Chapter Text
“I want to sit on your cock,” Sephiroth tells Vincent, with his cheek pressed against the other man’s thigh and Vincent’s long fingers drawing slowly down the curve of his scalp. “I want to sit there till you’re done with your call.”
Vincent’s voice smiles down on him. “Is that all?” he asks.
Sephiroth should think before he answers, but…he doesn’t want that. That’s what he doesn’t ask for, but at this point he doesn’t need to make such thoughts obvious with Vincent. He only nods against the man’s leg, and uncurls his hands so his palms are flat against his thighs. Vincent’s fingertips trail out of his hair and across the back of his neck, then clamp down over that; he arches his shoulders instinctively, then drops them as he exhales roughly and tilts his head back to look up.
“Spread,” Vincent says.
His knees jerk apart, and then his hands slide off his thighs to either side as Vincent steps away, removing the supportive leg so that he tips forward. He lets the change in balance carry him over onto his forearms, resting evenly on them as Vincent moves around him. Fingers brush at his hip and he cants his buttocks up in anticipation—but Vincent only gathers up his hair, combing it together into a long tail that’s threaded through a thick rubber tube, long enough to roll against the whole length of his neck.
Vincent tugs him back to upright on his heels by it, then reaches around to press something against his parted lips. He opens them further and a rigid plastic mouthguard is fitted over his teeth; he uses them occasionally in non-weapon sparring. It’s a little strange to feel it in his mouth now, with its associations of training schedules and evaluations and all the things he normally avoids when—a band of black latex tightens over his mouth and cheeks, its snug tension cutting through his thoughts like a heated knife in butter, leaving them melted into nothingness.
A matching posture collar is next, latex over something lighter and thinner than steel but just as unforgivingly rigid. And it’s a little molded, so even though the latex offers less cushioning than leather would, the collar still seems to grip up Sephiroth’s chin rather than to close under it. These days Sephiroth has more than half a suspicion that Vincent has infiltrated parts of R&D, and how Sephiroth’s mother hasn’t noticed enough to come complain about it—
His arms are jerked back none-too-gently, though once they’re behind him, Vincent’s hold loosens and the man strokes them rather than forces them into bending. Even so, the sharp movement has done its work, shaking Sephiroth out of the unwelcome work thoughts. His eyes fall half-closed, head sinking against the posture collar as much as it allows, tension running out of him like water draining from a sieve as Vincent slowly replaces it with snug restraints.
A leather chest harness, framing out his pectorals when his arms are twisted up against his spine in the reverse-prayer position. The arm binder that laces to its back-strap, clutching him from elbow to wrist. Broad leather bands that encircle each of his folded legs, keeping him on his knees as Vincent walks around to stand before him. He moans into his gag, rocking forward, when Vincent stoops and runs one hand along the front straps of the harness. Teasing at the muscles pressing up against them, touch light just before metal bites into each of his nipples.
Vincent tugs at the leash attached to the clamps. At first he’s holding it high over Sephiroth’s head, the direction of the pull as much up as forward, and Sephiroth arches his back against his bound arms, head tipping back so the edge of the collar digs into his scalp. But then Vincent wraps the leash around his wrist, one round at a time, with a ruthless upwards jerk at it for each. When he has only a foot left, Sephiroth is whining and twisting in place, cock fully hard and slapping lightly against his belly as wave after wave of fire lances down from his nipples.
He moves to the side, holding the leash straight out in front of Sephiroth so there isn’t a particle of slack. The posture collar doesn’t allow Sephiroth to turn and track him, but the graze of oiled fingers along the inner curve of Sephiroth’s buttock is sufficient to make him hiss around the plastic in his mouth. The clamps pull viciously at his nipples, making him squirm back into the fingers now probing deeply into him. The mattress they’re on ripples back and forth, sometimes sharply enough to make the clamps flick up, sending a slap of agony up with the motion and flat into Sephiroth’s throat and face so he gasps around his gag. He can feel the latex swell up over his lips as it flattens his noises.
“Come,” Vincent says, very softly.
It’s a fleeting thing, the word, just skating the edge of the whirlpool of pain and arousal that has Sephiroth in its grip. But it’s still enough to reach into him, to take him and bend him and have him spilling himself out over the bed, cock untouched and hole unceremoniously empty, as Vincent withdraws. Only the bite of his bonds reaches over him, digging in across his chest and back, around his thighs and close about his throat as he slowly shudders into a dazed aftermath.
He's barely aware of the world beyond him, of a rough, coarse touch against his still-recovering cock and then the deceptively soothing coolness of metal rings tightening over him. The edges of the towel Vincent’s just used to wipe him off tickle the insides of his thighs, drawing a surprisingly forceful start from him. And then his abused nipples ache afresh as the leash swings unhindered from them, as he’s pulled backward by the hips.
Pushed onto a cock. He knows this, takes comfort in the physical familiarity of it—he doesn’t have to think to accept it into him, to let himself reshape around its pressure. Which shifts slightly, critically, as he’s tilted by the shoulders, the angle of pressure now flowing up along his spine to balance out when it meets the backwards tug of the harness straps over his chest.
“Close your eyes,” Vincent says, dropping his mouth against Sephiroth’s shoulder. He holds both of them with his cupped hands, thumbs stroking gently along the clavicle as Sephiroth shivers and obeys.
