【 Thank you for choosing the Golden Peacock, 5-Star Resort and Casino. You are currently registered as a WILDCARD in our system.
Due to unprecedented high demand we are temporarily unable to check you in to your reserved room. We apologize for the inconvenience. We have arranged for a temporary room while we work on processing your reservation as quickly as possible. We appreciate your understanding.
As a special wedding gift from us, we have arranged for you and your new spouse to stay in one of our junior penthouses while you wait. Congratulations on your new marriage. We are so pleased you have chosen our resort for your honeymoon.
You will be notified as soon as your official reservation has been processed. Your comfort and happiness are our utmost priority. We hope you enjoy the provided amenities and lose yourself in marital bliss. 】
EVENS
EVENS: NEW CHARACTERS
Music plays. Instrumental, the tune gentle enough not to disturb peaceful rest. The sudden insistent beep of the Watch is a cutting cacophony across an otherwise sweet lullaby. Upon opening their eyes, new arrivals will quickly discover that something is wrong. The quilt snug across their body is weighty. Crystals glint in a weave of embroidery and cotton shimmers with threads of silver. Dozens of decorative pillows surround the bed. The gauzy curtains of the canopied bed are drawn, obscuring the rest of the room.
Extravagant for a kidnapping. Too extravagent. What’s more, these new guests will find something even stranger than this new diamond-studded suite tucked into bed beside them. Someone else. Who are they, what are they wearing? What happened last night?!
Guests are encouraged to explore the resort from here! There are paper maps available for those who would like and staff are happy to recommend locations if they have any preferences. Enjoy your honeymoon, you lovebirds!
ODDS
ODDS: SPECIAL RE-ARRIVAL
Never trust a hallway in the Golden peacock.
Cross the wrong threshold and time begins to slow. A short hallway becomes long, sheds its doors, only leading to turns without end. Guests too eager to explore the resort have gotten lost before. For how long always varies, dependent upon capriciousness of the resort. Hours? Yes. Years? Yes. Every guest caught in the winding hallways has reported the same thing: time is different there and too difficult to discern.
Some wayward guests have been caught in the endless hallways since the FIRST TDM. Weeks pass before a single doorway appears in the distance. It creaks upon opening before everything goes topsy-turvy. These guests have been let out of a trap door in the depths of Crane's Respite.
All water corridors will eventually lead back to the populated areas of Crane's Respite. The waters are warm, the scent of bath salts returns, and staff are wild with joy at finally finding all of you. They have been beside themselves searching ever since you vanished!
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Because we love all of the new characters premiering on this TDM, we kindly request that our Evens prompt be top level exclusive for new characters. Current characters are encouraged to tag in to these prompts with the caveat that they’ve been picked up from their assigned suite (or wherever else they were before) and dumped into the new arrival’s bed. We would like for new characters to have this prompt unique to their top level comments!
▶ Players are welcome to have their current character riff off of these prompts in the log community with the exclusion of the new arrival element. This request is just for TDM top levels.
▶ Current characters and new characters are both welcome to freely mess around with the Odds prompt with the exclusion of the arrival element. For new characters, players may participate with the idea that their character is exploring Crane’s Respite after their unique arrival in the Evens prompt. The Odds arrival element may also be utilized by current player characters who may have been on an unofficial hiatus in January and did not tag as much as they would have liked, to explain any long IC absence.
▶ Octopi may be killed. If a character decides to eat one of the octopi they may find themselves taking on some of its traits. Which traits are up to player discretion.
ELEVATORS
ELEVATORS
The house has recently ordered a full changeout of art in all high traffic areas. The elevators in particular have received special attention with many different famous artworks and portraits studded to the walls for guests to admire. These artworks are treasures of the modern world that one would typically see behind glass at a museum. Guests may even find works from their own world hanging in the elevators. Even famous works that maybe have been lost to time. So this is where they ended up. Is that Vermeer's The Concert?
Guests may find their elevator suddenly stopping without warning. The portraits on the wall stir, curiously studying them, but there are three main portraits calling the shots. The portrait that controls that particular elevator will make their demands known with the threat that, if they are not obeyed, you will be trapped forever.
Elevators will function after the portrait's demands are met. Guests that hold out and refuse may find themselves trapped upwards of twelve hours. Guests with the ability to do so may crawl out of the top emergency door, free to go wherever they want from there.
GREAT TIT!
GREAT TIT!
Great Tit! is the Golden Peacock’s popular dessert bar and cafe. With its bright pops of color and whimsical treats, guests simply can’t resist stopping in for a butt shaped cookie and hazelnut coffee. After catching wind that the resort has decided to celebrate a dessert shop's most lucrative holiday, Great Tit! is ready to impress the masses. Advertisements for limited edition drinks and desserts rain the main lobby; one can’t go three steps without slipping on a neon pink coupon for 10 percent off nipple buns. Guests that decide to pass by the cafe will find themselves assaulted with confetti cannons and eager employees ushering them inside.
Guests will find a temporary communal shower room upon exiting Great Tit! where they can wash off after a fun day of rolling around in sugar. All guests will be gifted a tee branded with a, CHOCOLATE IS MY LOVER logo.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ This portraits prompt has been triggered by several characters expressing interest in and investigating the lore of the resort paintings. This is just dipping a beginning toe in, but congrats to all for poking around!
▶ Portraits in the elevator should not be destroyed, purely for continuity’s sake. If a character would go far enough to attack one of the portraits, the portrait will slap them back with ghostly power.
▶ Characters may also figure other ways out of the elevator if they have specific abilities to do so. While the portraits can control the elevators, they cannot control your character(s). Any destruction to the elevator itself is liable to result in a rush of security dragging the culprit(s) away to the Iron Net.
▶ Great Tit! is running a massive sale! Even characters who are on the broke end of the spectrum will be able to afford to join in on the fun and indulge in sugar at these prices.
▶ Players are encouraged to make up any other elements for the Hall of Chocolate. If it’s a dessert and edible, it’s there. Enjoy your sugar coma!
▶ While the chocolate boxes are ICly limited due to Alessandro’s skills as a chocolatier, this is only an IC mechanic. There is no OOC limitation on this prompt as far as chocolate rarity goes.
THE NEST
ALICE AND THE PARROTS
Fashion boutiques are a dime a dozen in the Nest. The shopping hub is massive, lined with stores all trying to aggressively appeal to guests. A challenge in itself — but the guests of the Golden Peacock are no ordinary people. Used to being pampered and fed excitement, if these boutiques don’t bust their bottoms to appeal to the fickle nature of their patrons, they won’t be in business for much longer! One particular boutique, Alice and the Parrots, is riding winds of romantic thrill and churning out a couple of brand new fashion lines sure to draw in loads of chips.
Guests are welcome to try on clothes in Alice and the Parrots' dressing rooms. These dressing rooms are small and can only accommodate two people sharing at a time. Such is the life of a small boutique store. Sharing is no big deal, right? And there’s no way you can buy clothing this expensive without giving it a test first.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Players are encouraged to make up whatever cute outfits they would like for this prompt.
▶ Wedding clothes do not have to be cute and frilly; this section accommodates tastes of everyone.
▶ Alice and the Parrots is more expensive than Love Dove. Their clothing quality is excellent but their price tags are high. Staff may watch low ranks extra diligently to cut off any stealing. Thieves will be chased by NPC security! Anyone caught gets a day in the Iron Net.
CASINO CHAPEL
CASINO FLOOR
A Pop up Chapel has appeared in the Phoenix Casino. Guests are delighting in playing out weddings and pretending to get married — and a few guests are even tying the knot for real. They aren't worried about the sanctity of marriage; they can divorce tomorrow if they get bored of each other. And everyone knows that getting married doesn't mean you can't fuck whoever you want!
Since the resort isn't keeping track of how many marriages a guest has, all guests are encouraged to marry as many people as they would like. The more the merrier!
Wild wedding events will continue all throughout the month of February, until the guests find it's gotten stale. A divorce rush will round out the fun at the end of the month.
NOTES
PROMPT NOTES
▶ Weddings are not legally binding. Birdvis is not registered as a real officiant, but he does have an excellent beak and pompadour.
▶ Prizes from easy mode slot machines are automatic and do not require mod thumbs up to claim.
▶ Chip prize from difficult mode slot machines is automatic. The special prize is 5 reward points to add to your bank on rewards. Players who wish to claim the special prize should link the finished thread (the kink in question has been completed) under their rewards header with the header, Wedding Slot Machine. If you do any combination of 6/6 (finger hand lol) we ask you somehow make this sexy or involve a climax in order to claim the points.
BLANKET CW: Aphrodisiac; Compulsion; Costumes; Dubcon; Entrapment; Foodplay; Gambling; Lingerie; Matrimony; Tentacles; NSFW Images and Language; NTR; Nudity; Roleplay; Sacrilegious Themes
▶ All new characters on the TDM are WILDCARDS, which means they have not yet been assigned a card value. The house is still observing and deciding. As rank and suits are assigned upon acceptance your new character's suit will not manifest until they are accepted into the game.
▶ All TDMs are game canon. This TDM acts as the game's February event.
▶ Current characters may top level on the TDM. Please make sure to review the arrival prompt notes! Any current characters posting to the TDM should note they are current in their subject header.
▶ The top level directory is for new characters only. We want to make sure new characters are priority and receive attention!
