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The Vice President of Shinra was having an affair.
That was what the tabloids would call it. The feather-brained, gossip-mongering crones at the HR department would call it a romance, which it certainly was not. His father? He would call it an utter disgrace, if there ever was such an affair. However, there was no such thing. Nothing had changed after that fateful blackout in the headquarters. Tseng still called him Sir, as he ought to, and his relationship with the Vice President was strictly professional.
Just once, though, Rufus had indulged himself a little. One morning, Tseng had appeared on time at his door to pick him up, but he had miscalculated the traffic and arrived at the office garage fifteen minutes early. Tseng used to be the paragon of punctuality, and when Rufus had shown considerable disinclination to make his entrée any earlier than necessary, the man had lowered the driver’s seat and inquired something along the lines of we have fifteen minutes, Sir. That had been Rufus’ cue to lie down on the leather seats, careful not to stain Tseng’s precious upholstery as he chose to spend his time with his head in between his bodyguard’s shapely thighs. It had been his only opportunity lately – behind tinted windows, within a reasonable timeframe and in possession of an alibi, and it had been but a taste of the thrill had been missing for years to count. He would never forget his fifteen minutes, not to mention the expression – or, rather, the lack of it – on Tseng’s face as the Vice President so amiably handed over his take-away coffee to a caffeine-starved Reno, who obviously had no idea that the cup had only recently served as Rufus’ makeshift mouth rinse.
Rufus could not, and would not take unreasonable risks, and neither would Tseng. There were strict rules in place, unwritten and unspoken, yet perfectly understood by both parties associated. The hunt was over, and his trophy was waiting for him, fatigued yet unattainable. He would watch over him from the other side of the table, hawk-eyed; his fingertips would barely brush by Rufus’ as he passed him coffee or cigarettes. He would linger in the doorway or at the window a tad longer, certainly only knowing how Rufus would automatically stare at the region of his hip pockets. He would bend over Rufus’ desk to make a point over some insignificant figure or detail; his hair would cascade over his shoulders, and Rufus would finally catch a hint of his very subtle aftershave. Sometimes he would even catch Tseng smiling for no reason, so slightly and absolutely only to him. Perhaps Tseng was not the trophy after all, but rather the hunter, or both incarnated in one.
If Rufus Shinra were to have an affair, he would do it properly. This meant no hurried encounters against the copier machine or in the bathroom stall, no incriminating evidence left behind in the company’s cell phones or email, no careless slips of tongue or innuendos where someone or something might hear them. He would have to make proper arrangements, to raise the stakes, and if this was not worth going the extra mile, then what venture would be?
He had thought of it for a while, and when the opportunity finally reared its head one Thursday evening in the form of absolutely no calendar appointments from Friday to Sunday, he decided to take action. Everyone else had already left for the day, and the others would come back tomorrow; however, he had other plans for Tseng, who had already been dismissed with the rest of the executives but was somehow dragging his feet at the doorway of Rufus’ offices. He promptly stopped at the first sharp syllable of a wait, but would still play coy and not turn around completely. He really did have a most magnificent backside, and Rufus suspected he had begun flaunting it even more after the appreciation Rufus had shown for it that one night he had made him stay over.
“I have plans for the weekend.” He was twirling a fountain pen in his fingers, careful not to give into his nervous habit of tapping it against the marble desk. He had thought this through countless times now, yet still, it was by no means a perfect intrigue. Should his machinations be found wanting, he would be in the headlines in an instant. It would be a scandal, but only one of the many that his name had already been associated with. He would gladly have the public revel in the reprobate turns of the Vice President’s life, but he would never have the image of his right-hand man tarnished like that.
“Where shall I drive you then, Sir?” At least he now bothered to turn his face slightly, as to vaguely address Rufus’ direction instead of the door. Something seemed off about him; why, someone else might have considered him cold to begin with, but familiar with the scale of frosts the man bore himself in, Rufus would certainly recognize a change of heart in everything about Tseng. Nonetheless, Rufus had waited long enough, and he had a point to make.