The hands lift from Sephiroth’s shoulders, and something stretches over his eyes—his face, more of the latex draping down over his cheeks and spreading back across his forehead. Over his mouth and jaw as well, sticking a little there to the band already sealing off his mouth before Vincent tugs at it. Some sort of mask, with a hole for his nostrils and holes for his ears, but otherwise smooth and taut, smooth taut even pressure all over his face and head once Vincent’s fastened the back, done the strap that loops under his bound hair. Vincent passes his fingers along Sephiroth’s cheekbones afterward, letting the hood transmit the flex all over Sephiroth’s head, latex deadening the warmth of the touch but intensifying the pressure of it at the same time.
Something wet, burning hot wet, grazes against Sephiroth’s ear and he jumps. Jumps and clenches about Vincent’s cock, clenches at it for support as his body sways roughly at the jolting of his clamped nipples, the clutch of the cage on his cock, the tensioned snugness of his bound arms and chest and legs. And the way that the hood and posture collar seem to lift his mind away from all of that, from his struggling trapped body, awash with violent sensations that simply…dissolve, in the close black world he floats in.
All but for when Vincent speaks to him, because his ears are still free. Free, but helpless, a shocking reminder of the perfectly bound state the rest of him is subject to. “You’re on my cock now,” Vincent murmurs, lips working along the scrolling inner shell. “On my cock, keeping it warm.”
Vincent’s hands caress over his shoulders again, then slowly drag down over his pectorals. They flirt with his nipples till he’s whimpering, twisting on the man’s cock every time a clamp is allowed to tug back into place.
“Not a general. You don’t have to worry about being a general,” Vincent tells him. “The only duty you have is to keep my cock warm.”
Then the hands fall away. Vincent shifts back and Sephiroth moans and trembles on his lap, but it doesn’t give the man a moment’s pause. He’s retrieving something from the side, and then manipulating it behind Sephiroth—he only stops to take Sephiroth’s hair and sling it over one shoulder, letting it tangle with the leash, the weight of it dragging with exquisite pain against the nipple on that side—and then he takes his first call.
His arm comes to drape around Sephiroth’s waist as the call progresses, its fingers idly tracing over Sephiroth’s right thigh. Then he switches to his other arm, skating his claws up Sephiroth’s leg and then cupping Sephiroth’s balls with them, occasionally letting a point prick between the rings binding Sephiroth’s cock as Sephiroth squirms. Sephiroth isn’t trying to hold back his whining, but the triple layer of gagging seems to muffle him sufficiently, since Vincent never even bothers to give an excuse for any unusual noises.
Or perhaps he doesn’t care, and whoever he’s talking to can hear every second of him toying with Sephiroth. “Yes, a coffee break,” Vincent says just then, and then his mouth is suddenly fixed to Sephiroth’s shoulder.
He sucks the flesh up against his teeth till, blind as Sephiroth is, he can tell he’s bruising in the shape of the man’s fangs. Vincent rolls Sephiroth’s scrotum against his palm, the back of one claw pushing threateningly up against Sephiroth’s perineum, and then cranes around to nibble with head-spinning delicacy at Sephiroth’s earlobe. He must be on an earpiece, he hadn’t even stopped to put his phone down.
“Cockwarmer,” Vincent says as his tongue coils lovingly in the shell of Sephiroth’s ear, like a snake nestling down in its burrow. “Nothing to speak about to others. Only something to entertain me in between these calls.”
His hands rise to Sephiroth’s nipples and release the clamps. Sephiroth arches as far as he can, till he can feel the leather straps straining about him—but they hold. He’s held fast, spitted on Vincent’s cock; Vincent reaches around and loosely closes his hand about the front of Sephiroth’s throat over the collar, and then pulls Sephiroth back against him as the call restarts.
Most of the call seems to be conducted by others, because Vincent spends it lavishing attention on Sephiroth’s fingers. He licks at each till he’s coaxed them out of their aching grip on Sephiroth’s hair, then sucks them until they feel soft as wet rags, all the resistance leached out of them. And he plays with Sephiroth’s nipples, rubbing at them till they almost seem free of pain, only to give them a sharp twist that redoubles it.
When he does have to speak, his hands drop to Sephiroth’s hips. Sometimes his left only goes as far as Sephiroth’s belly, its claws riding carelessly over Sephiroth’s twitching abdominals. Then it’ll slip lower, wrapping over the cock cage so the warmth of his hand lures the flesh into trying to swell up against its prison. Sephiroth groans in his hood, behind his gag, shuddering at the man’s pleasure.
“Such a pretty decoration for my cock,” comes Vincent’s voice again. He catches his teeth against the curl of Sephiroth’s ear as Sephiroth startles, then presses the heels of his hands into Sephiroth’s thighs and drags them slowly up towards the groin. “You want to come again, don’t you?”
Sephiroth is tired now, but he can’t help bucking weakly at ‘come.’ Vincent’s hands catch him and press him back down, even as the man starts to rock at his back and pull lightning through him with each slide across his prostate. Then one hand shifts over and Sephiroth throws his head back against his collar, mouthpiece grinding against the roof of his mouth, as he feels the cage loosening.
“Come,” Vincent says, and Sephiroth is spasming before the cage is even fully open.
Vincent lets that shake off on its own, falling against Sephiroth’s left thigh and then away as he fucks up into Sephiroth. He comes himself, mouth dropping to pant against Sephiroth’s shoulder. His hands tighten on Sephiroth’s thighs, then loosen after a minute; a minute more and his head is lifting.
He frees Sephiroth’s arms and legs, then takes the hood and collar off. Once the gag is away and Sephiroth’s spit the mouthpiece into Vincent’s hand, he uses the last of his energy to crane about and lip at the man’s cheek. Vincent pauses, then turns from where he’d been reaching for a bottle of water and kisses Sephiroth, who can’t lift his head but who hungrily reciprocates.