▶ If you aren't satisfied with the prompts on this TDM please feel free to check out our LOCATIONS to explore more of the resort.
▶ Smut threads that take place on this TDM can be used for rewards. If both parties in the smut thread join the game, you may retroactively apply the character's initial card values to your 52 bank. If one character does not join the game the thread will not be applicable toward rewards (as that character would not have a card value). The character that does join would still receive a small payout for the encounter. Hopefully it was a fun thread anyway!
▶ We ask you to kindly add content warnings to your threads as appropriate.
▶ If you do not currently have permissions and kinks listed in your character’s journal we suggest leaving a note in your top level of any limits or boundaries for other players to reference.
▶ Thank you for spending Valentine's Day with us! You're our sweetheart this year. 💕
All right. All right. It's a sound plan, for all that it might be a questionable one. And it's Tseng, so it's not even that it'll be...unpalatable, really. He could do a lot worse.
In the seclusion of the bathroom, he takes a second to regard himself in the mirror, meeting his reflection's gaze as his resolve solidifies. It's not as though he owes it to Tseng to make this anything more than pure business, but at the same time...
No. It would be better to do this — at least somewhat properly. To mitigate tension. The less he allows to be injected into the proceedings now, the less they'll both have to excise later. That's just simple sense.
All right. He rakes a hand through his hair, unmindful of how it rumples the locks out of their usual smooth style, and then quietly shoulders off his coat and shirt before making his way back into the suite proper.
Tseng is waiting for him, as expected. Tseng looks like he hasn't moved more than an inch since he'd completed the order he was given, because more likely than not, he hasn't.]
It puts you in a vulnerable position, too.
[He picks up the thought like it'd been offered just a moment ago, rather than whole minutes, as he tosses his garments neatly over a nearby chaise before stalking shirtless over to Tseng. The way he altogether bypasses the typical bounds of personal space and brings himself nearly flush with his Turk is far too deliberate to ever be mistaken for anything other than what it is.]
So here we are again. Striking a deal beneficial to the both of us.
[The last one had resolved with I own you. Little doubt that this one will, too.]
[ when rufus comes out of the bathroom, there's determination in the set of his jaw. it's a look tseng has seen on him before: the first time tseng had taken him to the gun range and taught him how to field strip a pistol; backlit in the doorway of the shinra company's kangaroo court, telling his father to let the turks go; sitting in the chair behind what used to be is father's desk, looking all four of his top brass dead in the eye. now, the full force of that determination is focused on tseng, and tseng understands all over again that rufus will go on to do great and terrible things.
the expanse of his skin is great and terrible too, in an entirely different way. absent the usual leather of his gloves, tseng feels his fingers curl in on themselves at his sides and his shoulders take on a degree of tension for another reason entirely. when you're the head of the vice president—now president's personal security detail, you get used to seeing him in various stages of undress, but tseng has only ever seen rufus undressed for fittings and medical checkups and weapons training sessions. this is a new context for it, and it's all he can do to keep his eyes up as rufus crosses the room.
he doesn't falter when rufus brushes past the bounds of propriety and puts himself right in tseng's personal space. from this distance, the two-inch difference in their heights is even more apparent, and tseng lifts his chin just slightly to meet rufus' gaze dead on. ]
We have a deal, sir. [ as if there was ever any other outcome. tseng's fingers twitch, but he doesn't lift his hands. ] And you know I'm good for it.
[The part that sinks its hooks into him, unprecedented and unexpected, is that last bit — you know I'm good for it. It stands out precisely because it's not something Tseng even needed to say to begin with, because there couldn't be any other outcome to this, so why would it need to be reaffirmed that he can be counted on to deliver on his half of a bargain? Tseng doesn't waste words on unnecessary things, not with him. He gives opinions when invited and keeps them to himself when he isn't. He handles what he's tasked to handle. He deals with the tasks he's assigned, whatever the means.
So to reassure him of the good faith of his commitment almost feels like Tseng stepping outside the bounds of his head of security, just for a moment, and granting him a glimpse of the man instead of the job. Maybe that's a signal, surreptitious in and of itself — that there's a chance, just a chance, that he might see a flash of the man again as this goes on.
(It reminds him, fleetingly, that to truly own the Turks, you have to be one of them yourself. That he is, in the singular way that matters, one of them, himself.)
Rufus hasn't said anything, now, for a bit. That's not unusual. Silence from him often speaks just as loudly as if he'd found words to begin with. But the tension is rising, not just in Tseng's shoulders and fingers and the grip of his own chest, and there are no illusions about the fact that they're both waiting for him to move first. The white pieces always do.]
I know.
[What will it take, he wonders, to make Tseng touch him? Is he waiting for permission, or just to test the limits of his own resolve? Does he want an order so he can call it plausible deniability, or to break so he can classify it as beyond his control?
It doesn't matter. He reaches up and takes Tseng's face in his hand — fingers firm against one cheek, thumb pressed into his jawline on the opposite side — and kisses him like he's aiming to learn the skill of the mouth that's going to deliver his goals to him.]
[ tseng isn't sure what drove him to say it, you know i'm good for it, like there's ever been a question between them as to whether he's good for it. rufus knows he is. maybe it was an assurance, or something like it, an attempt at convincing rufus that this won't change their working relationship. (assuming it's rufus who needs convincing.)
there is so rarely the opportunity for something as petty as self-consciousness in the business of the turks; embarrassment and shame are some of the first things excised by the rigor of their training program. nor is there much modesty, both by the necessity of changing in close quarters and by the fact of the locker-room talk that's common among his men. seeing another turk's body should be commonplace and unremarkable, and touching to move someone out of the way or drag them behind cover equally banal.
tseng feels no self-consciousness now, as rufus leans closer and brings his hand up to grip tseng's jaw. he does, however, become briefly and keenly aware that this is the first time rufus has touched him with this much purpose. the fire in his gaze says something about rufus, tseng thinks, and so does the fact that he kisses tseng at all.
even when their mouths press together, tseng's hands remain at his sides. waiting for an order, or for some unspoken ask, for rufus to indicate that what he wants is to be touched. even so, he takes the kiss as it's given and gives back just as good; he needs no coaxing from rufus to let it deepen, nor is he especially submissive, despite the optics of their position. if his is the mouth that will deliver rufus' goals to him, then tseng wants him to know what he's in for. ]
[Tseng's hands stay where they are; that recognition hits him in a heady rush. It's just yet another reminder of how everything about his head of security is controlled, is deliberate — that there's a stark difference between passive and submissive, between compliant and cowed. Tseng is a weapon, and a perfect one, placed in the palm of his hand to be used and directed as he sees fit. For all that it might have been satisfying on some level to see him crumble, he's all the more valuable for the way he proves that he won't.
Strangely, the recognition of it sets him a little more at ease with the prospect of what they're setting out to do. The predictability of Tseng's steadfastness lends a structure to all this, a safety net against a leap that might otherwise have felt uncontrolled. It makes something unwind just fractionally inside Rufus, some minor measure of tension easing free.
He's not so sentimental as to chalk it up to feeling safe. That would imply by extension that he'd ever felt off-balance to begin with, and like hell he'd ever admit to that.]
Waiting for leave?
[He doesn't pull away even as he says it; he lets the remark smother between the slide of their lips, pressed quiet into Tseng's mouth. He could keep an iron grip on the way this unfolds, to be sure, and if it were anyone else he might — but that's the real value of his Turks, that they don't need explicit instructions to know how to deliver what he requires of them.]
Handle it as you see fit. Just like anything else.
[ with their lips pressed together, tseng feels as much as he hears every one of the words rufus utters: handle it as you see fit. although neither of them would call it such aloud, to be given such an open-ended order speaks to rufus' trust in tseng, and it's a reminder that's as invigorating as it is appreciated.
it isn't just about the touching, tseng knows. it's about the rest of it too. ]
Yes, sir.
[ he brings his hands up to rufus' waist then. they settle perfectly into the narrow dip just above his hips, thumbs brushing over soft skin and hard muscle, fingers firm but not unforgiving against the warm plane of rufus' back. when they kiss again—or rather, when they resume the kiss that rufus had interrupted—tseng responds once more, not to take control of the kiss but to participate in it. he draws rufus' tongue into his mouth and sucks on it, digs teeth lightly into the soft flesh of his lower lip.
it's a good kiss—hot, heady. tseng knows exactly where the bed is, knows how many steps it would take to get them there, but despite this knowledge he holds himself still. rufus still calls the shots, even with tseng given leave to handle him as he likes—they won't move toward the bed until rufus is good and ready. ]
[Tseng isn't wearing his gloves. He doesn't know which way he would prefer it more, when those fingers skim across his waist, because there's something about the contact of skin on skin that feels particularly intimate, but the notion of that one businesslike layer remaining between them is somehow downright filthy. So is it a shame, or isn't it? That's a question he'll delve into later, perhaps.
For the moment, he's preoccupied with the sharp breath that escapes him when the contact is finally made, less from the sensation of the touch itself and more from the knowledge that Tseng did it at all. He's going to do so much more, before this encounter is through. That damned mouth, those clever lips, that threat of teeth — he's going to have that, going to feel that.
It doesn't feel quite so vulnerable anymore.
And maybe that shows in the way his hand drifts away from where he'd gripped Tseng's face, softening the overtly assertive gesture into something a little more curious; the backs of his knuckles trace over the phantom remains of his fingerprints, then down the column of Tseng's neck until they find the woven collar of the frankly hideous top he's wearing.]