“The Honeybee Inn.” Those were the magical words that finally had Tseng turning around to face Rufus, a doubtful expression obscuring his handsome features. He would be right to disapprove, knowing what kind of unsavoury activities Rufus’ father and several other company men engaged in Midgar’s underworld; of whether his disapproval was for the establishment itself, or for how Rufus expressed his intent to entertain himself in other company than Tseng’s, he had no clue. Perhaps the man even had weekend plans of his own, plans that did not include babysitting his boss and setting up a play date for him and a bunch of harlots, but would he dare say no?
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Sir? There’s a number of reputable establishments more suitable for your position.” The image of the leader of the Turks, gathering intelligence on the brothels of Midgar only to report to his lord amused Rufus greatly, and, in fact, it pleased him immensely that Tseng had the guts to question his choices. He would have to explain himself and his grand design, but in a way that only Tseng would understand; even his private offices were under surveillance, and hacking or dismantling the wires and cameras had proven unsuccessful.
“My back is acting up again. I have caught word of a fantastic masseuse from Wutai, who apparently performs miracles and has people waiting in line to get an appointment months ahead.” It was certainly not the most believable story he could muster, but seemingly enough to end Tseng’s questioning and warrant him with a curt I see. “You’re to ensure my security. It is Wall Market after all,” he continued, his skin crawling with disgust at the thought of having to descend to the lower plates. He knew the place all too well from the times when his father had seen fit to provide his son some education with the ladies of the night. Little did the old man know, though, how Rufus had used up his pocket money to bribe the ladies to entertain each other instead of him, and educational it had certainly been in the least. At least the staff would ask no questions or keep a record of their guests – and should they do, a large part of their clientele and a significant slice of income would be compromised in an instant.
“I will see to it, Sir. If you’re ready, I’ll drop you off now and pick you up when you’ve made your preparations.” Tseng waited, gesturing towards the door with his hand, which prompted Rufus to slam down the lid of his laptop and pack his belongings at once. Yes, he had certainly made some preparations; he had not even considered the option that Tseng would refuse, and his suitcase was already packed and waiting. As for how to truly prepare himself for a weekend full of the obvious, he had been lucky enough to have his mind and hands full of other matters than Tseng; why, it would not do to wear himself out in wait for those meagre days of liberty he would dedicate to this man and all the things he would do to him.
Tseng had barely spoken a word during his drive to Rufus’ house, and even less when he returned to pick him up and set off for Wall Market. He did just as Rufus instructed, parking far away from the neon hearts and bumblebees that towered high in the midst of the surrounding shacks, and following like a shadow in Rufus’ footsteps through the mean streets. He would be armed to the teeth, as usual, but as per Rufus’ request for a disguise, he had donned a long leather coat on top of everything and a hat upon his head. No one would look at them twice, no; they knew better than to approach a man like Tseng. As for Rufus, well, he made a less impressive and perfectly uninteresting character in the drags he had pulled out of the depths of his wardrobe. He had made sure to hide his watch and his diamond ear studs as he had heard rumours of criminals dismembering passers-by at the sheer sight of anything shinier than the barrel of a gun.
The line of men and women hungry for love was long, and Rufus had not procured any coveted membership cards, but a thick envelope brimming with cash seemed to warrant immediate entry despite the exasperated outcries coming from the line. Another equally thick envelope, discreetly handed to the kindly receptionist inside, guaranteed two adjacent rooms with a view – one for each, the two for the show. The staff certainly asked no questions, but the questions in Tseng’s eyes as he followed Rufus to the upper floors were plenty. Rufus did not know whether this was Tseng’s first visit to the Honeybee Inn, but he believed that the man would do his utmost to make it his last.
Upon entering one of the rooms, Rufus gestured to Tseng, the silent word cameras on his lips. Tseng instantly scanned the room and all of the objects within his sight, a hand resting over his bulging chest pocket, and shook his head. Obviously the owners cared less for the well-being of their employees than the privacy of their customers, which suited Rufus just perfectly. The room was indeed suitably tacky for its intended purposes, but at least it seemed clean. The ceiling lights were red and strategically placed, and a thick scent of incense hung in the air. There were no windows, but rather paintings on all walls – paintings with slashed eyes to provide visibility to whatever was taking place on the other side of the wall. Rufus happened to know that the visibility was one-way only, ensuring that there would be no curious eyes to watch back.