“I like the hood. It’s…quieting,” Sephiroth rasps once they’ve settled against each other.
Vincent pauses again, then presses his mouth to the bridge of Sephiroth’s nose. “You’d like it again, in that case. Only for longer, with more.”
“You like mixing me with your work calls, and you have as many as I do these days,” Sephiroth points out. When Vincent snorts, he musters up enough energy to nuzzle at the man’s jaw. “You like having a Shinra general warming your cock while you put up with their bureaucracy."
“It’s certainly a better benefit than I’ve been offered elsewhere,” Vincent agrees. His hands curl around Sephiroth’s hips. “Off.”
Sephiroth grimaces, already feeling the hollow ache inside, and Vincent leans over to kiss him again.
“I’ll sit you back on me after a shower and a meal,” Vincent promises, and then laughs at Sephiroth’s look. “Not another call. I have no more calls, only your insatiable appetite. Off, and if you’re cooperative, I’ll put the hood back on too.”
That is sufficient incentive, and as much as it makes Sephiroth’s limbs shake, he raises himself.
And Vincent does keep his promise. After dinner, they settle back in the bedroom, Vincent with his tablet in hand and leaning against the headboard, with Sephiroth laying against his chest and astride his cock. Legs bound thigh to calf, forearms folded together along his breastbone now and strapped in place, cock cage paired with the hollow sound so that he slowly beads precome from the tip as Vincent lazily caresses Sephiroth with his free hand. And the hood, smoothed over a strip of tape sealing his mouth and a latex strip wound around his eyes.
“Sleep like this,” Vincent whispers in his ear. “Such a good, docile little cockwarmer—sleep like this, because you have nothing to do till I feel like fucking you again.”
Sephiroth shivers, stretching his head back over Vincent’s shoulder. He shivers, and listens, and then he obeys.
* * *
Sephiroth has no idea how Vincent got the new toy through security. Sometimes he thinks he should be more concerned about matters like that, but it’s difficult to see anyone else accomplishing the same feats. He is admittedly biased, of course.
And distracted, work affairs immediately receding from his mind as he stares at the new collar. It’s a posture collar, the curve of black leather beautifully functional, topping a long, shining steel rod that trails black leather straps on either side. At the other end is a simple anal hook, tipped with a small, slightly ovoid ball but otherwise a single clean line, clearly designed to keep him open without satisfactorily filling him.
“Give me your coat,” Vincent says. “Then strip.”
Sephiroth slips it off and hands it over, then obeys. His hair’s already tied back so he turns and puts his hands on the desk, palms flat on either side of the tablet that flicks incessantly with incoming messages. He sees them but their meaning is utterly gone; they’re merely interesting flashes of movement he sees as Vincent fits him with the toy.
Slipping the hook in first, so slim that Vincent only oils it and doesn’t stretch him before. The toy does that, pulling gently at his hole at first, as Vincent lifts his chin and closes the collar about his throat. He swallows against its snugness and the hook presses slightly upward, catching his breath.
“Not yet,” Vincent says as his feet start to shift apart. “I haven’t told you to.”
Sephiroth moans a little, but settles back in place. He leans on his palms as Vincent aligns the rod with his spine, cool but rigid between his shoulders and at the base of his spine. Then laces the attached harness over his back and chest, straps tensioning around his shoulderblades and pectorals, forcing them out as he’s made to straighten. As if he’s at inspection in the barracks, he thinks, and moans quietly again, leather tightening about his ribcage and over his triceps.
His hands are lifted from the desk one at a time, and then his arms are folded behind him. The upper parts are pinioned to his sides with more straps, while the lower arms are tucked along the rod, made to cross just where the anal hook begins. Tight cuffs hold his wrists in place, too broad for him to bend his fingers around and free anything, even to try and slide them under the hook and relieve some of the growing pressure it’s putting on him inside. When he breathes, it transmits through the harness and down the rod to the tip of the hook, canting it against his prostate so that his knees weaken.
So little movement, yet it immobilizes him so easily. He breathes more shallowly, but then gasps, all his care forgotten as Vincent hauls him back against the other man. Hands wrapped over the tops of his shoulders, wicked mouth hot against his ear, body flush against his own as he squirms and hitches, the hook riding inside of him, catching him every time he twists and rendering any attempt to avoid it futile.
Which is the point, he realizes, even before Vincent rumbles in pleasure and slides his hands slowly down Sephiroth’s body in a possessive, confident caress. “Don’t struggle,” he’s told, as his hips are gripped and he’s made to rub himself back against the man’s growing erection. “Take it. Take it.”
A jagged whimper leaves him, and if he wasn’t wearing the collar, his head would droop. But Vincent knows the signs of his surrender well enough without that, and chuckles again. Presses a kiss to his temple before pulling him away from the desk and steering him to his chair. He’s seated on it, ramrod straight, staring up at Vincent as the man takes his nipples in hand and tortures them to aching tenderness. They feel as if they’re red as hot coals; he can’t glance down to look for himself but he can see that burning color in the backs of his eyes when he closes them.
Vincent taps the side of his jaw and he opens his eyes. Then twists, unconsciously at first and then with growing helpless need as the hook in him digs and nudges, as Vincent lifts a short whip. “Spread,” Vincent says. “And stay spread.”