Take this off.
[This time, when he pulls back to speak, a thin strand of saliva gleams between them, precarious and fragile until his mouth moves enough to snap it.]
[ as they move from tseng's jaw and down his throat, rufus' fingertips leave trails of sensation in their wake—heat, sensitivity, the awareness of being touched by another person. it's a gentler touch than tseng is used to, and it sends heat through him, curling like smoke up from his lower belly and out to the tips of his fingers where they're brushing over rufus' warm skin.
when they pull apart, rufus' mouth is wet and gorgeous and tseng catches himself on the desire to lean back in and seal their lips together again, to kiss rufus until he gives in. they're still operating on the premise of something like a business transaction, after all. tseng contents himself with casting his gaze over rufus' face, his coloring making the beginnings of a flush in his cheeks all the more obvious.
without stepping back, tseng releases rufus' waist and reaches for the hem of his own shirt instead, tugs it up over his head and tosses it to the side. his jeans stay where they are—there's a practical angle to having his shirt off, if rufus is going to sit on his face, but there's no need to remove his pants for that. (plus, the thicker fabric will make a better secret of how tseng is responding to this, physically.)
his hands return to rufus' waist, then. this time, his palms skim up from that narrow waist to the broader span of his chest, and his thumbs find the hardening peaks of his nipples to rub over them, slow and indulgent. it's a presumptuous touch, but there's no apology in tseng's expression—rufus did tell him to handle it, after all. ]
[It would be simpler, maybe, if they kept this transactional to the point of...sterility, really; it's not as though the slot machine had demanded any particulars about the performance, just that the requisite action be done. He'd told himself earlier that the reason for his deviation from the most direct possible solution was for the benefit of their working relationship, for the sake of mitigating the tensions that might naturally result from pushing it to this particular...degree.
Only now there's a competing interest beginning to creep in, rising like the heat of the room (like the heat beneath his skin), because maybe drawing this out a little is just more pleasant. It has to be done either way, and the door is locked. And if all that mattered were getting drunk, then there isn't much difference between house pour and top shelf — but if the price is the same, why wouldn't one opt for the latter?
His tongue passes over his lips, unthinking, when Tseng pulls back to follow his order; when he catches himself doing it, and puts a hasty end to it, there's a moment of distinct relief that it probably went unnoticed in the shuffle of fabric getting pulled up and across Tseng's line of sight. It's less anything to do with the view — he's not so crass as to lick his chops at the sight of another man — and more just that the phantom pressure of the kiss feels like it's lingering on his mouth, like he wants to chew at it to solidify the memory all the more.
And then — at last, Tseng handles it.
It's better, paradoxically, to not have to micromanage each least little aspect of a partner's conduct — for all that that's been his practice in his dealings with strangers, up until now. Maybe there's something interesting to the prospect, that level of absolute obedience, but right now he doesn't want to have to direct every decision, stage manage each look and shift and touch. It wouldn't feel as satisfying, the way Tseng touches him, if he'd had to demand it. There's...anticipation, this way, but more importantly it's natural to how they've always worked — that all he need do is sketch out the greater design, and leave it to Tseng to see to the details.
The details are making goosebumps rise on his skin, just barely visible in the candlelight.]
You're quiet.
[He's not sure yet if he likes that. He's not altogether certain he doesn't.
He is sure that it makes him want to earn a sound — something, anything — for his efforts, not just ask for it but drag it out of him, and so where Tseng is sensual, Rufus shows his claws, reaching under Tseng's raised arm and around to set his fingernails against the muscle at the back of his shoulder, digging in and dragging just hard enough to leave a shallow set of marks behind.]
I'm always quiet, [ tseng says in response. rufus knows that—rufus knows better than anyone that tseng tends towards reticence, that he chooses his words carefully so he doesn't need to say more than strictly necessary. it means that rufus' observation on his silence now is a musing on whether or not he wants tseng to stay that way, and the bite of rufus' nails against the muscle of his shoulder is more than likely a bid to earn a sound from tseng.
there's a temptation to swallow back his noises, just for the sake of riling rufus a little—obedient, but not cowed. nails against his skin are not a direct order, after all, and so tseng has no reason to obey.
but he has no reason not to, either, and so he lets rufus hear the sound those scratches earn—a hiss, a quiet noise in the back of his throat that's half pain and half pleasure. it hurts, but the pain feels good in a way tseng isn't thinking too hard about as he drops his hands to rufus' tailored slacks to start to undo the button and zip. handle it.
when he slips his hand into the front of rufus' slacks to curl around the shape of his cock, he finds him—not quite hard, not that tseng expected he would be, but stirring with interest nonetheless, the shape of him firm and familiar against tseng's palm. his other hand stays where it is, playing with rufus' nipple; the other rubs over rufus' cock through the fine material of his underwear, not teasing as much as he is exploring (but if he teases a little, well, so be it). ]
[Truthfully, he wouldn't have put it past Tseng to treat his remark as idle speculation and sidestep it, perfectly within the implicit rules; he also wouldn't have put it past him to return nothing more than a yes, sir in affirmation. Either one would've been a taunt in its own right: the former to bait Rufus into trying to make him break his silence altogether, and the latter to make him say anything else.
Either way, the prospect of a challenge is appealing, and an added bit of competition — even if only in his own head — is a palatable distraction.]
Always?
[His composure is good, and his smirk is steady, but there's plenty about his body that he can't control, and it's betraying him — the way his fair complexion does little to hide the flush collecting beneath it the more Tseng's long fingers pluck at him, the way the cadence of his breath is getting a touch syncopated, too fast to exhale and too slow to draw back in. Tseng is — objectively, factually better at this than he is. Tseng rarely allows himself to not be exemplary at anything he tries.
They're going to have to get to the bed sooner rather than later. Leaning into Tseng and claiming another kiss does well enough in the short term to hide the way his eyelids flutter at the way he's being felt out, but he's not about to let it get to the point where his knees go weak without taking steps to circumvent the issue altogether.
His hand, fresh from leaving its marks, skims back down the length of Tseng's spine, fingertips brushing through the hollow at the small of his back before slowly circling back around toward his hip. Without drawing back, he drags himself away from Tseng's mouth and leans into his ear instead.]
Leave your hands where they are.
[— a curious direction, maybe, until one of Rufus's fingers hooks through a belt loop at the front of Tseng's jeans and he starts to walk them both towards the bed, pivoting so that he's the one treading backwards while Tseng advances on him in kind.
It's all optics, but what isn't, really. Leading Tseng by the cock while his hands linger on Rufus's body? There's a conspicuous visual in that, by intent and by design.]
[ with hardly any space between them, it would be impossible for tseng not to pick up on the small cues of rufus' body, the pitch of his breathing and the heat of his flush. he has seen rufus in any number of states—angry, afraid, injured—but never pleasured like this, has never heard that particular hitch in the way rufus breathes as tseng's fingers rub over the sensitive place just below head of his cock. it's... compelling, one could say. (addictive, one could say.)
so he keeps his hands where they are even as they kiss again, which allows tseng to taste as well as hear the almost-inaudible little sounds rufus makes, not moans, just something in the back of his throat that's a little fuller than a breath. when they pull apart, tseng almost regrets it, at least until rufus' lips press high to his cheekbone so he can murmur directly into tseng's ear.
it is a curious order. one tseng obeys, of course, but a curious one, until rufus' fingers hook through the belt loops on tseng's jeans and he uses the full breadth of his body to guide tseng back toward the bed. he's immediately aware of the optics, of what it means for rufus to lead him there with little more contact between them than tseng's hand curled around his erection and rufus' finger through a loop of fabric.
a transparent power play, and one to which tseng has no objection. he does, however, shift his grip just slightly so that his thumb can rub an easy circle right over the slit at the tip of rufus' cock. ]
[He doesn't know the precise number of steps it'll take to get them to the bed, but he can gauge the rough distance well enough to keep from striking the backs of his shins on the bedframe as they draw close — a blessing, since the last thing he wants in this moment is to look careless, or stupid, or clumsy. Maybe that's an unreasonable bar to set. Maybe he's setting himself up for disaster, thinking there's a way of managing it. It doesn't stop him from demanding that level of perfection from himself within the confines of his own mind, anyway.
(Why should it matter, whether it's perfection or not? It's only about satisfying the slot machine, and the machine hadn't placed any demand on quality. Why does it matter so much that he not lose face?)
The scent of roses is stronger, here; unsurprising, given the petals strewn across the bedspread and the fuller blossoms arranged into bouquets tied to the posts and dripping from the canopy. Tacky. He almost doesn't even want to settle back onto it, already a little disgusted with the tawdry romanticism of it all. He almost wants to say something about it, scoff at it, deride it, just for the sake of provoking Tseng to agree.
Damn it. He's so loud by comparison. Why does that bother him so much?]
I don't have a change of clothes.
[He releases Tseng's jeans only long enough to shove at the waistband of his own bottoms, not really caring much more than to get them down and off his hips. Ostensibly it's to keep them from getting stained or turning damp — a legitimate threat with the way Tseng's hand keeps working at him — but there's a little bit of defiance in it, too, though what it is he's defying by it, he isn't altogether sure.