Tseng, stalwart as ever by his side, still wore that quizzical air upon his face as Rufus hung their jackets into an empty armoire and dug up a magnum of champagne from his suitcase. He had, however, already noted the location of the liquor cabinet in the room and returned to Rufus with a pair of champagne flutes in his hand. Rufus topped them up and took one, letting Tseng wander off to examine the view this room was supposed to offer– the peering holes in the place of the eyes in the paintings. His facial expression would pass no judgement on whatever his eyes were feasting on, but he would cross his arms against his chest in thought; perhaps he was measuring the angle, the distance, and the impact of an impromptu snipe through the peering hole, or then measuring something else entirely. The walls, as it seemed, were soundproof, leaving Rufus with only the crispy sound of bubbles in his glass.
“You paid handsomely for this, Sir. Aren’t you going to have a look?”
Rufus stepped into the blank space left by Tseng in front of one of the paintings, leaning in for a look. The sight of a young woman writhing in impressive positions under a mountain of flesh made him feel ill rather than aroused. “She’s very flexible to say the least,” he muttered, more to himself than Tseng, and raised his glass to his lips in courtesy anticipation of how the scene would play out. Apparently the star of the show was not satisfied with just one partner, or two, and this was Rufus’ cue to cover the peering holes and down his champagne with one deep gulp. The bubbles would get to his head, as they always did, and he needed it badly. Champagne was not his favourite, but suitable for the occasion – fast, efficient and temporary, quite like a number of the finer things in life.
“Perhaps the other view is more to your liking, Sir.” Tseng had moved over to examine another painting, and Rufus followed suit, only to witness a roomful of burly middle-aged man lined up in the hot tub. Some of the faces looked entirely too familiar, and Rufus fought hard to resist the sudden urge to hug the toilet. “Good grief,” he sighed, steadying himself in front of a nearby mirror to retrieve his focus on the purpose of this room, his mission that most certainly was not to deaden his libido for life.
He had orchestrated this weekend to finally get this man alone in a safe yet suitably remote place, to finally purposely fuck him right and proper all day and all night, and here he was, his heart aflutter like that of a nervous schoolboy. He wanted Tseng badly, he desired him with every cell of his body, but something was holding him back. He had no desire or need to woo Tseng, not in the least – the man had made it perfectly clear that he was game – yet he was not like a dog in heat who would pounce down on him the very instant he was unleashed. He wanted more, and he needed more, but how was Rufus Shinra supposed to treat and keep his lover, in the lack of a better word?
He had already seen to it that Tseng had everything he needed; he had faith in the man to voice his daily needs, be it a better car, new firearms, or less incompetent underlings. He imagined the man could also speak up should he want something else entirely – he had done so, that night in Rufus’ downtown apartment, with a license to forget his position and speak his mind – yet still, Rufus did not know which pieces to move to reach his king, and it rendered him infuriatingly incapable of anything he might have in mind. He poured himself another glass, intent on finishing the bottle before the bubbles died out with the rest of his grit. He had been saving this particular vintage for a suitable occasion fo quite some time, and he would hate to have the ten grand paid for it go to waste.
Tseng’s glass was still unfinished, which produced a slight frown on Rufus’ face. He would not be driving anywhere in quite some time – Rufus would take care of it – but something was clearly still bothering him. Was he waiting for his command to take action? Rufus certainly was not doing the right thing if he had to voice his desires to make Tseng act the way either of them would yearn for. Perhaps he had lost his charm, now that he was no longer the last man on earth, and really, who could blame Tseng? Of course he merited something more dignified than a room in a brothel, and he would have it later, but Rufus could not possibly wait until his father decided to vacate the Costa del Sol villa for Rufus’ personal use. He was fairly sure a man like Tseng would not wait forever, either; of course the man would have others, those more accessible to him and those to whom he was not bound by any other means. Death, after all, was the only way out of the Turks, and even if he would one day grant Tseng his freedom, he knew Tseng would refuse.
“Did you manage to get an appointment from the lady, Sir?” Tseng’s sudden question surprised him, for he had been under the impression that Tseng was perfectly in on his little plot. It was not a casual, conversational tone; his voice was sharp and demanding, and something in it caught Rufus terribly off guard. He had never heard his given name from Tseng’s lips, but he would give it time; the yes, Sir rang so naturally each time, and should he tell the man to drop the formalities, it would feel coerced. Tseng would do it when he was ready, clocked out and comfortable, but today seemed not to be the day.
