Someday, Rufus is going to be the boss.
Right now, though, that's not the case. Old Man Shinra is still kicked back behind the President's desk - and if he knew what orders Tseng was giving his son, the Turk wouldn't just be given walking papers; he'd be taking a walk right off the roof. At gunpoint.
But right now, he's still holding the gun. The barrel rides along Rufus' throat in a way that's not quite parallel and not quite perpendicular, and every so often, it butts against the boy's chin.
Boy, hell. Rufus hasn't been a boy in years. He'll always be a boy to Tseng, though - boytoy, fucktoy; something to ride like a bitch. Tseng considers it part of his education - and that's what he'd been hired for, right? Education. Protection.
Sometimes he wonders if he shouldn't be using the latter. There'd been a time when he could be sure there was no one else up the kid's ass, but these days? Rufus is a punk - running the streets of Midgar, picking up whores and dropping in on the dirtiest brothels the city has to offer. Tseng has seen it himself, when he's playing backup in the shadows - and when it's someone else on the brat's tail, the reports fall across his desk anyway.
"So this is how you like it, huh?" Tseng mutters, a hand between Rufus' cheeks. There's just enough lube on his fingers that he'll get in with one good shove, and just enough not there to make it hurt. "Dirty and rough?" He positions the head of his cock and moves his hand out of the way. A roll of his hips drives the rod forward, and Rufus takes it with little more than a teeth-gritted grunt. Yeah, the kid's been fucking around.
"There's the pot telling the kettle it's got a shitty cock," the blond prince retorts. His fingers curl on the floor, trying to grip a carpet that's barely there. Tseng moves the gun just far enough away that when it swings back in, it strikes Rufus' jaw with enough force to leave him reeling. Normally, he wouldn't be so careless. Normally, he wouldn't take the chance of leaving a mark that might lead back to him - but tonight, tonight it's just one more bruise amidst the pride-badges of Rufus' latest brawl.
"How many times I gotta tell you, don't talk back to your elders?" He says it knowing it's just a game, all for show. Rufus has never listened, and Tseng doesn't expect him to start now. Rather than waste breath trying, he'll give the brat something else to think about. Fingers clench on hip and push forward even as he's pulling back, withdrawing all but the head of his cock from Rufus' ass. The spongy bulge is left just past the rim of that stretched-tight hole, the better to make its presence known. He rocks, shifting it subtly, and Rufus groans and rolls. "You think you're special, don't you?" the Turk continues. "Heir to the empire, prince of legal thieves? You can do whatever you want, and no one'll touch you for it. Well, let me tell you boy -" He crouches low over Rufus' arching back, so that his chest rides along the blond man's spine, and slams his hips into the upthrust cheeks. "You bleed red like everyone else."
Rufus growls, his knuckles white, and pushes back against his rapist. Tseng seizes his hair, gunmetal riding the nape of his neck, and forces his head to the floor. The hand that's on Rufus' hip pulls away and comes back hard. Beneath its palm, the flesh reddens.
"Late to send invitations when the party's already crashed." The words might be smooth but Tseng's voice isn't. A panted rasp taints it, evidence of the lust growing with every moment of control taken and control about to be lost. He bears down on the gun, keeping Rufus' face shoved to the floor. What's a little carpet burn between a fat lip and a busted nose? His hips rise and roll, twist and angle, alternating between jab and plunge and full-on impalement. His cock burns and he can only hope that Rufus' ass is doing the same. Where his nails dig into the cheek, skin splits and blood wells up to leave his fingers stained. He grits his teeth and breathes a hiss past Rufus' ear. Rufus' hole is like a cock ring, keeping him hard even when he's ready to blow, and the frustration of being countered in even so small and unconscious a fashion drives him to a ferocity he rarely lets go unchecked.
Rufus gasps and goes tense, and Tseng knows without looking that there's going to be a new stain on the floor. Yeah, he'd thought this would get the little shit off. Now if he could just do the same. He can barely breathe by now, so swift and shallow are the draughts, and his heart hammers in his chest. His hair hangs in his face and as a bead of sweat rolls past his eye, its wets the strands so that they stick to his skin.
When his seed erupts, it spurts in great gouts that bring a twitch of his cock every time. Even after the flow trickles off, he remains lodged firmly in Rufus' ass, unwilling to get up lest his legs give out and destroy the image he's been cultivating for the past hour. Eventually, he'll have to, but not without another thrust of Rufus' face to the floor.
"Remember that the next time you go lookin' for trouble," he says coldly as he turns to gather his clothes. Behind him, Rufus lies panting and shaking, white oozing down his legs and red staining his coat.
Author's Notes: Written for Porn Battle Round Ten @ IJ. The prompt was Final Fantasy VII, Tseng/Rufus, bloody.