When his trousers are bunched around his knees, he grasps hold of Tseng's belt loops and tugs him forward again, shifting his stance so that one of his thighs is positioned between both of Tseng's, and there's really nowhere left for him to go save to straddle it or push Rufus back onto the mattress, or both.
There'd been a moment, after all, when Tseng could've taken his jeans off, and he conspicuously didn't. It's understandable — it's not necessary to their purpose, and presumably neither is Rufus touching him, so he takes it for the denial he assumes it to be. But he'll take this much of a liberty, at least, and see if he can get away with it, see if he can make Tseng jerk involuntarily like the faint but frustrating sounds that Rufus can't seem to keep from spilling from his own mouth.]
[ tseng's pants didn't come off because they don't need to come off, because his pleasure isn't the objective here, and because the only thing that seems more complicated than eating his boss out is eating his boss out and letting his boss know how hard it got him. he lets go of rufus' cock when it becomes necessary, to let him bend and push his jeans down over his hips and thighs—what tseng is expecting is for rufus to get on the bed, or to tell tseng to get on the bed. he isn't expecting that rufus will pull their bodies flush, his thigh slipping between tseng's to press right up against the erection he'd worked so hard to hide.
it does earn him another noise, too, a low, rough sound of pleasure in the back of tseng's throat as one hand goes to rufus' hip and the other curls around the back of his neck. for the first time, if rufus knows what to look for, he might see some color come to tseng's cheeks, although the low lighting makes it hard to be sure. ]
Sir—
[ his voice comes out steady, at least, although there's a tension in it that isn't there ordinarily. very well—if that's how rufus is going to be about it. tseng lifts both hands, presses them squarely to rufus' chest, and pushes him backward onto the mattress. ]
[Close as they are, there's likely no missing the way Rufus's pupils dilate — just one more involuntary betrayal, a tell he couldn't hope to hide — when his efforts work, and not just work but exceed expectations. It's not just that he can feel the telling evidence of Tseng's interest against his thigh, and it's not just the noise he makes. It's what he does with his hands, like for a second he's somehow forgotten himself and just reached on instinct to...
No. No, it's a ludicrous thought, better left unrealized. There's no credible foundation to the notion that Tseng might've moved as though to hold him.
And as quickly as it had happened, those long-fingered hands move again, and moot the thought altogether with something far more straightforward to comprehend: he shoves him, handling the complication of getting them onto the bed, and the rose petals bounce up and flutter back down again like a strange halo as Rufus goes lax and allows himself to land amongst them.
(They'll stick unpleasantly everywhere, he thinks at first, and then considers fleetingly how the hue of the petals is too bright and oversaturated to be pleasing against the crisp white of the coverlet, and yet how complementary the red would look against Tseng's black hair and warm skin.)
He digs his elbows into the mattress beneath him, propping himself up and using the leverage to both pull his legs up after him and kick out of the remnants of his trousers as he does so. For being hard, bare, and undoubtedly on display, it's strange how he still finds himself less preoccupied with assessment of his own performance than he'd been before he'd managed to get Tseng to be physical with him.
And so it's his turn to look at Tseng, waiting silently, not deigning to chase after that sir with an inquiry of his own, but letting the absence of remark do all the talking in his place.]
[ on the other hand, tseng's train of thought runs almost entirely counter to rufus'. almost, because on some points he agrees: they are gaudy, a little too on-the-nose, too bright against the coverlet. but as he stands at the end of the bed and looks down at rufus' form, tseng can't help the thought that rufus himself is gorgeous among them, not because the petals suit him, but because there's something appealing about a creature so dangerous amidst such delicate surroundings.
without removing his gaze from rufus where he's sprawled out on the bed, tseng reaches up to undo the elastic holding his hair back out of his face. he probably should tie it all back, to keep it out of the way of arms and knees, but instead he slips the elastic around his wrist and lets the strands of it fall around his shoulders to frame his face.
tseng climbs onto the bed to join rufus, crawling right up between his slightly spread thighs like he has a right to be there, and he leans over to press his mouth to rufus' for another lingering, thorough kiss. this will be more comfortable if tseng is on his back, but he thinks they can take their time getting there—there's no urgency in this room, save for their own.
in fact, speaking of indulgences. with one arm braced on the mattress next to rufus' shoulder, tseng brings up his other hand, fingertips trailing presumptuously up the soft skin of rufus' inner thigh so he can wrap his hand around rufus' cock again. it's easier at this angle, with no trousers in the way—gives tseng far better leverage to stroke with, using rufus' own precum as lube. ]
[The instant Tseng's hair comes down, Rufus knows: he'll have his fingers twisted through the mane of it before this liaison is through. What else could have possibly possessed him to set it loose, if not to create such an opportunity to begin with? And it's a gift chocobo he's certainly not going to look in the beak, not when the long lengths of it cascade around Tseng's shoulders and shine ink-black in the candlelight, so close and so inexplicably free for the taking.
(A shame, maybe, that riding his face won't allow for that as naturally as, say, putting him on his knees and choking him on his cock might. How pretty that would look, dark strands clutched in pale fingers, pooling around pale thighs —)
They're drifting farther and farther from their ultimate goal, he thinks absently as Tseng moves into his space and he lifts his chin naturally to meet him, stealing Tseng's own trick and catching his tongue in the midst of the kiss, feeling it out with his own. It's a little unfair to be laid bare while letting Tseng keep his jeans in place and intact, but there's still a lot he can do with it anyway; the security of the layer of denim makes it easier to reach for Tseng's hip, his thigh, the small of his back, and finally settle on grasping for a handful of his ass, for all that his fingers don't quite find purchase in the dense fabric.
It feels good to be touched. It's satisfying to be able to push and claim Tseng's mouth each time he needs to smother a noise, to breathe in the aroma of roses and let the heartbeat thudding in his ears drown out the wet distinctive sound of Tseng's hand moving on his cock.
Say something, he thinks, as his hips rock and he drags Tseng close to him as best he can, aiding the rhythm without hastily interrupting it. He never really works out whether he meant that thought for himself or for Tseng, however, and in short order he really stops caring about the prospect of thinking at all.]
[ although it wasn't the intent behind keeping his jeans on, tseng appreciates the permissiveness of it—the fact that the layer of fabric between skin and hand seems to make it easier for rufus to reach out and grab. it does feel good to be touched, even with denim in the way, and even though as rufus drags him closer tseng has to be careful about where he lets that denim rub.
what he's learning, too, is that rufus is sensitive. it's not unexpected, considering how rarely he lets people touch him, but it does make something not unlike self-satisfaction simmer low in tseng's belly to feel how wet rufus' cock is and know it's because of him. it makes him want to see how much more sensitive rufus can be, makes him want to tease just for the sake of watching the way he might writhe.
(this is a train of thought that will mortify tseng, later, when he has all his faculties back in working order.)
eventually, after what feels like an age of kissing and slow indulgent handjobs, tseng pulls back, his mouth slick and swollen with kissing and his pupils blown so dark they swallow the amber of his eyes. he looks down at rufus, and for a flicker of a moment his gaze is openly hungry before he schools his expression into something cool and unflappable. ]
I'll lay on my back, sir. [ his hand is still moving, dragging slow over rufus' cock. ] You should face down my body.
[ for two reasons, both of which tseng trusts rufus will be able to glean: ability to breathe, for tseng's part, and for rufus' part, so that when he comes it'll be tseng's chest he makes a mess of. ]
[There's a second, just a second, when he doesn't even hear the direction. He knows Tseng said something, of course, but it's irrelevant save for the fact that he couldn't speak and kiss him at the same time, and Rufus is a little miffed about that latter bit. He thinks, just fleetingly, about asking with a touch of annoyance why he'd stopped.
Recognition doesn't so much slam back down as bleed back in, gentled by the fact that Tseng is still stroking him through it, which in part forces him to divide his attention but in part softens the blunt force of remembering just what it is they're supposed to be doing here at all. Annoyance bubbles up again, though this time he can't really explain why; later, on examination, he'll realize it's because the position Tseng proposes means being angled away from him, robbed of the sight of his face and eyes.
(Shouldn't he be relieved by that, rather than irritated?)
No. They should — they should get this done. Tseng is handling it. The benefits outweigh the costs.]
...All right.
[The moment he shakes off the siren song of hazy pleasure is visible, apparent, for anyone experienced enough to look. Some of the softness disappears from his features, pulled back into a more rigid set of a decision silently made, and he reaches up the bed to retrieve one of the pillows for Tseng to make use of before dragging his arm along the parts of the bedspread they're not lying on, smoothing the errant rose petals away into a long pile.
(What was the point, he wonders, of spending so long touching him, lavishing sensation on him? To bring him that much closer to coming, likely. So it won't take as long. So it can be over with faster.)
...
(That's probably it. What else would it be.) ]
Let's avoid breaking your neck.
[He says, more ragged than he wishes he'd sounded, and shifts to make more room while Tseng arranges himself as he sees fit.]