Sephiroth heaves air into his lungs that feels weighty as concrete. The harness strains against his breathing and drags the rod against his back, till it’s more of a punishment than a support with how it bruises the top and bottom parts of his spine, leaves the middle aching as it flexes between the two.
He spreads his knees. His inner thighs are offered up. The whip dips down and tickles at them, whispering over their quivering muscle, and then flicks back, looking deceptively delicate. But the bite of it is no such thing, flashing heat all over him, making him arch violently against his posture collar and rod. The hook jitters inside of him, spreading merciless pleasure in opposition to the pain, mixing the two until he’s giddy and panting, unable to do anything but stretch himself open for the blows.
Vincent paints him with welts from knee to thigh crease on either side, just enough space in between for the room’s cool air to tease the unmarked areas with illusory relief. Then Vincent drops the whip and turns to the desk. After taking up Sephiroth’s coat, he shakes it out and then drapes it across Sephiroth’s shoulders, fastidiously pulling it straight. “You look like a general,” Vincent says, smiling, his fingers sliding under the coat to trace softly along the harness straps. “But we both know better.”
“Please,” Sephiroth breathes, and then whines as his nipples are pinched.
“I’m going to suck your cock now,” Vincent goes on. He lets go of Sephiroth to brush his own coat back, ensuring he won’t press it to the floor with his knees as he lowers himself. “You will come, as many times as you need to. I want you dry before I cage you.”
Sephiroth’s hips jerk on the seat. He shudders, all his arousal bound about the tip of the hook in him now, hanging just out of reach—it seems, until the heat of Vincent’s mouth surrounds his cock. Then he does come. Obediently, easily, one climax after another drawn to life by Vincent’s lips and tongue as if it’s simply opening a door for the man, when for Sephiroth they feel as if they’re ravaging every inch of him. Dressed like a general, yes, but under his coat he’s soaked with sweat, rivulets of it gathering along the straps tightly crossed about him. Tied in place, legs spread needily, his hole clenching against the very hook that is keeping it forced open like a second hungry mouth.
Vincent’s a little kinder after he’s worked Sephiroth dry, letting Sephiroth rest a cheek against his front as he picks up the cock cage. He coats the matching sound in a thick layer of lubricant so it spreads welcome cool wetness down the inside of Sephiroth’s sore, parched prick, and when he’s done, he lets his fingers trail teasingly along Sephiroth’s welted thighs. Then wraps them firmly over Sephiroth’s cock, in between the cage’s rings, squeezing it till Sephiroth shivers and cries out against his belly.
“Keep your mouth open,” Vincent says.
His hand curls under Sephiroth’s jaw, urging Sephiroth to tilt upright again. An uneven gasp dribbles out of Sephiroth as the hook shifts about in him, making it easy for him to follow the instruction. Vincent’s thumb strokes approvingly along his jaw as the other man picks up something from the desk. A black leather hood.
“This one lets you keep your mouth open,” Vincent says, turning it over in his hands. “But you won’t be able to see, and I’m going to plug your ears so you can’t hear either. So I’ll tell you now—you’ll be on your knees, with my cock in your mouth, and you’ll hold. You’ll hold until you hear otherwise. Understand?”
Sephiroth looks at the hood and feels a slow, irresistible wash of peace press through him, even as his lungs burn and his body aches. “Yes, Vincent.”
Who smiles. “Good,” he says.
There’s a separate blindfold, thin black leather so soft it smooths about Sephiroth’s eyes like warmed butter. Then the gel plugs, fitting into Sephiroth’s ears like kisses. The hood goes over both, pulling taut under Sephiroth’s jaw as he lifts it slightly off the collar. Then tightening gradually at the back as Vincent tugs at its lacing; the way it stretches over Sephiroth doesn’t feel like tension so much as a lascivious caress.
Sephiroth is guided out of the chair and down onto his knees. A hand wraps around his left ankle, another curves over the knee, and his leg is moved a couple inches over, widening his stance. Cuffs are locked over both ankles, with a rod between them that grazes icy kisses against his buttocks when he’s pushed back by the shoulders. He feels Vincent’s fingers tighten briefly, then draw lazily away, drifting across his chest. Then twin bites at his nipples, making him gasp; the slap of cold air through his mouth heightens the way the rest of his face and head feels warmly clasped by the hood.
Then he’s given a cock. He swallows once to acclimate his mouth and throat to its shape but remembers what he’s been told, and simply holds it. Until he hears otherwise, he has nothing else to do.
* * *
It’s night, or it was night when Sephiroth was hooded. He doesn’t know whether it still is or not, and it doesn’t particularly matter.
He’s kneeling on their bed. Dressed up like a living toy, he saw that much in the bathroom mirror before Vincent closed his eyes. Smooth black latex stockings seal in his legs up to the mid-thigh, where they’re gripped by the same thick cuffs that hold his thighs to his calves. Matching gloves run from the middle of his upper arms down to close his hands in tight mitts that are folded over his elbows. Strapped there, as his forearms are strapped across the center of his back. Silicone sleeves keep his cock and balls stretched limply between his knees. His ears are stuffed with molded silicone, and under the latex hood, additional bands wrap over his eyes and lips; a mouthpiece keeps his teeth slightly apart as he groans around it, hood rippling with it as Vincent bends him backward over a pillow.
Nothing holds him back, just as nothing holds his knees apart. Only the push of hands across his chest, a downwards push and a brief hold before they lift. Mere touches but they order him in place and he holds where they tell him to. Folded back and arched up, the drift of the A/C feeling as real and firm as fingers in the utter darkness. He doesn’t feel it where the latex covers but he feels the flex and stretch of the latex itself as he twists sluggishly, like a wistful echo. It makes the exposed parts of his body feel that much more opened, made that much more available to the unknown.
