Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7
Breaking and Entering
"It's best not to think about the complicated maneuvers required to get the innocuous-looking piece of plastic into his somewhat sweaty palm." Rufus does a little early-morning trespassing.
?Blocked
It's best not to think about the complicated maneuvers required to get the innocuous-looking piece of plastic into his somewhat sweaty palm. Admitting that he'd spent the better part of a week on the project is embarrassing. But it is all made worth it when he slides the keycard through the reader, the panel glows green, and the door clicks open. Rufus looks at his watch again, and then enters the Turk's apartment.
The outer room of the suite is dim, sunlight barely filtering through the curtains. He locks the door and pauses a moment to let his eyes adjust, noting the sound of the shower. Just as expected.
He shrugs out of his duster, draping it carefully over the back of a sedate armchair. Jacket and turtleneck follow, and he steps out of his shoes and tucks them aside. The rest of his clothes he folds neatly and lays on the seat of the chair.
The bedroom is better lit, one of the heavy curtains drawn aside, but he hardly notices anything other than the closed bathroom door. A warm baritone voice seeps through, something vaguely operatic in a language he doesn't understand. He shivers.
Taking a deep breath, he strides naked across the bedroom and opens the door as quietly as he can manage.
It isn't quietly enough. The singing stops, and Tseng demands, "Who's there?"
It occurs to him that it would be like Tseng to be armed in the shower, and it would be extremely awkward to explain exactly how he'd gotten himself shot whilst naked in his bodyguard's bathroom. Of course, with Tseng holding the weapon, the odds are rather against him having to explain anything to anyone. He opens the shower door.
Tseng is armed only with a washcloth and a bottle of shampoo, which slide through his fingers when it registers who is there. "Rufus-sama? Is something wrong?"
"Wrong?" He spends a breath trying to figure out what kind of wrongness would lead to him being there, naked. "No."
"Then what...," he starts to say, but Rufus kisses him silent. Every protest, every question disappears beneath the force of the Vice President's demanding mouth. Tseng's arms come up and wrap around him, pulling him closer to warm slick skin. The water pours over him, and he is nearly drowned before he lets up kissing the other man, but he doesn't care.
Tseng is glorious wet; dark hair heavy with water. Rufus pulls back for a few seconds, taking advantage of the incredibly rare opportunity to see his lover nude. Eyes follow the slim, muscled form, and his fingers echo the motion a second later, tracing scars that somehow make the figure more perfect. This is somehow the antithesis of unflappable, perfectly-put-together Tseng - wet and naked and not unmarked by the passage of his turbulent life. He is not untouchable, after all.
The object of his scrutiny merely stands and waits for him to finish. His dignity does not require such transient articles as clothing. Rufus suspects that he is rather amused by the entire proceedings. Rufus also suspects that, were a stranger to witness this, they would identify the Wutaian as clearly the one in command. Next to Tseng, he is made awkward, and his dripping hair hangs in his eyes in an annoying fashion.
A graceful hand reaches to brush the bangs back, tucking them behind Rufus's ear as Tseng decides that he has had enough of being the passive partner and claims a kiss. Rufus presses against him, exhilarating in the feel of full-body skin-on-skin contact. He has never really had this with Tseng. "How did you get in here?" he asks, with enough of a chuckle in his voice to show that he doesn't mind being barged in on while in the shower. By Rufus, at least. Anyone else would presumably get a much less friendly greeting.
"Copied your keycard," he says, skipping over the parts that involved sneaking around the building after hours without a bodyguard.
"No one else knows about it, of course." A confirmation merely; Tseng knows Rufus Shinra, of all people, knows how not to be careless.
"Of course."
"I probably don't want to know how you managed it."
"No."
"Hm." He chuckles, for real this time, and tangles his long fingers in Rufus's hair. Tseng's mouth finds his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks behind. There are benefits to habitually wearing turtlenecks, and this is one of them. He moans, relaxing into the touch, allowing the other man to turn him around in the cubicle. Tseng bends for a second, and then fingers, slick with something more than just water, prepare him. Quickly, ever quickly; even here and now there is the possibility of interruption, of discovery, and it would be just as difficult to explain Rufus's clothes in Tseng's living room as his bleeding corpse on the bathroom floor. And even as he takes me I'm thinking about bleeding corpses and explanations. Sometimes I hate my life, he thinks, and then there is no room for thought, for breath, for anything but Tseng.
The hot water doesn't fade so much as it ends; the spray is as icy as if the hot water had never existed in the first place. Rufus yelps, and Tseng shouts, and the Turk jerks his arm back and turns the water off with his elbow, cracking it on the handle in the process. He swears in street Wutaian, and Rufus tries not to laugh, but gets his karma a moment later when he slips getting out of the shower. Tseng catches him, merriment sparkling in his dark eyes and a smile ghosting across his lips.
They dry each other, Rufus occasionally succumbing to the urge to lick the moisture off the other man's glistening skin, and they end up staggering out of the bathroom tangled up in each other, mostly falling onto the bed. Rufus groans as Tseng slides into him again. A second time is almost unheard-of, with them, and they cherish it, making it sweet and slow as it almost never is.
He lays sprawled in the afterglow for a while, counting the dust motes in the air and watching the sun on Tseng's warm golden skin, pooling in the hollows under his ribs and in his navel. He tries to memorize each part of his lover, so he can call this image up again later; the line of muscle across his outthrust arm, the scar across his shoulder blade, the exact curve of his right knee. His toes are long and hairless, the feet high-arched and graceful.