[ tseng can't let himself think about that brief flash of irritation in rufus' expression. if he thinks about it, he'll only end up ruminating on what part of this could possibly have caused it, and if this encounter is teaching him anything it's that tseng is more than capable of overthinking every bit of rufus shinra. better to file it away for now and let himself come back to it in the middle of the night when he has nothing else to occupy his brain, when he can give it the thorough consideration it deserves.
with rufus' agreement, and with his assistance to get a pillow, tseng finally, reluctantly releases his grip on rufus' cock in favor of stretching out on the mattress instead. now it's him amidst the rose petals, a dangerous creature of a different breed, and the thought brings the faintest touch of amusement to his lips as he reaches out for rufus, encouraging him to come closer.
as best he tries to hide it, it's impossible for tseng to fully hide the desire he feels as he guides rufus closer. the desire, and the hunger that settles low in the pit of his belly as rufus straddles his head, thighs spread to accommodate tseng's shoulders. in a million years, this is a position he never thought he would see rufus in, and now that he has, tseng isn't sure he'll ever be able to stop thinking about it. ]
Lower your hips. [ no sir, this time. tseng's hands come up to frame rufus' waist, his hipbones, urging him to lower his body enough that tseng can lean up and lick unhesitatingly over his entrance. ]
[It's one thing to know, on an intellectual level, how they'll need to arrange themselves in order to accomplish this; it proves to be quite another thing entirely to actually position himself there, Rufus finds. For all that he's situated atop Tseng — preferable, because surely he would hate it to be laid out on his back, of all things — it doesn't make him feel any more stable or in control of himself for it. It's all Tseng, now, smooth and even and steady, directing him with almost delicate tact like he's moving them across the venue of a social affair and not...this.
But then —
Lower your hips, he says, and the silence that follows after it is deafening. The respect is precisely the same as always; the lack of the word sir has Rufus's chest going tight from how he forgets to breathe. Maybe that's why he obe— why he acquiesces without question; he's too busy thinking to think better of it, too preoccupied to resist the way Tseng's hands stroke over his hips and settle on his sides to show him exactly where and what he needs to be.
His lungs quickly remember their function at the first pass of Tseng's tongue. It's like the breath has been punched out of him with the way it rasps, hard and blunt like a gasp in reverse. All of a sudden his arms seem to have to work harder to bear his own weight, where they're braced against the mattress; all he can see from this vantage is a slim strip of Tseng's bared abdomen and the crotch of his jeans and it's not enough, it's not nearly enough.
But once — once should be sufficient, shouldn't it? They've met the slot machine's terms. The reward is his. He should be triumphant. He should be satisfied.
Only Tseng doesn't stop, and Rufus can't produce an answer of whether or not he even wants him to. It's as though half of him can't stand it, can't bear to let himself continue with this any further, and the other half would sooner rip every last misgiving out of himself with his bare hands before letting it come to an end. He's so hard it's dizzying, and the heat and pressure of it aren't going away; quite the contrary, every twist and flick of Tseng's tongue just brings him closer to the inevitable, has him biting his lip swollen to keep any untoward noises suppressed.
It couldn't have been anyone else, he thinks, scrabbling furiously for any scrap of composure he can find. Doing this, being like this — he could never have allowed it from anyone else.
He wouldn't have wanted it from anyone else.
I want it, he thinks treacherously, and before he can dwell on that thought any further he picks up one of his bracing hands and moves it to rest on Tseng's thigh instead, just touching the muscle and the texture of his jeans, like he's desperately in need of a lightning rod to divert the electricity of that realization before it can shock him from the inside out.]
[ if there was any part of tseng that thought that they could put a stop to this after a single pass of his tongue, that part of him dies immediately upon hearing the noise rufus makes in response. the sharp exhalation, the way a slight shiver wracks rufus’ frame—it’s a subdued response, as so many of rufus’ responses have been, but it’s enough that tseng forgets there was ever a reality in which he planned to stop before getting rufus off.
his hands tighten on rufus’ hips, and tseng tilts his head just so to be able to breathe, and from there—that’s it. he drags his tongue over rufus’ entrance and trails the tip of it in a circle around the sensitive hole, pushes his tongue inside and curls it against his inner walls. he uses every trick he knows and then some, responding only to the subtle tells of rufus’ body, the way his thighs twitch against tseng’s shoulders and the way his breathing hitches when something feels good. it’s obvious even without seeing rufus’ face that he’s probably doing everything in his power to keep himself from making noise, but even without the benefit of sound tseng can still read him well enough to know, and that’s enough. gods, is it ever enough.
when rufus’ hand finds his thigh, it’s like a jolt of thunder through tseng’s body. he doesn’t expect rufus to reciprocate, of course—but tseng hadn’t really expected rufus to do anything but let tseng handle it (handle him), and the hand on his thigh is an unexpected pleasure.
in a betrayal of his better senses, tseng’s cock twitches and hardens further in his jeans, pressing against the thicker denim of the fly. there’s no hope of hiding it by now, and with rufus facing down tseng’s body the way he is, there’s surely no way he’ll miss how aroused this has him.
but what is there to do for it? except maybe to eat rufus out so thoroughly he stops being able to think of anything at all. ]
[If he bites his lip bloody, Tseng will see it after. It would be better to get a hand free, to get a knuckle in his mouth and sink his teeth into that, but he needs the one braced on the mattress to keep himself from falling forward and the thought of lifting the one on Tseng's thigh, even for an instant, feels absolutely out of the question. There seems to be no good answer to keeping his irrepressible noises stifled, and maybe that shouldn't even matter at all, but — it just does, somehow. Worse still is how, with the way they're situated, the bulge in Tseng's jeans is right in the center of his natural gaze, maddening, and that'd certainly be a way to shut himself up, wouldn't it, to just work the zipper free and open his mouth and —
Fuck.
And in a way, Tseng gets his wish — about halfway so, all things considered. There's no missing the sight of his cock with the way they're positioned, and there's no denying the way the denim is straining. The part that doesn't come together, that Rufus is too far gone to connect, is why: why would Tseng be so aroused when he's barely touched him at all? It's understandable that he'd be this close to the brink himself, dappled in sweat and trembling even without the attentions of that damnable tongue, but that's because Tseng made sure this would work, he'd handled it, taking charge of the way this unfolds while Rufus, as ever, contributed comparatively little in return.
His fingers, the ones that were already familiar with the texture of Tseng's jeans, ghost over the shape of his cock before he quite realizes what he's doing — only then he does realize, and snatches it back before he can surrender to any temptation of doing it again. Tseng's pants didn't come off because they didn't need to come off; he'd had every opportunity to remove them, if that's what he'd wanted, yet here they are.
Fuck.
What he ought to be doing is touching himself, probably. Or at the very least focusing less on wondering how Tseng's arousal might swell if he were to fit it into the palm of his hand instead, if he'd somehow keep his composure even in the midst of petting like that or if his eyes would go dark and desiring from the sensations rolling over him, the same way that every flick of his tongue sends shockwaves up Rufus's spine.
He's thinking too much. He's thinking too much.
But fortunately Tseng's aims end up perfectly aligning with that desire to stop thinking, and as the sensations escalate he can feel his focus starting to melt away, taking all semblance of a filter along with it.]
[ by this point, tseng is dazed enough by the force of his own desire that he thinks he must have imagined the pressure of rufus’ touch against his cock—it must have been a hallucination, an artifact of wishful thinking. he’s dazed enough that he doesn’t quite manage to hold himself back entirely from his desire to twitch up into the ghost of that touch, his hips shifting slightly on the bed before he quells the need to move. gods, it’s just—it’s just—
tseng puts his thoughts away and redoubles his efforts. he wishes he’d brought lube, so he could slip a finger or two inside rufus and see what kind of noises he makes when tseng massages his prostate; he wishes he had even the faintest excuse for that, but he doesn’t, which is why his hands stay right where they are. the excuse for the fact that he’s still licking over rufus’ entrance, still fucking him with his tongue, is that there may be a clause of the slot machines that demands that one party reach orgasm. there’s no excuse for tseng wanting to finger rufus until he comes all over tseng’s chest.
(fuck.)
it’s clear that rufus is getting closer to climax, at least judging by the way his noises are growing a little freer and the way the his thighs keep twitching against tseng’s shoulders. the wet place on tseng’s collarbones must be precum, and the thought alone is enough to send a fresh surge of heat through his body. if he was going to stop at all, tseng should have stopped minutes ago, after the first pass of his tongue against rufus’ entrance; that chance has long since passed, and now a herd of wild chocobos couldn’t pull him away from his task of getting to hear what rufus sounds like when he comes. ]
[On review, after the fact, maybe one or both of them will be able to pinpoint the exact moment when this all went off the rails. The world's most ludicrous mission debrief. He wouldn't put it past Tseng to write it. He wouldn't put it past himself to read it. There's an innuendo lurking somewhere in have it on my desk by tomorrow; maybe that's something he'll think of later, too.
On careful examination, though, someone will surely pinpoint that the crux of it isn't really about what he sounds like when he comes. It's what he sounds like just before it, when his body is radiating heat and dappled with sweat, when his arms are braced and his hips are moving just fractionally and sometimes it makes the tip of his oversensitive cock catch against some sliver of Tseng's chest in a way that feels absolutely exquisite. Someone will note it and draw a circle around it the way they'll mark out that moment when Tseng should've said sir but didn't, and this will prove to be its companion — that moment when Rufus shouldn't have said anything, but did.
Under his breath, yes. Barely a whisper, yes. Too low for any but the most careful of ears to mistake it for anything separate than any other sigh spilling from his mouth, yes.
In the ops analysis from hell, someone will draw an arrow to this.]
Tseng —
[And like so many other dossiers on the activities of the Turks, the president of the Shinra Corporation will take out a lighter and burn it to ash, erasing all evidence save memory that it ever happened to begin with.]