There’s a firmer, intentional touch. Too broad for a wandering fingertip, dropping in shifting loops over the right side of his chest and then working sinuously in a diagonal across his belly. Fur teases across his nipple and when he inhales, he feels the way the air sleeks past the latex under his nose. He writhes up into the caress of Vincent’s tail, moaning deeply as it seems ready to wind itself about his throat—but then retreats, dropping with disorienting speed down his torso and then curling about his aching cock and balls, tip flicking a delicate, maddening tease along his perineum.
At the same time Vincent’s mouth fixes on his shoulder. He’s bitten along the top of it, a straight stinging line, as hands scratch and knead electric sparks up the sensitive insides of his thighs. Vincent’s tail ventures further, and when its tip brushes up against Sephiroth’s hole, Sephiroth rubs his hips down into the pillow without much hope of satisfaction.
So he’s caught off-guard, whining, when the tail immediately pushes into him. Fucked and filled, twisting against the hands now gripping his buttocks while Vincent presses menacingly soft kisses to his nipples. They’re expecting abuse, stiffening themselves against it, only to be lured back to tenderness by the man’s lips and tongue.
Something like Vincent’s tail whispers across Sephiroth’s left ribs, then slides back up to circle over his left pectoral. Vincent’s nursing his right nipple, keeping it distracted as whatever it is draws closer and closer to his left, and then twists over to drag a stiff, rough edge against the suddenly-tight nub. Sephiroth jerks and the riding crop taps him high on the shoulder.
Barely a bite to it, but then Vincent’s mouth leaves. Sephiroth can’t hear the slice of the crop through the air, not in the close blindness of the hood, but the latex is thin enough to let him sense the change in air above him as Vincent shifts. He tenses up, but the blow—he can’t hold against it forever, and when it doesn’t come, the breath starts to leak out of him—
It comes. On the other side, slashing the air out of him as much in surprise as with the rough burn of it. And then back on the expected side, while he’s still feeling the spreading pain of the first against his hip. He’s struck on the pectorals, spiraling up to peaked, defenseless nipples—and then, as he’s whimpering in anticipation, Vincent switches to his inner thighs. Sephiroth hikes himself against the pillow, rolling about the tail still tucked inside of him, trying to displace some of the burning. When he moves too far, Vincent does strike his nipples.
The agony of it sends him slumping back against the pillow. Legs falling helplessly apart, eyes rolling back under the hood and blindfold, shocked out of it straight into the deep night. Floating there, waiting, until patient, insistent lips and fingers stroke and suck him back into his body, dragging him into its heaving, aching struggle as Vincent strips the sheath off his cock and finally permits him to come.
“I enjoyed it,” Sephiroth murmurs later. Head resting on Vincent’s shoulder, hands laying across Vincent’s belly where they’d flopped as he’d curled against the other man, eyes closed against the softly persistent drift of Vincent’s fingertips running over the still-fresh bruising of his left inner thigh. “You could see for yourself.”
“Yes, I can,” Vincent says, but there’s something unsatisfied about his tone. Not an accusation, nothing that sharp to it, but like his touches, it isn’t easily brushed aside. “You heard me?”
Sephiroth raises his head. Lets it loll a little, as Vincent strokes his thigh, but he sees the way that the man is considering him and it’s not the usual post-coital appreciation. Or it is, but again, there’s that additional intentness. “When?”
“Before the crop hit you,” Vincent says. He reaches over with his free hand and pulls a lock of Sephiroth’s hair out from between them, just as Sephiroth’s weight was starting to drag at it. Then smiles without stopping his studying of Sephiroth as Sephiroth shifts further onto him. “You tensed.”
This is not something Sephiroth immediately remembers, although he does once he concentrates. He doesn’t remember it being more than a moment, and certainly didn’t find it to be an interruption. “Oh. Not in distaste, obviously.”
“No, but that wasn’t what I was looking for out of you,” Vincent says. His gaze continues to be observant without assigning blame, and his hand comes up to curl along the collar Sephiroth’s wearing. “Latex is too thin—leather probably is better, for what I’m thinking of with Tseng.”
“I’ve enjoyed the latex ones,” Sephiroth says after a moment. Then he tilts his head back, letting Vincent’s finger trace along the collar and then run up his throat to hook over his lower lip. “But you’re probably right. Air pressure changes. Those still come through.”
“Nothing should come through, except what I plan to,” Vincent says. He pauses for a moment, the intentness fading somewhat as Sephiroth lazily sucks at his finger. “That’s what you want out of this.”
“Yes, and you know how to find it for me,” Sephiroth breathes, before he pulls the whole finger into his mouth. He holds it, letting his eyes half-close, as Vincent’s own gaze entirely turns away from meditation and into warm appreciation. “I enjoy the way you work.”
That rumble vibrates in Vincent’s chest, just behind his curved lips. His answer is in how he pulls Sephiroth’s mouth forward and then slides his fingers out of the way for their kiss.
* * *
Tseng doesn’t take a dinner invitation from Vincent lightly. Even aside from the political ramifications—internal and external—he understands very well that it’s a highly personal matter for the other man. It being personal, of course, isn’t the same as it being emotional, and in fact Tseng never has been able to make up his mind whether Vincent views him as more of an ally versus an interesting and useful diversion. Nor has he ever been able to stop finding it fascinating.
He could, and should, be more objective. He never turns down the invites but he always reminds himself of that. And then inevitably forgets it within seconds.