“No such luck. Seems like she chooses her customers, and I guess one Rufus Shinra would have made a bigger impression than your John Doe.” Rufus shrugged, fully aware of how Tseng was studying his poor disguise – a pair of skinny jeans and a worn-out grey cardigan – with a keen eye. Even if he had a mind to have his clothes come and stay off, he could certainly have changed into something more pleasing to the hand and the eye once he was in the clear, but Tseng was watching him, sizing up and undressing him with his eyes only, and Rufus was glad for the thick wool of his cardigan covering the sudden goosebumps on his skin.
There was something very devious, even intimidating about Tseng as he picked up his glass, drank it all up and stepped up behind Rufus. Nearly one head taller, his shoulders much wider, he stood there, and the only part of him that would touch Rufus was his breath as he leaned in to speak his mind.
“You should know that the art of massage is sacred in Wutai. It’s in our blood.”
Petrified, Rufus stood still, watching the man in the mirror roll up his sleeves and produce a hair band from his pocket. His back arched slightly as he lifted his hands to tie up his long black hair, and Rufus wanted nothing more than to pull at that hair and smack that ass hard. No man could fill out a plain black suit that perfectly, or move with such grace and get away with it like Tseng did. The last time Rufus had seen him with a ponytail went years back when it had only reached the junction between his neck and his back, and now it hung down to his waist. He preferred it down, yes; the silken feel of it against his skin, the tickling sensation on his stomach or his back as the man moved above him, the sheer glory of those locks even when soaked in sweat…
Captivated by the sight and a dash of fright, Rufus sipped on his champagne, admiring the perfection with which Tseng had rolled his belt and placed it on the nightstand along with his neatly folded jacket. The rest, it appeared, would stay on as the man stepped in to face him and grabbed him by the jaw. “I won’t tread over your spine in high heels, but I’m fairly confident I can provide the rest,” he stated, dead serious, and the mental image a nearly two-meter tall man in stilettoes made Rufus’ heart throb. Was he truly serious? Or, rather, when was Tseng ever not serious?
Either he nodded in understanding or it was Tseng who moved his head up and down, but it was his only cue to take off his sweater and flop down onto his stomach onto the bed behind him. This could very well be his first proper massage – what a decent workout or painkillers would not deal with, he had learned to endure – and the hands that now busied themselves in lighting candles on the nightstands would have the honour of seeing him through it.
He closed his eyes, listening to the predatory footsteps circling the bed. He heard the snapping of some kind of lid, followed by the sound of wet hands being rubbed together, making him shiver with anticipation. He was unable to see, but his remaining senses painted a very accurate picture of Tseng, his deadliest hired gun crawling above him, drops of some kind of fragrant oil raining from his hands onto Rufus’ back. He could sense the heat of his body, the sound of his breath; he wondered if it was only him, or would any professional Wutaian masseur sit on his ass, but he would not dream of complaining. The firm pressure of Tseng’s body against his was enough to raise his hopes of raising something else entirely.
He started with small, gentle fingertips on Rufus’ neck; he was very careful, and Rufus knew why. One of the lessons he had been given by Tseng was the one where he was shown the exact spot on a man’s skull where one decisive push could end his life. Of all the hundreds, thousands of ways to kill a man, Tseng could just pick any of them and use it on him, and he would get away with it – he would slither in to Rufus’ personal sphere, all dark and beguiling, and Rufus would never know what hit him. That was the risk he was willing to live with, in this state of things, under Tseng’s mercy and his touch.
When Tseng reached the shoulders, Rufus winced at the pain in those massive, rock-hard lumps making ominous sounds under Tseng’s palms, and squeezed his pillow hard. Either this would mark the end of his splitting headaches, or the beginning of an even greater one; yet patiently, Tseng kept working, making Rufus feel the tension slowly melt away. He had long, slender fingers and a warm, firm touch; Rufus probably knew only half of the things those hands had done and would do, but to him, the knowledge those hands had in everything between firearms and fingering was even more titillating than the actual miracles they were working on his long-neglected back.
