Fic: The Right Moment to Move (NC-17, Rude/Tseng)
Another from springkink:
The Right Moment to Move
They each have their specialties.
FFVII, Rude/Tseng. 1100 words.
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for sex, implied violence.
They each have their specialties. Reno is the livewire, the flexible and unpredictable one -- not only in combat but in all things, so that he is most often put on tricky missions, missions where conventional means have failed, because his unusual tactics often can suit Shinra's ends better than display of force. Elena is most comfortable with a gun in her hand, or a grenade; she is fierce and uncompromising in a way that often surprises those who judge by her appearance; she also has a less-well-advertised talent for cracking security systems or hacking in where she doesn't belong. Tseng himself is tactician, analyst, assassin.
Rude is their bruiser, and even within the company many people think it stops there.
They are wrong, of course. No one becomes a Turk just because they're good at roughing people up. The other things that Rude is good at are noticing important details, and choosing precisely the right moment to move.
Like now. Rude comes out of the building flexing his fingers in his gloves, as he always does after a fight. Tseng raises an eyebrow in silent question and Rude nods, and that's all he needs to know. It means Rude has taken care of the matter, as he does: brutal, silent, efficient. Usually that silent efficiency is best paired with Reno's half-crazy edginess -- they complement each other, just as do he and Elena, for similar (though not quite identical) reasons. But for situations that must be dealt with swiftly and discreetly, Tseng partners with Rude, harnesses his icy mirrored strength.
Reno and Elena are waiting for them at a dive bar in Edge's fourth district, no doubt drinking beer and complaining without real malice about how long it's taking, even though it is done as fast as anyone could expect. From there they will go on to the ruins of the Tower, and onward -- but that which required the most careful timing has already been dealt with. Rude absently trails his hand along the wall of the building, wiping away a smudge of blood, then tugs at the wrists of his gloves, tightening them. Tseng decides that Reno and Elena can stand to wait a bit longer.
Rude pulls open the front passenger's-side door of the car, but Tseng does not go for the driver's door and Rude pauses, giving him a look that reflects Tseng back at himself in the dark reflection of his sunglasses. "Are you in that much of a hurry?" Tseng asks. It is a coded question; if Rude points out that Reno and Elena are waiting, or that they need to retrieve the files before their day is over, then that will be that.
"No," Rude says, and pushes the door shut.
The back of the car is spacious, the seats leather -- not because Shinra cares so much for their comfort as much as because it is impressive. So much of what they do is about being impressive. Tseng is sure that had he felt the need to double-check Rude's work on the saboteur in the apartment, he would find it impressive. Despite the ulterior motives, Tseng enjoys the comfort of it, if only because so much of his life is spent in cars like this.
Rude is good at noticing details, and choosing precisely the right moment to move. He gets a hand between Tseng's shoulders and pushes him -- not painfully, but not gently -- down to the backseat. Tseng braces his palms against the leather and is grateful that Rude understands this need.
Still, Rude pauses as he pulls the door closed, and says, "You want...."
"You to fuck me," Tseng says. His voice is quite steady. "Yes."
"Good," Rude says, and Tseng thinks that he is not bad at noticing things, either: least of all how Rude feels after a fight.
He loosens his own belt, but when Rude begins to take off his gloves, Tseng says, "Leave them on." When he looks back he sees that Rude has taken off his omnipresent sunglasses; but that's all right.
Rude shrugs, a slow roll of his shoulders, and says, "If you like. Take your hair down." Tseng obliges.
Tseng does not keep lubricant on his person, but he does keep it in his car. Compromises.
For something half-clothed and in the back seat of a company car, it is not frantic. It is never frantic with Rude; hard, yes, but slow, and smooth like the good whiskey that is Rude's preferred drink. Exactly so. Something he needs, now and again. Like Rude's whiskey: something strong enough to take his breath away.
Rude's gloved hand curls in his hair and pulls his head back, not yanking but unrelenting, and Tseng lets him; lets himself be drawn back, not quite moaning but breathing hard, until Rude's cock is pressed against him and his breath catches.
Rude pushes forward, smooth but unrelenting, without asking how Tseng is doing but without any cruelty; and it is exactly what Tseng needs, and then he does moan, and press the palms of his hands against the leather of the backseat so that he can push back. Rude's weight settles across his back, pushing him down, lean heavy muscle that flexes with each thrust that comes not fast but deep and steady.
Rude's hand tightens in his hair, not pulling but holding him still -- and it is the physicality of it that does him, the simple skin-on-skin, where that contact is not hindered by clothes, but also it is the way that Rude knows, understands the way the job sublimates the lone-wolf impulse, knows how to reassert it even like this, especially like this.
The tension coils, sleek muscle and sweat and breath, and Rude hard and steady within him, and the strong smell of leather and the faint smell of blood on Rude's gloves -- Rude's gloves as he reaches down and grips Tseng and strokes him hard, and the touch of leather is almost enough, so that it takes only a few strokes and then Tseng is moaning as he comes.
He makes no protest when Rude keeps going, hands on his hips holding him steady and fucking him through his orgasm and past, and Tseng is still breathless with it -- just as he desired -- when Rude makes a low noise, almost a purr, and comes himself.
They straighten themselves again swiftly; take a moment longer to clean up the car -- neither of them wish to answer awkward questions. Rude says, "Reno and Elena."
They are by now surely in fine form, complaining about the lateness of their partners in no uncertain terms. Perhaps later Elena will express her frustration in person. Tseng smiles. "Indeed. I believe we are ready to go, now."