Vincent doesn’t turn when he walks into the kitchen. Nor does the man kneeling on the floor, and as comprehensively-bound as Sephiroth is, Tseng knows very well that that has little to do with it.
Knows but looks anyway, unable to help himself. Sephiroth is a striking man by any measure but presented like this…he’s naked, the expanses of smoothly-defined muscle made silky-looking and deliciously pale, like mounded cream, in between framing black leather. His legs are strapped thigh-to-calf and positioned neatly under him, while more straps lace firmly about his chest and shoulders, swinging back to connect with a steel rod that runs from the posture collar clasping his throat down his spine to narrow at the buttocks, its end curling to disappear into his hole.
His arms are pinioned behind him, a thick cuff on each upper arm fastened back to the rod. Sleek leather gloves him from elbows down, ending in strangely elegant, unseparated ovoids over his hands, which are lying against the tops of his buttocks. Crossed above at the wrists, slightly bent at the fingertips, clearly relaxed. The man’s breathing is slow and shallow, almost slow enough for sleep.
The hood on him keeps Tseng from knowing for sure. It’s taut over his cheekbones and clings to his jawline, the black leather doing little to depersonalize him. Instead it seems to…idealize him to a certain extent, smoothing away the man and leaving behind an eye-catching figurehead. Although when Tseng comes closer, he can see the subtle signs: the way the lacing at the back of the hood flexes deep into the leather with every breath, the fine sheen of sweat over the shoulderblades and buttock slopes. How Sephiroth’s head lifts not when Tseng’s foot strikes the floor, or when Vincent puts the knife he’s using to chop vegetables down by the cutting board, but when Vincent makes a low, good-humored noise.
“Take a seat,” Vincent says, half-turning and gesturing to a chair in front of Sephiroth. “I’m finishing up here and should have it on the stove in a few minutes.”
From him it’s not incongruous at all, the domesticity, but an understated and unmistakable indication that this is his set-up. Tseng takes it as the warning it is, but also sits where he’s told. Careful to lift his legs over Sephiroth as he does, careful to not even let the edge of his suitjacket inadvertently brush against the man.
Earplugs under the hood, Tseng thinks, with embedded earpieces. The hood is so finely drawn against Sephiroth’s face that now that he’s seated, he can make out the lines of a blindfold under it. And it’s not a single piece as he’d initially thought, with a leather band wrapped over Sephiroth’s mouth so tightly that it nearly melds into the underlying hood.
Sephiroth settles back down after that initial alert shift, and the wink of silver at his nipples and cock keeps pulling Tseng’s eyes down him. Silver pressure rings grip each nipple, with a chain drawing straight between them, without the slightest sag in it; the nipples themselves are shockingly red, almost purple, and even a faint air current must feel like fire against them. The shallow breathing is enforced by the clamps, since a deep inhale would tug hard at them.
The cock cage and the bit of hollow sound peeking out of the tip of Sephiroth’s cock, Tseng has seen before, but he still can’t grow used to it. He’s following the beaded drop of precome decorating the sound’s tip when a hiss startles him.
When his head snaps up, Tseng finds himself looking at the eye-less, mouthless face molded out in front of him. Then he looks over at the stove, where Vincent is now tossing various ingredients into a pan. Vincent should look overdressed in comparison but he seems a perfect counterpoint instead, free instead of bound, casual in rolled-up sleeves and no suitjacket rather than meticulously-packaged.
“Do you think Corneo’s the dark horse?” Vincent asks, arms and hands moving with quick, unshowy confidence.
Tseng starts again, and watches as Vincent smiles at the cooking food without turning around. They’re here to discuss leads on the stolen R&D compounds; remembering this feels like dredging memories up from decades ago. “I think he’s a front, or a cat’s paw at best. He has been operational since you first started at Shinra.”
Vincent’s smile lengthens a little rather than broadening. “Yes. He does have that kind of talent for surviving, never quite worth dealing with.”
“I still don’t think it’s worth dealing with him now. He’ll be more useful left in place, since it’s never that difficult to trace back his connections,” Tseng says. Feeling cautious about doing so, even though it’s only good, clear sense for professionals like them and Vincent’s never penalized him for being that.
He shouldn’t think of it that way—but as the thought comes into his head, Vincent replies to him, tossing a suggestion about Wutai. They share connections in common over there and some of them are deeply—unfortunately—personal to Tseng, so that’s more than enough to distract him.
But it’s work as well, and it’s easy enough to slip into business talk with Vincent, who has a very sharp mind and excellent political instincts, for all that he prefers to hold aloof from most power struggles. Tseng has to admit this is part of the attraction as well, a rare opportunity to speak with a peer who knows as much as he does, and who hasn’t the slightest interest in usurping his role or his teams.
They’re several minutes into the discussion when Vincent puts a lid on the pan, washes off his hands, and then comes over to the table with a glass of water for Tseng. Who takes it gratefully, as he’s been doing the majority of the talking and he’s unused to it. He starts to put it to his mouth but then pauses as Vincent steps behind Sephiroth.
“Drink,” Vincent says.
Sephiroth doesn’t stir. Hasn’t stirred since they started talking in earnest, even though Tseng’s dropped several names he knows the other man would be interested in. It lulls Tseng a little—he hasn’t forgotten but the need to react slips away from him, like a mouse who’s decided the shape in the corner is merely lifelike and not a true cat. And then there’s the way Vincent tells him to do it.