Tseng proceeded to his shoulder blades, and his fingers were soon accompanied by his elbows dealing sharp, firm jabs in between. Those were aches and muscles Rufus had not been privy to, and fresh knowledge of their painful existence soon turned into velvet smooth pleasure. Perhaps later, he would learn the roadmap of his body as it spread under Tseng’s hands and eyes and drift off to a blissful sleep, like he was known to do during long familiar drives or flights; yet now every fibre of his thought was with what Tseng would do next, the surprise and relief as he moved on to his lower back.
Every time Tseng moved on to another area, his weight would shift slightly, and the knowledge of which part of him was pressing against Rufus’ newly sensitized body was enough to disrupt the flow of blood to the areas under treatment. He had almost forgotten why he had devised this plan in the first place, and such a sharp reminder was most welcome. His body was not a machine, and his mind’s mastery of it was one direction only; as much as the thought of Tseng off duty, doing his damnedest to get him off, occupied his sleepless nights, it alone would not be enough for him to rise to the occasion.
“I wasn’t lying about my back.” That part was the only truth in his words; the rest had been but to fool the surveillance cameras, or anyone who might have been eavesdropping. Tseng could have sniffed the meaning behind such words, or, as he first had thought, the initially non-existent sexual agenda of it. Who knew Tseng had a penchant for role play? Of course Rufus could have rephrased his words not to convey any other purpose than a valid excuse to head for the lower plates, but instead, Tseng had chosen to fulfil this nonsensical Wutaian massage to a T, and Rufus had never known he would need it so much.
“I know. We’re not finished yet.” Tseng was not done; he seemed bent on treating the front as well, and Rufus complied, rolling onto his back to expose just how thoroughly skinny his jeans truly were. The intense look of concentration on Tseng’s face as he oiled his hands again sent shivers down his spine, and while slightly afraid and moderately curious, he was extremely aroused. He had been taught that naming the beasts taking over his mind would make accepting them easier, but all it truly did was help him decide which one to slay first, and the one he chose was curiosity.
On all fours, crawling closer to be seated on Rufus again – now even heavier and harder, obviously glad to be of service – Tseng carried on his massage, starting from the chest. Shorter strands of hair had fallen loose around his face, and he looked much harsher with his eyes closed; yet his hands, gentle but firm, knew their way, locating every ache and every sore spot imaginable. The bed underneath Rufus felt as if it would swallow him whole like the sea, if it were not for Tseng’s hands keeping him above the surface; the tensions and aches of his body were exorcised, one by one, until he realized Tseng had already moved on below his stomach into a definite play with fire.
“I believe this is where we ask if the client is satisfied, or if he is willing to pay a little extra for a happy ending,” Tseng whispered, indifferent to the oil stains soiling the fabric of his shirt as he leaned on Rufus’ chest, his ministrations ceased in favour of a long, loaded moment of silence. Rufus’ frustration turned into a half-smile; he had been only seconds away from making a point of possessing more appendages in his body than just that particular one, but Tseng’s enactment skills had bought him a generous amount of light-heartedness to how adamantly he worked to give Rufus what he had not even explicitly requested.
“Really, after all these years of being told that money can’t buy happiness.” Rufus slipped a spare thousand-gil bill under the waistband of Tseng’s underwear in jest, letting his fingers linger against warm skin for a while. One grand would probably acquire little more than a venereal disease in these districts, but Tseng seemed amused nonetheless; the corner of his mouth curled in appreciation as he picked up the bill and tossed it away, and there was something almost soft about how he looked straight into Rufus’ soul.
“I’d do my best to make you happy, Sir, even if my life and livelihood did not depend on it.” His hand moved like a snake on Rufus’ skin, then to play on the fabric of his jeans, but Rufus had to put an end to it. He did not do it because of Tseng’s words – he appreciated the bite and the truth of it – but because he would choose the road less trodden, the one that was not a shortcut to gratification. There was a certain thought that still plagued him, and he wanted to reward Tseng with equal frankness.
“I think I really should see you in those high heels you mentioned earlier, Tseng.” His hands were a mere hair’s breadth away from where they should busy themselves right now, but he would give it time, a fair share of the precious little time he had reserved for having Tseng all to himself. Tseng, however, agreed to disagree, as he would shamelessly begin to pleasure Rufus through his remaining garments, expressing in half-audible mutter his doubts of being able to procure such a pair at this hour. Rufus, in between weary breaths, was very aware of how unpleasant the denim fabric must feel against the palm of Tseng’s hand, even at such a languid pace; he would hate to feel the carpet burns on those hands as they discarded the rest of his clothing and touched his skin where it was the thinnest. He grabbed Tseng’s wrist and pushed his hand away, his other hand seizing Tseng by the balls as if to convince himself that he actually had some himself to express his will just as clearly as he, for goodness’ sake, did in all other matters.