...ple—
[Half a word, barely even a fraction of a word, and yet more than enough to give him away. He barely even knows what he's asking for by it, and that somehow makes it all the headier.]
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peacockstop2024-02-10 11:29 am
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All right. All right. It's a sound plan, for all that it might be a questionable one. And it's Tseng, so it's not even that it'll be...unpalatable, really. He could do a lot worse.
In the seclusion of the bathroom, he takes a second to regard himself in the mirror, meeting his reflection's gaze as his resolve solidifies. It's not as though he owes it to Tseng to make this anything more than pure business, but at the same time...
No. It would be better to do this — at least somewhat properly. To mitigate tension. The less he allows to be injected into the proceedings now, the less they'll both have to excise later. That's just simple sense.
All right. He rakes a hand through his hair, unmindful of how it rumples the locks out of their usual smooth style, and then quietly shoulders off his coat and shirt before making his way back into the suite proper.
Tseng is waiting for him, as expected. Tseng looks like he hasn't moved more than an inch since he'd completed the order he was given, because more likely than not, he hasn't.]
It puts you in a vulnerable position, too.
[He picks up the thought like it'd been offered just a moment ago, rather than whole minutes, as he tosses his garments neatly over a nearby chaise before stalking shirtless over to Tseng. The way he altogether bypasses the typical bounds of personal space and brings himself nearly flush with his Turk is far too deliberate to ever be mistaken for anything other than what it is.]
So here we are again. Striking a deal beneficial to the both of us.
[The last one had resolved with I own you. Little doubt that this one will, too.]
And do we have a deal, Tseng?
no subject
the expanse of his skin is great and terrible too, in an entirely different way. absent the usual leather of his gloves, tseng feels his fingers curl in on themselves at his sides and his shoulders take on a degree of tension for another reason entirely. when you're the head of the vice president—now president's personal security detail, you get used to seeing him in various stages of undress, but tseng has only ever seen rufus undressed for fittings and medical checkups and weapons training sessions. this is a new context for it, and it's all he can do to keep his eyes up as rufus crosses the room.
he doesn't falter when rufus brushes past the bounds of propriety and puts himself right in tseng's personal space. from this distance, the two-inch difference in their heights is even more apparent, and tseng lifts his chin just slightly to meet rufus' gaze dead on. ]
We have a deal, sir. [ as if there was ever any other outcome. tseng's fingers twitch, but he doesn't lift his hands. ] And you know I'm good for it.
no subject
So to reassure him of the good faith of his commitment almost feels like Tseng stepping outside the bounds of his head of security, just for a moment, and granting him a glimpse of the man instead of the job. Maybe that's a signal, surreptitious in and of itself — that there's a chance, just a chance, that he might see a flash of the man again as this goes on.
(It reminds him, fleetingly, that to truly own the Turks, you have to be one of them yourself. That he is, in the singular way that matters, one of them, himself.)
Rufus hasn't said anything, now, for a bit. That's not unusual. Silence from him often speaks just as loudly as if he'd found words to begin with. But the tension is rising, not just in Tseng's shoulders and fingers and the grip of his own chest, and there are no illusions about the fact that they're both waiting for him to move first. The white pieces always do.]
I know.
[What will it take, he wonders, to make Tseng touch him? Is he waiting for permission, or just to test the limits of his own resolve? Does he want an order so he can call it plausible deniability, or to break so he can classify it as beyond his control?
It doesn't matter. He reaches up and takes Tseng's face in his hand — fingers firm against one cheek, thumb pressed into his jawline on the opposite side — and kisses him like he's aiming to learn the skill of the mouth that's going to deliver his goals to him.]
no subject
there is so rarely the opportunity for something as petty as self-consciousness in the business of the turks; embarrassment and shame are some of the first things excised by the rigor of their training program. nor is there much modesty, both by the necessity of changing in close quarters and by the fact of the locker-room talk that's common among his men. seeing another turk's body should be commonplace and unremarkable, and touching to move someone out of the way or drag them behind cover equally banal.
tseng feels no self-consciousness now, as rufus leans closer and brings his hand up to grip tseng's jaw. he does, however, become briefly and keenly aware that this is the first time rufus has touched him with this much purpose. the fire in his gaze says something about rufus, tseng thinks, and so does the fact that he kisses tseng at all.
even when their mouths press together, tseng's hands remain at his sides. waiting for an order, or for some unspoken ask, for rufus to indicate that what he wants is to be touched. even so, he takes the kiss as it's given and gives back just as good; he needs no coaxing from rufus to let it deepen, nor is he especially submissive, despite the optics of their position. if his is the mouth that will deliver rufus' goals to him, then tseng wants him to know what he's in for. ]
no subject
Strangely, the recognition of it sets him a little more at ease with the prospect of what they're setting out to do. The predictability of Tseng's steadfastness lends a structure to all this, a safety net against a leap that might otherwise have felt uncontrolled. It makes something unwind just fractionally inside Rufus, some minor measure of tension easing free.
He's not so sentimental as to chalk it up to feeling safe. That would imply by extension that he'd ever felt off-balance to begin with, and like hell he'd ever admit to that.]
Waiting for leave?
[He doesn't pull away even as he says it; he lets the remark smother between the slide of their lips, pressed quiet into Tseng's mouth. He could keep an iron grip on the way this unfolds, to be sure, and if it were anyone else he might — but that's the real value of his Turks, that they don't need explicit instructions to know how to deliver what he requires of them.]
Handle it as you see fit. Just like anything else.
no subject
it isn't just about the touching, tseng knows. it's about the rest of it too. ]
Yes, sir.
[ he brings his hands up to rufus' waist then. they settle perfectly into the narrow dip just above his hips, thumbs brushing over soft skin and hard muscle, fingers firm but not unforgiving against the warm plane of rufus' back. when they kiss again—or rather, when they resume the kiss that rufus had interrupted—tseng responds once more, not to take control of the kiss but to participate in it. he draws rufus' tongue into his mouth and sucks on it, digs teeth lightly into the soft flesh of his lower lip.
it's a good kiss—hot, heady. tseng knows exactly where the bed is, knows how many steps it would take to get them there, but despite this knowledge he holds himself still. rufus still calls the shots, even with tseng given leave to handle him as he likes—they won't move toward the bed until rufus is good and ready. ]
no subject
For the moment, he's preoccupied with the sharp breath that escapes him when the contact is finally made, less from the sensation of the touch itself and more from the knowledge that Tseng did it at all. He's going to do so much more, before this encounter is through. That damned mouth, those clever lips, that threat of teeth — he's going to have that, going to feel that.
It doesn't feel quite so vulnerable anymore.
And maybe that shows in the way his hand drifts away from where he'd gripped Tseng's face, softening the overtly assertive gesture into something a little more curious; the backs of his knuckles trace over the phantom remains of his fingerprints, then down the column of Tseng's neck until they find the woven collar of the frankly hideous top he's wearing.]
Take this off.
[This time, when he pulls back to speak, a thin strand of saliva gleams between them, precarious and fragile until his mouth moves enough to snap it.]
You're overdressed.
no subject
when they pull apart, rufus' mouth is wet and gorgeous and tseng catches himself on the desire to lean back in and seal their lips together again, to kiss rufus until he gives in. they're still operating on the premise of something like a business transaction, after all. tseng contents himself with casting his gaze over rufus' face, his coloring making the beginnings of a flush in his cheeks all the more obvious.
without stepping back, tseng releases rufus' waist and reaches for the hem of his own shirt instead, tugs it up over his head and tosses it to the side. his jeans stay where they are—there's a practical angle to having his shirt off, if rufus is going to sit on his face, but there's no need to remove his pants for that. (plus, the thicker fabric will make a better secret of how tseng is responding to this, physically.)
his hands return to rufus' waist, then. this time, his palms skim up from that narrow waist to the broader span of his chest, and his thumbs find the hardening peaks of his nipples to rub over them, slow and indulgent. it's a presumptuous touch, but there's no apology in tseng's expression—rufus did tell him to handle it, after all. ]
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Only now there's a competing interest beginning to creep in, rising like the heat of the room (like the heat beneath his skin), because maybe drawing this out a little is just more pleasant. It has to be done either way, and the door is locked. And if all that mattered were getting drunk, then there isn't much difference between house pour and top shelf — but if the price is the same, why wouldn't one opt for the latter?
His tongue passes over his lips, unthinking, when Tseng pulls back to follow his order; when he catches himself doing it, and puts a hasty end to it, there's a moment of distinct relief that it probably went unnoticed in the shuffle of fabric getting pulled up and across Tseng's line of sight. It's less anything to do with the view — he's not so crass as to lick his chops at the sight of another man — and more just that the phantom pressure of the kiss feels like it's lingering on his mouth, like he wants to chew at it to solidify the memory all the more.
And then — at last, Tseng handles it.
It's better, paradoxically, to not have to micromanage each least little aspect of a partner's conduct — for all that that's been his practice in his dealings with strangers, up until now. Maybe there's something interesting to the prospect, that level of absolute obedience, but right now he doesn't want to have to direct every decision, stage manage each look and shift and touch. It wouldn't feel as satisfying, the way Tseng touches him, if he'd had to demand it. There's...anticipation, this way, but more importantly it's natural to how they've always worked — that all he need do is sketch out the greater design, and leave it to Tseng to see to the details.
The details are making goosebumps rise on his skin, just barely visible in the candlelight.]