Tseng sips at the water, and watches as Vincent, now making his own remarks, reaches for the back of Sephiroth’s head. He peels away the leather band from Sephiroth’s mouth, uncovering a smoothly-seamed opening that’s tailored closely to Sephiroth’s lips. Which are bright red from the pressure of the gag, plumping out into the air as Vincent runs a thumb back and forth over them.
“Go ahead,” Vincent says with a nod. To the hand Tseng’s unconsciously dropped to his crotch, making him flush self-consciously, guiltily.
Even though his fingers are unbuckling his belt and opening up his fly, pulling his cock out. He feels less in control by the second despite the man in front of him—the one kneeling, the one being casually offered up as if it’s no different than a slice of lime in his water. Which Vincent retrieves next, once Tseng has shuffled forward on the chair and had Sephiroth’s mouth pushed onto his cock.
The back rod keeps Sephiroth from leaning too far forward, it and its attachments; even as Vincent’s hand strokes up the back of the man’s head, a shiver is starting to spread through him. He keeps shivering, the trembles growing like ripple out from a pebble dropped into a pond, as his lips close just about the end of Tseng’s cock, his tongue lapping gently at the slit. Or maybe he’s holding perfectly still and it’s Tseng who shivers. Vincent asks Tseng a question twice, and when Tseng finally gathers himself enough to answer, his voice cracks into a dry, airless gasp and he has to drink water to wet it.
“You can touch him,” Vincent says in the middle of Tseng’s reply. The interruption smooth rather than harsh, a swiftly-decisive stroke, as he comes back to stand behind Tseng’s chair. His hand drops onto Tseng’s shoulder as the lime wedge plops into the glass; the weight of it seems to not only stop Tseng’s twitch but press down past it, holding Tseng in the chair as securely as any chains. “You should touch him.”
“I…” Tseng says, as Sephiroth’s hair sways just behind the black curve of his head. It’s braided back, a single thick plait that flows out of the join of hood and collar and is fastened again at the bottom of the back rod so it can swing from side to side. “I don’t think we’re going to finish this today.”
Vincent shrugs indifferently as he takes the water-glass from Tseng’s hand and puts it on the table beside him. “I think we’d both rather ensure we have the real endpoint, and not mere middlemen. Those compounds would have effects on some of your enhanced team members, too.”
Tseng knew that the other man knew about them but he still starts. Vincent’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, and in synchronicity, Sephiroth runs the flat of his tongue under the head of Tseng’s cock. “We’re looking into it, Vincent,” he manages in a strained voice.
Sounding like any other bureaucrat. Vincent huffs, amused, as his grip relaxes. As it shifts up the line of Tseng’s shoulder, fingers now angled so they’re crossing over Tseng’s collarbone in front of his neck. “Would you like to touch him?”
Tseng opens his mouth to deny it, but all that comes out is another gasp. His hands are fumbling at the sides of his chair, trying to clutch it like a frightened child; when Vincent speaks they jerk up, then drop to his thighs. Then, inevitably, slide out to lay against the sides of Sephiroth’s jaw, holding it up so that the man can suck more firmly at him.
He can feel the working of Sephiroth’s muscles under his fingertips, through the leather. Steady, unhurried, in comparison to the way he’s increasingly falling into a disheveled mess. Sweat dribbling into his shirt-collar and sticking it at the back, strands of his hair irritatingly glued behind his ear—the groan that comes out of him when Vincent’s hand, barely even trying, curves up and over his throat.
Vincent tips him back against the chair, with the man’s other hand coming down to rest lightly on the top back of Tseng’s head. Lightly, very lightly, only positioned to snap his neck and not about to. But the hint is there, and the hint makes Tseng groan again, shaking more than the bound man servicing him. He doesn’t want to die, a small, wild part of him thinks. He genuinely does not, and yet he’s never been so excited in his life.
“Put your hands down,” Vincent says.
Tseng’s hands snap to grip the sides of his seat. Vincent leaves his own hands in place a moment longer, not pressing, and then lifts them. He goes around the chair and behind Sephiroth. Touches the other man on the top of the head with two fingers, then drags them back over the hood. Sephiroth makes a low, hungry noise, moving enough now that his bonds creak.
Vincent smiles, looking at it, and Tseng glimpses a sliver of white teeth. His hand moves lower, hooking into the slack of Sephiroth’s braid and then shaking the other man by it. Not roughly, only toying with it, but Sephiroth immediately comes off Tseng’s cock, openmouthed and straining back against his harness, his nipples flushing visibly redder as the chain between them bows over his rising chest. When Vincent lets go of his hair, he remains upright, panting roughly now, his head and shoulders twisting in short, jerky motions.
He sags a little as Vincent pushes up behind him, giving him a thigh to rest his head against. His chin stretches up and he whines breathlessly, trying to defy his posture collar to nuzzle at the hand Vincent slowly passes over the side of his head, across the cheek, and then finally to dip into his mouth. Three fingers, then two, bending them so Sephiroth can nurse at their tips. Then Vincent stoops down and plucks at the nipple chain with his other hand so Sephiroth drops his jaw again in a low cry.
“Turn around,” Vincent says to Tseng.
Who does so, white-knuckled and cut off at the knees for all that he’s seated. He watches as Vincent unbinds Sephiroth’s legs and then urges the man up. Sephiroth stumbles stiffly to the table, then bends pliantly over it, guided by Vincent’s hands on his belly and back. His legs slide open without asking, bringing him flat against the table, moaning quietly and without resistance, as Vincent parts his buttocks.