“Do humour me and try the wardrobe over there. Let’s see whether this establishment’s promises to cater for every taste leave something to be desired.” He did not know which surprised more; that Tseng obeyed him at once, leaving him squirming on the bed in terrible want, or the fact that he did not have to rummage through the entire wardrobe to find a pair of bright red stilettoes in a size that was close enough. He took off his shoes, then his socks, and the effortless grace he slipped the heels on with had Rufus instinctively reaching for his phone. He was not one for collecting sentimental memories, but this sight was one of a kind, the kind he would have immortalized in a photograph were he certain his phone was not tracked. Obviously it was; yet if he only zoomed in on the legs, would anyone ever dream that pair belonging to the leader of the Turks?
Oh, but he would remember this even without a photograph. He would remember his figure, several inches taller, taking short, firm steps, towering over the foot of the bed. He would shamelessly use the memory of those narrow but slightly swaying hips for his own delight, revel in the fact that the shoes looked even better without the trousers Tseng had suddenly divested himself of. The considerable lift the heels were giving to his ass, paired with a slackly buttoned shirt and snugly fitting underwear, would certainly drive any sane man mad; yet Rufus, him, he was already beyond all repair as he reached out to pull Tseng back onto the bed by the hem of his shirt.
“Impressive,” he found himself murmuring, captivated by the feel and scent of red leather under his fingertips. He traced the exaggerated curve of Tseng’s ankle, then the heel and back; he imagined the pain such shoes would cause in the long term, and grievingly accepted the fact that he would not be able to replace the man’s usual footwear with these. Tseng remained admirably stoic despite the caresses; it was impossible to say whether he enjoyed how Rufus took note of each and every scar up his leg and marked it with a lingering kiss. His favourite part was the calves; the round, taut muscles even more pumped with the effect of the heel, and he willingly ceded to the temptation of grazing the skin of those perfect things with his teeth.
When he reached behind the knee and marvelled at the incredibly smooth skin with his mouth, he finally caught some kind of reaction from Tseng. His leg jerked violently, and Rufus was not far from getting stabbed to the gut by a stiletto heel. He was unable to suppress a chuckle, but promptly returned his full attention, this time with his full body weight on Tseng’s other leg to keep him still. He repeated the kiss multiple times, only to catch a very subtle sigh of pleasure escaping from Tseng’s lips. He would do this to every one of his scars, his bullet wounds, even those scarce strips of skin nothing or no one had ever touched.
He moved his attention upwards, running his palms against those absolutely delectable thighs, memorizing how they quivered beneath him. He was thoroughly scarred there, too; Rufus presumed that the small dots on his inner thighs were adrenaline pen marks. He had never seen them in bright light, in full detail, and he suddenly felt bad about having sent Tseng wherever such occupational hazards would occur. He kissed them in atonement, soothed the affected area with his tongue, feeling the shift of Tseng’s body under him as the man fell back on the pillows in complete submission. Certainly, Rufus would give the other leg equal attention as Tseng, after all, was not the only one entitled to revere the sublime design of a human being presented to him.
Tseng’s buttons could not be that different from his own, but loosening them up proved much more difficult. The reward, however, was adequate; the taste of salty skin, perhaps a hint of detergent – good, he would wear a shirt only once – and that incredible body under his mouth, yielding as he exhaled, arching against Rufus as he inhaled. “If only you could see yourself as I see you now, Tseng,” Rufus murmured, making way for himself between Tseng’s legs to feel the warmth of his entire body against his, the bruising rigidity of the result of hours of daily exercise. He had never seen his daily routine, but goodness, would he love to lie underneath Tseng as he did his push-ups, to be the silent spectator behind him as he did his squats... The only thing to keep himself from seething envy over such a perfect figure was to possess that very body, to have Tseng at his disposal, to immerse his every sense in the godliness of every inch of this man whose premature frown lines on his brow made him even more irresistible.