You're quiet.
[He's not sure yet if he likes that. He's not altogether certain he doesn't.
He is sure that it makes him want to earn a sound — something, anything — for his efforts, not just ask for it but drag it out of him, and so where Tseng is sensual, Rufus shows his claws, reaching under Tseng's raised arm and around to set his fingernails against the muscle at the back of his shoulder, digging in and dragging just hard enough to leave a shallow set of marks behind.]
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there's a temptation to swallow back his noises, just for the sake of riling rufus a little—obedient, but not cowed. nails against his skin are not a direct order, after all, and so tseng has no reason to obey.
but he has no reason not to, either, and so he lets rufus hear the sound those scratches earn—a hiss, a quiet noise in the back of his throat that's half pain and half pleasure. it hurts, but the pain feels good in a way tseng isn't thinking too hard about as he drops his hands to rufus' tailored slacks to start to undo the button and zip. handle it.
when he slips his hand into the front of rufus' slacks to curl around the shape of his cock, he finds him—not quite hard, not that tseng expected he would be, but stirring with interest nonetheless, the shape of him firm and familiar against tseng's palm. his other hand stays where it is, playing with rufus' nipple; the other rubs over rufus' cock through the fine material of his underwear, not teasing as much as he is exploring (but if he teases a little, well, so be it). ]
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Either way, the prospect of a challenge is appealing, and an added bit of competition — even if only in his own head — is a palatable distraction.]
Always?
[His composure is good, and his smirk is steady, but there's plenty about his body that he can't control, and it's betraying him — the way his fair complexion does little to hide the flush collecting beneath it the more Tseng's long fingers pluck at him, the way the cadence of his breath is getting a touch syncopated, too fast to exhale and too slow to draw back in. Tseng is — objectively, factually better at this than he is. Tseng rarely allows himself to not be exemplary at anything he tries.
They're going to have to get to the bed sooner rather than later. Leaning into Tseng and claiming another kiss does well enough in the short term to hide the way his eyelids flutter at the way he's being felt out, but he's not about to let it get to the point where his knees go weak without taking steps to circumvent the issue altogether.
His hand, fresh from leaving its marks, skims back down the length of Tseng's spine, fingertips brushing through the hollow at the small of his back before slowly circling back around toward his hip. Without drawing back, he drags himself away from Tseng's mouth and leans into his ear instead.]
Leave your hands where they are.
[— a curious direction, maybe, until one of Rufus's fingers hooks through a belt loop at the front of Tseng's jeans and he starts to walk them both towards the bed, pivoting so that he's the one treading backwards while Tseng advances on him in kind.
It's all optics, but what isn't, really. Leading Tseng by the cock while his hands linger on Rufus's body? There's a conspicuous visual in that, by intent and by design.]
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so he keeps his hands where they are even as they kiss again, which allows tseng to taste as well as hear the almost-inaudible little sounds rufus makes, not moans, just something in the back of his throat that's a little fuller than a breath. when they pull apart, tseng almost regrets it, at least until rufus' lips press high to his cheekbone so he can murmur directly into tseng's ear.
it is a curious order. one tseng obeys, of course, but a curious one, until rufus' fingers hook through the belt loops on tseng's jeans and he uses the full breadth of his body to guide tseng back toward the bed. he's immediately aware of the optics, of what it means for rufus to lead him there with little more contact between them than tseng's hand curled around his erection and rufus' finger through a loop of fabric.
a transparent power play, and one to which tseng has no objection. he does, however, shift his grip just slightly so that his thumb can rub an easy circle right over the slit at the tip of rufus' cock. ]
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(Why should it matter, whether it's perfection or not? It's only about satisfying the slot machine, and the machine hadn't placed any demand on quality. Why does it matter so much that he not lose face?)
The scent of roses is stronger, here; unsurprising, given the petals strewn across the bedspread and the fuller blossoms arranged into bouquets tied to the posts and dripping from the canopy. Tacky. He almost doesn't even want to settle back onto it, already a little disgusted with the tawdry romanticism of it all. He almost wants to say something about it, scoff at it, deride it, just for the sake of provoking Tseng to agree.
Damn it. He's so loud by comparison. Why does that bother him so much?]
I don't have a change of clothes.
[He releases Tseng's jeans only long enough to shove at the waistband of his own bottoms, not really caring much more than to get them down and off his hips. Ostensibly it's to keep them from getting stained or turning damp — a legitimate threat with the way Tseng's hand keeps working at him — but there's a little bit of defiance in it, too, though what it is he's defying by it, he isn't altogether sure.
When his trousers are bunched around his knees, he grasps hold of Tseng's belt loops and tugs him forward again, shifting his stance so that one of his thighs is positioned between both of Tseng's, and there's really nowhere left for him to go save to straddle it or push Rufus back onto the mattress, or both.
There'd been a moment, after all, when Tseng could've taken his jeans off, and he conspicuously didn't. It's understandable — it's not necessary to their purpose, and presumably neither is Rufus touching him, so he takes it for the denial he assumes it to be. But he'll take this much of a liberty, at least, and see if he can get away with it, see if he can make Tseng jerk involuntarily like the faint but frustrating sounds that Rufus can't seem to keep from spilling from his own mouth.]
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it does earn him another noise, too, a low, rough sound of pleasure in the back of tseng's throat as one hand goes to rufus' hip and the other curls around the back of his neck. for the first time, if rufus knows what to look for, he might see some color come to tseng's cheeks, although the low lighting makes it hard to be sure. ]
Sir—
[ his voice comes out steady, at least, although there's a tension in it that isn't there ordinarily. very well—if that's how rufus is going to be about it. tseng lifts both hands, presses them squarely to rufus' chest, and pushes him backward onto the mattress. ]
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No. No, it's a ludicrous thought, better left unrealized. There's no credible foundation to the notion that Tseng might've moved as though to hold him.
And as quickly as it had happened, those long-fingered hands move again, and moot the thought altogether with something far more straightforward to comprehend: he shoves him, handling the complication of getting them onto the bed, and the rose petals bounce up and flutter back down again like a strange halo as Rufus goes lax and allows himself to land amongst them.
(They'll stick unpleasantly everywhere, he thinks at first, and then considers fleetingly how the hue of the petals is too bright and oversaturated to be pleasing against the crisp white of the coverlet, and yet how complementary the red would look against Tseng's black hair and warm skin.)
He digs his elbows into the mattress beneath him, propping himself up and using the leverage to both pull his legs up after him and kick out of the remnants of his trousers as he does so. For being hard, bare, and undoubtedly on display, it's strange how he still finds himself less preoccupied with assessment of his own performance than he'd been before he'd managed to get Tseng to be physical with him.
And so it's his turn to look at Tseng, waiting silently, not deigning to chase after that sir with an inquiry of his own, but letting the absence of remark do all the talking in his place.]
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without removing his gaze from rufus where he's sprawled out on the bed, tseng reaches up to undo the elastic holding his hair back out of his face. he probably should tie it all back, to keep it out of the way of arms and knees, but instead he slips the elastic around his wrist and lets the strands of it fall around his shoulders to frame his face.
tseng climbs onto the bed to join rufus, crawling right up between his slightly spread thighs like he has a right to be there, and he leans over to press his mouth to rufus' for another lingering, thorough kiss. this will be more comfortable if tseng is on his back, but he thinks they can take their time getting there—there's no urgency in this room, save for their own.
in fact, speaking of indulgences. with one arm braced on the mattress next to rufus' shoulder, tseng brings up his other hand, fingertips trailing presumptuously up the soft skin of rufus' inner thigh so he can wrap his hand around rufus' cock again. it's easier at this angle, with no trousers in the way—gives tseng far better leverage to stroke with, using rufus' own precum as lube. ]
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(A shame, maybe, that riding his face won't allow for that as naturally as, say, putting him on his knees and choking him on his cock might. How pretty that would look, dark strands clutched in pale fingers, pooling around pale thighs —)
They're drifting farther and farther from their ultimate goal, he thinks absently as Tseng moves into his space and he lifts his chin naturally to meet him, stealing Tseng's own trick and catching his tongue in the midst of the kiss, feeling it out with his own. It's a little unfair to be laid bare while letting Tseng keep his jeans in place and intact, but there's still a lot he can do with it anyway; the security of the layer of denim makes it easier to reach for Tseng's hip, his thigh, the small of his back, and finally settle on grasping for a handful of his ass, for all that his fingers don't quite find purchase in the dense fabric.
It feels good to be touched. It's satisfying to be able to push and claim Tseng's mouth each time he needs to smother a noise, to breathe in the aroma of roses and let the heartbeat thudding in his ears drown out the wet distinctive sound of Tseng's hand moving on his cock.
Say something, he thinks, as his hips rock and he drags Tseng close to him as best he can, aiding the rhythm without hastily interrupting it. He never really works out whether he meant that thought for himself or for Tseng, however, and in short order he really stops caring about the prospect of thinking at all.]
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what he's learning, too, is that rufus is sensitive. it's not unexpected, considering how rarely he lets people touch him, but it does make something not unlike self-satisfaction simmer low in tseng's belly to feel how wet rufus' cock is and know it's because of him. it makes him want to see how much more sensitive rufus can be, makes him want to tease just for the sake of watching the way he might writhe.
