InsaneJournal

control, ffvii (rufus/tseng)
Title: Control
Author: logistika_nyx
Rating/Warnings: M, none
Word Count: 550
Prompt: Feb 7 - Final Fantasy VII, Rufus/Tseng: breathplay – 'Of course a corset is appropriate formal menswear in Midgar.'

Summary: Rufus whispers the command. His fingers fan, spaced along the gaps between Tseng's ribs; this cage around Tseng's heart, obedient, expands.

.

Tseng – never questions, even this.

Rufus wonders if Tseng really thinks he has all the answers.

.

'Inhale.'

Rufus whispers the command. His fingers fan, spaced along the gaps between Tseng's ribs; this cage around Tseng's heart, obedient, expands. Rufus' hands ride that steady rise. How much Tseng can take always startles him, a breath that swallows the world; Rufus strives never to show surprise, just as Tseng never shows any sign of strain.

Tseng never pauses when he reaches capacity. Rufus always times this right or perhaps Tseng lives and breathes restraint, and could always have gone further than Rufus can let him.

'Exhale.'

Rufus keeps his palms steady. He does not push, does not want to push, not yet.

.

Tseng is all about straight lines, creating them, never crossing them. His spine does not bend. His hair is, as a whole, straight; as individual strands, not a one ever kinks or breaks. His tie sits immaculate, his jacket ironed and starched to resist a crease or crinkle; contrarily, the crease along both pant-legs is always sharp.

Without his suit, Tseng is still so straight. His frame is exotic to Rufus' eyes and hands. Masculine, muscled, but without the contrasts Rufus is more familiar with – most men wear their breadth of shoulder to surpass the narrowness of their waist, thick flexing bicep against fine forearm, thick thighs, narrow knees, high calves – no. Instead, Tseng is straight, hard, a line that does not vee or curve from shoulder to hip, from hip to heel.

Even Tseng's cock does not curve when hard; it stands straight, angled purely to provoke Shinra arrogance.

.

'Inhale.'

Tseng's palms are braced on the glass of Shinra's high office, but he stands easily, loosely, his legs apart but not provocatively so. His hair is caught in a tail, pulled to one side in a spill across smooth shoulders. Rufus rests his forehead against the nape of Tseng's neck, and can't help matching his breath to Tseng's. That slow breath tests the tension of cord where it wraps, three times or more, around Rufus' palm. He does not let that cord give. His fingers ache from the constricted bloodflow, tingling as though teasing with a touch not there.

Rufus bites at air, swallows. 'Exhale—'

As Tseng's ribcage depresses, Rufus sets his knee to the small of the man's back and heaves.

.

Tseng's breath is high in his chest, shallow, too fast. Rufus closes his hands around Tseng's waist. The tips of his fingers meet to the fore, the first joints of his thumbs pressing against each other at the rear.

Come spills along the back of Tseng's thigh, tracing the path of a circular embrace as gravity makes its demands felt. Rufus relinquishes his hold, reluctantly, to draw Tseng's hair back and pull out the band. Black satin strands spill to match the fabric of the corset.

Rufus tries to speak, and chokes on his own panting breath.

Quicker than he has any right to be, so bound, Tseng whirls. His hand, still cool with the touch of glass and night, cups Rufus' chin, grinds fingertips in with the force of his grip; darkness never flinches from this white-gold indignant.

'Inhale,' Tseng instructs, lips quirking.

--and Rufus, caught half lost in the remnant meandering of his efforts, breathes.

'Speak.'

'And you said,' Rufus hasn't the breath to laugh, 'you had nothing to wear.'

.