When Tseng’s hand finally anchored itself firmly in his hair, pulling it terribly out of shape and dragging him closer until his eyes were level with Tseng’s, he knew he was doing something right. “Technically I could,” he heard Tseng say as he turned his head firmly to show him the mirrors on the ceiling, “but I’m enjoying a far better view.” Therein, Rufus saw himself utterly entrapped, Tseng’s long legs wrapped around his waist to keep him firmly in place. Tseng could crush him like an insect and without a sweat, and if not, he could stab the heel through the back of his head or his ribcage. It was not very fitting of his deadliest assassin, no, but such flashy wrestling moves would be a very welcome addition to his repertoire indeed. Dirty moves merited equally dirty counterattacks, and Rufus was desperate for a bite of his worthy opponent.
The champagne tasted much crisper, much sweeter from Tseng’s lips, never mind the dead bubbles; he was absolutely intoxicating, him, the sweetest and deadliest poison he could imagine. He felt a sharp tug on his fly, then Tseng’s fingers under the waistband of his jeans, pulling the garment towards his knees. That was as far as he could get them, single-handedly, eyes shut, and it was more than enough for Rufus to have that deadly hand marvelling at the entire length of his member.
He lifted one leg on his shoulder, unable to resist the soft, supple skin against his cheek. Tseng said nothing, but the twitch of his eyebrows betrayed the nearing limits of his flexibility, and Rufus made a mental note to suggest adding yoga to the Turks’ training curriculum. How wasteful it would be not to bend such sculptural limbs to every position imaginable and beyond imagination, under the strangely flattering red light, surrounded by mirrors and flickering candlelight…
He reached for the oil on the nightstand and poured some on Tseng’s chest, giving himself an excuse for one more prolonged feel of those exquisite washboard abs before marching on below with both hands. This was one of the moments where he thanked the piano lessons force-fed to him throughout his childhood; he had persevered, gained a passion for playing, and, as it seemed, the ability to prepare and pleasure this man at the same time. He could feel Tseng’s struggle to keep silent, and he would respect it; why, his own lips would much rather cede in another form of encouragement than words or sounds. He was ready, had been for quite a while, but Tseng was cautious enough to cross-check and stroke him slowly, in exchange until Rufus could no longer contain himself.
With Tseng’s helping hand, he found his way in, a four-letter word escaping from his lips into the depths of a pillow. He could stay there forever, safe and secure in the captivating heat, but Tseng would not allow him that kind of a luxury; he would seize him by the hair and drive his heels into the oiled flesh of his buttocks to spur him, to invite him further in and pick up his pace. He wanted to memorize it all; how his every thrust reflected in the smallest of expressions on Tseng’s face, his eyebrows, his dark eyes, his lips when unoccupied, and, most of all, how those heels gashed deeper and deeper against his skin with each thrust. The things he had imagined had nothing on this, the feeling of utter loss of himself in the arms of another, the words of surprise, praise, command and apology left unspoken until the moment he finished in the wake of Tseng’s climax.
He found himself cradling Tseng’s face in his trembling hands, warm and light-headed in the afterglow, Tseng’s ink black hair a beautiful mess between the pillow and Rufus’ hands. He had a mind to brush those locks into submission, to smell and taste the skin beneath them, once he had either regained his strength or had enough of Tseng’s face, the latter option being very doubtful. It could take weeks, if not months to have another stolen moment to share with Tseng, and even then he would not be immortal.
He remembered the ceiling mirror Tseng had shown him earlier and cast his eyes up to see how he looked with Tseng beside him; both breathing heavily, a respectful but yet hopeful distance in between, Tseng’s arm wrapped around Rufus’ waist. Stripped, and not only literally, he could barely recognize himself next to this man, who was just as wholesome and dignified with or without his suit, the view of his strategical parts blocked in the mirror by a pair of curious metal handles attached on the ceiling.
“I always thought the part with high heels was an urban legend. Seems like those things could be used for support, though.” The thought would not leave his head, and just a thought it would ever be, but the awkward conversation was mostly an attempt to stay awake in this beautiful languor. He counted more than 50 hours in the office this week, and waiting for this day to come had kept him awake longer than necessary; he knew Tseng would not dare wake him up should he drift off, and he could forgive neither of them should he do just that.