(this is a train of thought that will mortify tseng, later, when he has all his faculties back in working order.)
eventually, after what feels like an age of kissing and slow indulgent handjobs, tseng pulls back, his mouth slick and swollen with kissing and his pupils blown so dark they swallow the amber of his eyes. he looks down at rufus, and for a flicker of a moment his gaze is openly hungry before he schools his expression into something cool and unflappable. ]
I'll lay on my back, sir. [ his hand is still moving, dragging slow over rufus' cock. ] You should face down my body.
[ for two reasons, both of which tseng trusts rufus will be able to glean: ability to breathe, for tseng's part, and for rufus' part, so that when he comes it'll be tseng's chest he makes a mess of. ]
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Recognition doesn't so much slam back down as bleed back in, gentled by the fact that Tseng is still stroking him through it, which in part forces him to divide his attention but in part softens the blunt force of remembering just what it is they're supposed to be doing here at all. Annoyance bubbles up again, though this time he can't really explain why; later, on examination, he'll realize it's because the position Tseng proposes means being angled away from him, robbed of the sight of his face and eyes.
(Shouldn't he be relieved by that, rather than irritated?)
No. They should — they should get this done. Tseng is handling it. The benefits outweigh the costs.]
...All right.
[The moment he shakes off the siren song of hazy pleasure is visible, apparent, for anyone experienced enough to look. Some of the softness disappears from his features, pulled back into a more rigid set of a decision silently made, and he reaches up the bed to retrieve one of the pillows for Tseng to make use of before dragging his arm along the parts of the bedspread they're not lying on, smoothing the errant rose petals away into a long pile.
(What was the point, he wonders, of spending so long touching him, lavishing sensation on him? To bring him that much closer to coming, likely. So it won't take as long. So it can be over with faster.)
...
(That's probably it. What else would it be.) ]
Let's avoid breaking your neck.
[He says, more ragged than he wishes he'd sounded, and shifts to make more room while Tseng arranges himself as he sees fit.]
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with rufus' agreement, and with his assistance to get a pillow, tseng finally, reluctantly releases his grip on rufus' cock in favor of stretching out on the mattress instead. now it's him amidst the rose petals, a dangerous creature of a different breed, and the thought brings the faintest touch of amusement to his lips as he reaches out for rufus, encouraging him to come closer.
as best he tries to hide it, it's impossible for tseng to fully hide the desire he feels as he guides rufus closer. the desire, and the hunger that settles low in the pit of his belly as rufus straddles his head, thighs spread to accommodate tseng's shoulders. in a million years, this is a position he never thought he would see rufus in, and now that he has, tseng isn't sure he'll ever be able to stop thinking about it. ]
Lower your hips. [ no sir, this time. tseng's hands come up to frame rufus' waist, his hipbones, urging him to lower his body enough that tseng can lean up and lick unhesitatingly over his entrance. ]
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But then —
Lower your hips, he says, and the silence that follows after it is deafening. The respect is precisely the same as always; the lack of the word sir has Rufus's chest going tight from how he forgets to breathe. Maybe that's why he obe— why he acquiesces without question; he's too busy thinking to think better of it, too preoccupied to resist the way Tseng's hands stroke over his hips and settle on his sides to show him exactly where and what he needs to be.
His lungs quickly remember their function at the first pass of Tseng's tongue. It's like the breath has been punched out of him with the way it rasps, hard and blunt like a gasp in reverse. All of a sudden his arms seem to have to work harder to bear his own weight, where they're braced against the mattress; all he can see from this vantage is a slim strip of Tseng's bared abdomen and the crotch of his jeans and it's not enough, it's not nearly enough.
But once — once should be sufficient, shouldn't it? They've met the slot machine's terms. The reward is his. He should be triumphant. He should be satisfied.
Only Tseng doesn't stop, and Rufus can't produce an answer of whether or not he even wants him to. It's as though half of him can't stand it, can't bear to let himself continue with this any further, and the other half would sooner rip every last misgiving out of himself with his bare hands before letting it come to an end. He's so hard it's dizzying, and the heat and pressure of it aren't going away; quite the contrary, every twist and flick of Tseng's tongue just brings him closer to the inevitable, has him biting his lip swollen to keep any untoward noises suppressed.
It couldn't have been anyone else, he thinks, scrabbling furiously for any scrap of composure he can find. Doing this, being like this — he could never have allowed it from anyone else.
He wouldn't have wanted it from anyone else.
I want it, he thinks treacherously, and before he can dwell on that thought any further he picks up one of his bracing hands and moves it to rest on Tseng's thigh instead, just touching the muscle and the texture of his jeans, like he's desperately in need of a lightning rod to divert the electricity of that realization before it can shock him from the inside out.]
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his hands tighten on rufus’ hips, and tseng tilts his head just so to be able to breathe, and from there—that’s it. he drags his tongue over rufus’ entrance and trails the tip of it in a circle around the sensitive hole, pushes his tongue inside and curls it against his inner walls. he uses every trick he knows and then some, responding only to the subtle tells of rufus’ body, the way his thighs twitch against tseng’s shoulders and the way his breathing hitches when something feels good. it’s obvious even without seeing rufus’ face that he’s probably doing everything in his power to keep himself from making noise, but even without the benefit of sound tseng can still read him well enough to know, and that’s enough. gods, is it ever enough.
when rufus’ hand finds his thigh, it’s like a jolt of thunder through tseng’s body. he doesn’t expect rufus to reciprocate, of course—but tseng hadn’t really expected rufus to do anything but let tseng handle it (handle him), and the hand on his thigh is an unexpected pleasure.
in a betrayal of his better senses, tseng’s cock twitches and hardens further in his jeans, pressing against the thicker denim of the fly. there’s no hope of hiding it by now, and with rufus facing down tseng’s body the way he is, there’s surely no way he’ll miss how aroused this has him.
but what is there to do for it? except maybe to eat rufus out so thoroughly he stops being able to think of anything at all. ]
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Fuck.
And in a way, Tseng gets his wish — about halfway so, all things considered. There's no missing the sight of his cock with the way they're positioned, and there's no denying the way the denim is straining. The part that doesn't come together, that Rufus is too far gone to connect, is why: why would Tseng be so aroused when he's barely touched him at all? It's understandable that he'd be this close to the brink himself, dappled in sweat and trembling even without the attentions of that damnable tongue, but that's because Tseng made sure this would work, he'd handled it, taking charge of the way this unfolds while Rufus, as ever, contributed comparatively little in return.
His fingers, the ones that were already familiar with the texture of Tseng's jeans, ghost over the shape of his cock before he quite realizes what he's doing — only then he does realize, and snatches it back before he can surrender to any temptation of doing it again. Tseng's pants didn't come off because they didn't need to come off; he'd had every opportunity to remove them, if that's what he'd wanted, yet here they are.
Fuck.
What he ought to be doing is touching himself, probably. Or at the very least focusing less on wondering how Tseng's arousal might swell if he were to fit it into the palm of his hand instead, if he'd somehow keep his composure even in the midst of petting like that or if his eyes would go dark and desiring from the sensations rolling over him, the same way that every flick of his tongue sends shockwaves up Rufus's spine.
He's thinking too much. He's thinking too much.
But fortunately Tseng's aims end up perfectly aligning with that desire to stop thinking, and as the sensations escalate he can feel his focus starting to melt away, taking all semblance of a filter along with it.]
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tseng puts his thoughts away and redoubles his efforts. he wishes he’d brought lube, so he could slip a finger or two inside rufus and see what kind of noises he makes when tseng massages his prostate; he wishes he had even the faintest excuse for that, but he doesn’t, which is why his hands stay right where they are. the excuse for the fact that he’s still licking over rufus’ entrance, still fucking him with his tongue, is that there may be a clause of the slot machines that demands that one party reach orgasm. there’s no excuse for tseng wanting to finger rufus until he comes all over tseng’s chest.
(fuck.)
it’s clear that rufus is getting closer to climax, at least judging by the way his noises are growing a little freer and the way the his thighs keep twitching against tseng’s shoulders. the wet place on tseng’s collarbones must be precum, and the thought alone is enough to send a fresh surge of heat through his body. if he was going to stop at all, tseng should have stopped minutes ago, after the first pass of his tongue against rufus’ entrance; that chance has long since passed, and now a herd of wild chocobos couldn’t pull him away from his task of getting to hear what rufus sounds like when he comes. ]
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On careful examination, though, someone will surely pinpoint that the crux of it isn't really about what he sounds like when he comes. It's what he sounds like just before it, when his body is radiating heat and dappled with sweat, when his arms are braced and his hips are moving just fractionally and sometimes it makes the tip of his oversensitive cock catch against some sliver of Tseng's chest in a way that feels absolutely exquisite. Someone will note it and draw a circle around it the way they'll mark out that moment when Tseng should've said sir but didn't, and this will prove to be its companion — that moment when Rufus shouldn't have said anything, but did.
Under his breath, yes. Barely a whisper, yes. Too low for any but the most careful of ears to mistake it for anything separate than any other sigh spilling from his mouth, yes.
In the ops analysis from hell, someone will draw an arrow to this.]
Tseng —
[And like so many other dossiers on the activities of the Turks, the president of the Shinra Corporation will take out a lighter and burn it to ash, erasing all evidence save memory that it ever happened to begin with.]
...ple—
[Half a word, barely even a fraction of a word, and yet more than enough to give him away. He barely even knows what he's asking for by it, and that somehow makes it all the headier.]
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