Rufus glances across at the clock and swears. Tseng looks over at him, expression half-chiding. "What is it?"
"Board meeting's in half an hour."
"Half an hour?" he echoes, unperturbed. "Plenty of time."
He pulls Rufus against him again.
The outer room of the suite is dim, sunlight barely filtering through the curtains. He locks the door and pauses a moment to let his eyes adjust, noting the sound of the shower. Just as expected.
He shrugs out of his duster, draping it carefully over the back of a sedate armchair. Jacket and turtleneck follow, and he steps out of his shoes and tucks them aside. The rest of his clothes he folds neatly and lays on the seat of the chair.
The bedroom is better lit, one of the heavy curtains drawn aside, but he hardly notices anything other than the closed bathroom door. A warm baritone voice seeps through, something vaguely operatic in a language he doesn't understand. He shivers.
Taking a deep breath, he strides naked across the bedroom and opens the door as quietly as he can manage.
It isn't quietly enough. The singing stops, and Tseng demands, "Who's there?"
It occurs to him that it would be like Tseng to be armed in the shower, and it would be extremely awkward to explain exactly how he'd gotten himself shot whilst naked in his bodyguard's bathroom. Of course, with Tseng holding the weapon, the odds are rather against him having to explain anything to anyone. He opens the shower door.
Tseng is armed only with a washcloth and a bottle of shampoo, which slide through his fingers when it registers who is there. "Rufus-sama? Is something wrong?"
"Wrong?" He spends a breath trying to figure out what kind of wrongness would lead to him being there, naked. "No."
"Then what...," he starts to say, but Rufus kisses him silent. Every protest, every question disappears beneath the force of the Vice President's demanding mouth. Tseng's arms come up and wrap around him, pulling him closer to warm slick skin. The water pours over him, and he is nearly drowned before he lets up kissing the other man, but he doesn't care.
Tseng is glorious wet; dark hair heavy with water. Rufus pulls back for a few seconds, taking advantage of the incredibly rare opportunity to see his lover nude. Eyes follow the slim, muscled form, and his fingers echo the motion a second later, tracing scars that somehow make the figure more perfect. This is somehow the antithesis of unflappable, perfectly-put-together Tseng - wet and naked and not unmarked by the passage of his turbulent life. He is not untouchable, after all.
The object of his scrutiny merely stands and waits for him to finish. His dignity does not require such transient articles as clothing. Rufus suspects that he is rather amused by the entire proceedings. Rufus also suspects that, were a stranger to witness this, they would identify the Wutaian as clearly the one in command. Next to Tseng, he is made awkward, and his dripping hair hangs in his eyes in an annoying fashion.
A graceful hand reaches to brush the bangs back, tucking them behind Rufus's ear as Tseng decides that he has had enough of being the passive partner and claims a kiss. Rufus presses against him, exhilarating in the feel of full-body skin-on-skin contact. He has never really had this with Tseng. "How did you get in here?" he asks, with enough of a chuckle in his voice to show that he doesn't mind being barged in on while in the shower. By Rufus, at least. Anyone else would presumably get a much less friendly greeting.
"Copied your keycard," he says, skipping over the parts that involved sneaking around the building after hours without a bodyguard.
"No one else knows about it, of course." A confirmation merely; Tseng knows Rufus Shinra, of all people, knows how not to be careless.
"Of course."
"I probably don't want to know how you managed it."
"No."
"Hm." He chuckles, for real this time, and tangles his long fingers in Rufus's hair. Tseng's mouth finds his collarbones, the hollow of his throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks behind. There are benefits to habitually wearing turtlenecks, and this is one of them. He moans, relaxing into the touch, allowing the other man to turn him around in the cubicle. Tseng bends for a second, and then fingers, slick with something more than just water, prepare him. Quickly, ever quickly; even here and now there is the possibility of interruption, of discovery, and it would be just as difficult to explain Rufus's clothes in Tseng's living room as his bleeding corpse on the bathroom floor. And even as he takes me I'm thinking about bleeding corpses and explanations. Sometimes I hate my life, he thinks, and then there is no room for thought, for breath, for anything but Tseng.
The hot water doesn't fade so much as it ends; the spray is as icy as if the hot water had never existed in the first place. Rufus yelps, and Tseng shouts, and the Turk jerks his arm back and turns the water off with his elbow, cracking it on the handle in the process. He swears in street Wutaian, and Rufus tries not to laugh, but gets his karma a moment later when he slips getting out of the shower. Tseng catches him, merriment sparkling in his dark eyes and a smile ghosting across his lips.
They dry each other, Rufus occasionally succumbing to the urge to lick the moisture off the other man's glistening skin, and they end up staggering out of the bathroom tangled up in each other, mostly falling onto the bed. Rufus groans as Tseng slides into him again. A second time is almost unheard-of, with them, and they cherish it, making it sweet and slow as it almost never is.
He lays sprawled in the afterglow for a while, counting the dust motes in the air and watching the sun on Tseng's warm golden skin, pooling in the hollows under his ribs and in his navel. He tries to memorize each part of his lover, so he can call this image up again later; the line of muscle across his outthrust arm, the scar across his shoulder blade, the exact curve of his right knee. His toes are long and hairless, the feet high-arched and graceful.
Rufus glances across at the clock and swears. Tseng looks over at him, expression half-chiding. "What is it?"
"Board meeting's in half an hour."
"Half an hour?" he echoes, unperturbed. "Plenty of time."
He pulls Rufus against him again.
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