“I think those handles serve a different purpose, Sir.” Tseng seemed pensive, his gaze fixated on the contraption on the roof. The shoes had not come off at any point, and the only thing Rufus regretted in it was the parts of his feet that were lacking his attention. He would certainly fix this; perhaps he should bathe Tseng’s lovely feet, rub every single callus to submission, and make sure those feet would walk the earth in his name until Rufus’ own feet would fail him.
“Do they, now?” Of course Tseng was right, and it did not surprise Rufus one inch that such a thing would be yet another rather devious area of his intelligence. Vague, feverish illustrations flashed inside his mind, and the only thing to keep them at bay would be Tseng’s lips suddenly against his, mouthing heated words as if to make them Rufus’ own.
Perhaps we should find out, Sir.
The terror in kindred spirits was that of shared thoughts; he would never truly know whether Tseng’s thoughts were his own, or just a reflection or anticipation of Rufus’ thoughts. Tseng did have a voice of his own, opinions that Rufus would not hear from anyone else’s mouth – he either wanted to read Rufus’ mind, or then he genuinely shared some kind of wicked bond with him. It brought him comfort, but the level of comfort chilled him to the bone.
Rufus would certainly have merited a sound thrashing or two, yes, for all he had put Tseng through: for the bones Tseng had broken, the gallons of blood he had lost, for the times he had had to resort to the adrenaline pen to reboot. He would not be surprised if Tseng wanted to get even; yet he knew Tseng would never hurt him, unless by his order, and even then he would exercise his infallible professional judgement. If there was a level of discipline that he wanted to exercise, a state he wanted to see him in, then perhaps he truly had the right to.
“I suppose that’s fair,” he conceded, his eyes transfixed on Tseng’s back as the man got up, about one-fourth decent in his underwear and shoes, to open the prop cabinet. The selection that spread before him was, in a word, impressive; he had never seen half of it and only imagined the other half, but he had to think of it as Tseng’s arcana, his turf and his tools of the trade to some extent. Rufus’ only coherent wish at the moment was that Tseng would not wrap him up in plastic or tie him up with a hideous nylon cord, but in the very least have the eye to pick decent materials – black leather and shiny metal, the things that pleased his eye and hand, things familiar to him in several forms already.
“Do you trust me, Sir?”
Tseng had known from the start what he was after coming here, yet he had not toyed with his insecurities or condescend his stalling before the main event. He would play along of his own accord; admittedly, he had lent Rufus a hand – or, rather, two – to take the edge off, and for the rest, Rufus had no words. They had three days to delight in one another, to act out whatever fantasy these rooms would allow, to wear each other out until Rufus had devised another equally sound tryst. It was, after all, Rufus who had arguably given the initial lead, just like that time that started it all...
Yes, Rufus Shinra trusted one man with his life; he had let Tseng so close he could pick any moment for an attempt at the Vice President’s life, and even then Rufus’ trust would not be misplaced. If anyone in the entire world could make death or something even more deviant than death a beautiful form of art, it would be him. Yet Tseng would have to trust him as well; he still had some learning to do at that, to respect his judgement, and certainly not to set limits for him. Tseng would not reduce him to a begging, slobbering thing screaming to be taken in an ungentlemanly fashion, but Rufus, he would not be coddled just because this man did his bidding in public.
“Trust is a two-way street, Tseng,” he said with a half-hearted attempt to conceal a smile at the sight of Tseng’s hand abandoning some kind of soft silk straps in favour of a pair of thick leather harnesses. That was definitely more like it, and he was fairly certain that it was what Tseng had had in mind from the start.
If Rufus Shinra truly were to have a lover, still in the lack of a better word, he would only let him down over his dead body. Indeed, he could have his body rendered immobile, restrained, whatever Tseng had in mind, but he would not deny him; just as Tseng would return to him, in his red stilettoes, waiting for his order and approval as if nothing had changed. His dark eyes were serene and attentive, not exactly screaming fierce dominatrix, but to Rufus, he inspired just the perfect amount of fear he needed for his heart to beat faster and his body yearn for more.
“Just don’t take my eyes from me. I did pay handsomely for the view after all.”
The imprint of Tseng’s smiling lips on his forehead was the last thing he felt before his wrists were bound together with a leather strap and a promise of a blinding white night.