The Right Moment to Move
They each have their specialties.
FFVII, Rude/Tseng. 1100 words.
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for sex, implied violence.
They each have their specialties. Reno is the livewire, the flexible and unpredictable one -- not only in combat but in all things, so that he is most often put on tricky missions, missions where conventional means have failed, because his unusual tactics often can suit Shinra's ends better than display of force. Elena is most comfortable with a gun in her hand, or a grenade; she is fierce and uncompromising in a way that often surprises those who judge by her appearance; she also has a less-well-advertised talent for cracking security systems or hacking in where she doesn't belong. Tseng himself is tactician, analyst, assassin.
Rude is their bruiser, and even within the company many people think it stops there.
They are wrong, of course. No one becomes a Turk just because they're good at roughing people up. The other things that Rude is good at are noticing important details, and choosing precisely the right moment to move.
Like now. Rude comes out of the building flexing his fingers in his gloves, as he always does after a fight. Tseng raises an eyebrow in silent question and Rude nods, and that's all he needs to know. It means Rude has taken care of the matter, as he does: brutal, silent, efficient. Usually that silent efficiency is best paired with Reno's half-crazy edginess -- they complement each other, just as do he and Elena, for similar (though not quite identical) reasons. But for situations that must be dealt with swiftly and discreetly, Tseng partners with Rude, harnesses his icy mirrored strength.
Reno and Elena are waiting for them at a dive bar in Edge's fourth district, no doubt drinking beer and complaining without real malice about how long it's taking, even though it is done as fast as anyone could expect. From there they will go on to the ruins of the Tower, and onward -- but that which required the most careful timing has already been dealt with. Rude absently trails his hand along the wall of the building, wiping away a smudge of blood, then tugs at the wrists of his gloves, tightening them. Tseng decides that Reno and Elena can stand to wait a bit longer.
Rude pulls open the front passenger's-side door of the car, but Tseng does not go for the driver's door and Rude pauses, giving him a look that reflects Tseng back at himself in the dark reflection of his sunglasses. "Are you in that much of a hurry?" Tseng asks. It is a coded question; if Rude points out that Reno and Elena are waiting, or that they need to retrieve the files before their day is over, then that will be that.
"No," Rude says, and pushes the door shut.
The back of the car is spacious, the seats leather -- not because Shinra cares so much for their comfort as much as because it is impressive. So much of what they do is about being impressive. Tseng is sure that had he felt the need to double-check Rude's work on the saboteur in the apartment, he would find it impressive. Despite the ulterior motives, Tseng enjoys the comfort of it, if only because so much of his life is spent in cars like this.
Rude is good at noticing details, and choosing precisely the right moment to move. He gets a hand between Tseng's shoulders and pushes him -- not painfully, but not gently -- down to the backseat. Tseng braces his palms against the leather and is grateful that Rude understands this need.
Still, Rude pauses as he pulls the door closed, and says, "You want...."
"You to fuck me," Tseng says. His voice is quite steady. "Yes."
"Good," Rude says, and Tseng thinks that he is not bad at noticing things, either: least of all how Rude feels after a fight.
He loosens his own belt, but when Rude begins to take off his gloves, Tseng says, "Leave them on." When he looks back he sees that Rude has taken off his omnipresent sunglasses; but that's all right.
Rude shrugs, a slow roll of his shoulders, and says, "If you like. Take your hair down." Tseng obliges.
Tseng does not keep lubricant on his person, but he does keep it in his car. Compromises.
For something half-clothed and in the back seat of a company car, it is not frantic. It is never frantic with Rude; hard, yes, but slow, and smooth like the good whiskey that is Rude's preferred drink. Exactly so. Something he needs, now and again. Like Rude's whiskey: something strong enough to take his breath away.
Rude's gloved hand curls in his hair and pulls his head back, not yanking but unrelenting, and Tseng lets him; lets himself be drawn back, not quite moaning but breathing hard, until Rude's cock is pressed against him and his breath catches.
Rude pushes forward, smooth but unrelenting, without asking how Tseng is doing but without any cruelty; and it is exactly what Tseng needs, and then he does moan, and press the palms of his hands against the leather of the backseat so that he can push back. Rude's weight settles across his back, pushing him down, lean heavy muscle that flexes with each thrust that comes not fast but deep and steady.
Rude's hand tightens in his hair, not pulling but holding him still -- and it is the physicality of it that does him, the simple skin-on-skin, where that contact is not hindered by clothes, but also it is the way that Rude knows, understands the way the job sublimates the lone-wolf impulse, knows how to reassert it even like this, especially like this.
The tension coils, sleek muscle and sweat and breath, and Rude hard and steady within him, and the strong smell of leather and the faint smell of blood on Rude's gloves -- Rude's gloves as he reaches down and grips Tseng and strokes him hard, and the touch of leather is almost enough, so that it takes only a few strokes and then Tseng is moaning as he comes.
He makes no protest when Rude keeps going, hands on his hips holding him steady and fucking him through his orgasm and past, and Tseng is still breathless with it -- just as he desired -- when Rude makes a low noise, almost a purr, and comes himself.
They straighten themselves again swiftly; take a moment longer to clean up the car -- neither of them wish to answer awkward questions. Rude says, "Reno and Elena."
They are by now surely in fine form, complaining about the lateness of their partners in no uncertain terms. Perhaps later Elena will express her frustration in person. Tseng smiles. "Indeed. I believe we are ready to go, now."