it possible to track — but with the carpets being plush as they are, and Rufus in house slippers, it's definitely something that Wriothesley will have to focus on to attend to. He leads him smoothly, methodically, around the living room a few times — as much to throw off his sense of direction as anything else — before guiding him in the direction of the bedroom, making his footfalls a little more pronounced as they get close to the doorway.]
[It’s good of Rufus to know not to let this go passed closed doors. Had Wriothesley felt like his trust of the scene been pushed too far, it would be unlikely that the man would ever put himself in such a situation with Rufus again. He didn’t want to be dragged into the public eye when his mental was in such a precarious spot. He wanted respite.
He’s not quite used to the layout of Rufus’ room, even if he had took in the space carefully. Paranoia and wariness making him want to always be aware of what’s around him. Like this though, it’s easy for him to slowly lose track as he tries to focus on where Rufus is going.
He notes the slight change in how they walk and knows the other must be leading him somewhere specific now. He doesn’t hesitate to follow.]
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He closes his eyes at Rufus' words and waits. There's a stiffening of his shoulders as Wriothesley seems to be making out what he was feeling and what the implication meant. Eventually, the man lets his shoulders relax, hands settling on his lap.
Relaxed. Accepting. He waits for Rufus to tie it around his eyes.]
no subject
[When no reluctance comes, he carefully ties the long, narrow strip of cloth around Wriothesley's head, leaving the knot to sit at the back of his skull while the soft expanse of it fits snug but not tight against his eyes. A little sensory deprivation can go a long way toward enhancing obedience, he muses to himself, reaching to free the ends of Wriothesley's bangs from the trap of the makeshift blindfold and let them return to dangling comfortably instead.]
It's quieter in the dark, isn't it, puppy?
no subject
A shuddering breath and he finally nods in response.]
no subject
Before he quite realizes it, he's sunk down onto one knee, letting him draw closer to where Wriothesley remains still and crouched on the carpet; it lets him lower his voice, feeding into that remark — yes, it's quieter like this, soft and easy and quiet, and there's something so powerfully compelling about that.]
A good dog can heel without a leash.
[He runs the pad of his thumb over Wriothesley's lower lip, as if to add a tactile element to the moment to help keep him grounded against the risk of drifting off on his thoughts.]
So let's go for a walk.
[It's a healthy-sized apartment, after all, with multiple rooms. Plenty of space to work in a little following.]
no subject
And he finds his body crave those sweet touches. The man's attention. Affection. Real or not. He leans into it, searching for that hand.
If he hadn't asked for this in the first place, he might balk at Rufus' words. Instead though, he obeys the other like a good pet. He crawls on all fours, ears straining to listen for the blond's steps and to follow after them loyally.]
no subject
[There's one thing, significantly, that Wriothesley won't overhear as they move through the suite: there's no rattle of a lock or whisper of hinges that might be indicative of the main door opening. This game is about release, not about humiliation; he's not about to be paraded around where others might see, their activities kept safe in the confines of his own four walls.
And there are tells, as he walks, that make it possible to track — but with the carpets being plush as they are, and Rufus in house slippers, it's definitely something that Wriothesley will have to focus on to attend to. He leads him smoothly, methodically, around the living room a few times — as much to throw off his sense of direction as anything else — before guiding him in the direction of the bedroom, making his footfalls a little more pronounced as they get close to the doorway.]
no subject
He’s not quite used to the layout of Rufus’ room, even if he had took in the space carefully. Paranoia and wariness making him want to always be aware of what’s around him. Like this though, it’s easy for him to slowly lose track as he tries to focus on where Rufus is going.
He notes the slight change in how they walk and knows the other must be leading him somewhere specific now. He doesn’t hesitate to follow.]