“Use your fingers,” Vincent says, as he takes a tube of lubricant out of his pocket and offers it to Tseng.
Tseng has to pry his hand off the chair with a rough grunt in order to take it, but he takes it, and uses it. He’s being offered this for a reason, he thinks helplessly. He’s not being allowed to toy with Vincent’s—with Sephiroth merely to toy with him, to treat the man like a sexual amenity, even if that is what it looks like. He knows better, but he knows what this looks like—he knows and he can’t help thinking about it, thinking about how his fingers disappear into Sephiroth’s hole. How the flesh around them quivers, the full, inviting globes of the buttocks and the warm, slicked clench inside, all but for the hard strip of the anal hook that’s holding Sephiroth open for him. For him, his fingers, his use, and it’s not his use but it puts that thought in his head.
That’s the genius of it, making him think that as he’s made to do what Vincent asks. His fingers, and then his cock, with his hands crushed around the table’s edge as Vincent holds his hip with one hand and opens him with the other. Even when Vincent’s tying his hands behind his back with his own belt, he staggers over Sephiroth’s broad, trembling back, watching the shoulderblades as they flex and arch to either side of the steel rod. And he thinks about it, thinks about being where he is as much as he thinks about being the man on the table. He’s hopelessly confused between the two and it makes him feel drunker than any form of alcohol ever has.
He's fucked, hard and thoroughly, while his cock fucks into Sephiroth. Confused as well, one side of his prick pressed by hot, yielding flesh, the other bruised up against rigid metal. No matter how much he bucks and twists, he finds himself stuck between the two. He can’t free himself and, he thinks, he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to untangle them, doesn’t want to straighten it all out and go back to his well-ordered, well-understood life. He’s confused and desperate and if Vincent put his hands on Tseng’s neck right now and forced his nose and mouth into Sephiroth’s back—
Tseng comes.
“I know you’re working on it,” he hears Vincent saying. As the man holds him up, eases him out of Sephiroth, sits him back in his chair. Come leaking out of him to smear about the seat as he groans and feels his head thump weakly against the chair back, with Vincent’s hands brushing the wet hair out of his face. “We’re likely going to find the source together.”
“SOLDIER will be told,” Tseng mutters.
Vincent laughs, not unkindly. He pets Tseng’s cheek. “Good,” he says as Tseng shivers. “Then all I’d ask is you let me do the kill for you. I’ll take it off your hands.”
Tseng groans, and tilts his head against the chair. He doesn’t try to free himself, only watches as Vincent gets up and then goes onto his knees. The man noses between Sephiroth’s buttocks and licks Sephiroth out; with how Tseng feels, he’d think Sephiroth should be even more wrecked, but while Sephiroth starts that way, he seems soothed rather than worked up by Vincent’s attentions. Gasping dies to groaning, and then to the occasional feeble mewl and hitch, as Vincent runs his hands slowly up and down the man’s thighs.
When Vincent’s satisfied with his work, he stands up. His hands cup Sephiroth’s buttocks as he presses his groin against them. He holds the position for a moment, then steps back. His cock is still hanging out of his trousers and it swings casually as he helps Sephiroth stand up and then maneuvers him back to his knees. Straps his legs in place again, as they had been when Tseng first entered, with the only difference being that now Sephiroth is facing the other chair in the room.
Then Vincent goes and retrieves dinner. He parcels it out into two helpings, one for himself and one he feeds to Tseng. Who perches on the edge of his chair, still feeling as fragile as a soap bubble, while Sephiroth quietly kneels between Vincent’s legs with Vincent’s cock in his mouth. Sephiroth’s still there when Tseng leaves.
Tseng never answered Vincent, but he knows it wasn’t a question in the first place, what the man had said to him. When the decisive report comes in, he sits in his office for a few minutes, thinking about what he should do. And then, feeling phantom hands on his throat and head, he messages Vincent for a meeting.
* * *
The last traces of Vincent’s come slip down Sephiroth’s throat, easing some of the rough, raw feeling that’s been spreading through it. He feels the hand on his head push him back, carefully calibrating his speed as his tired body tries and fails to slump. The rigid rod along his spine and the tight straps wrapped about him forbid that but he suffers anyway, as the nubbed end of the anal hook rubs and twists against what feels like a deep, swollen bruise buried inside of him.
Vincent’s hand slides off his head to his right shoulder, joined by the other hand on the other side, and he’s held upright until he calms. He’s been worked up and then made to quiet himself so many times now that he’s surprised he can even still notice it. But he does. He does, he feels how he’s pushed back from the edge with small, firm touches, utterly commanding. His breath slows, and though the burning in his throat starts up again, he feels his body relax.
The hands leave his shoulders. He kneels in his bonds, finding it surprisingly easy to let them hold him this time. The hook doesn’t shift again until Vincent’s hands return, touching the back of his head. He shivers, but then stills as he feels the hood’s laces loosen. A soft, protesting moan escapes him, but he’s thoroughly learned his place at this point and the thought of resistance doesn’t even occur to him.
Having the hood peeled away feels almost as if he’s been released from a great height, the sudden loss of tension rushing through his head like an icy wind. He gasps and sways a little—Vincent’s hands are gripping his shoulders again, keeping the hook from burrowing too roughly at him—and then settles as the rest of his bonds tug and slide their way back into his consciousness. He still has the blindfold and the earplugs, remaining points of pressure that help to transition him to the empty air.
But they’re removed as well, blindfold last, and he’s left…bereft, he feels for a moment, as he blinks blearily at the world. Only a moment, as then there’s a hand firmly cupped against his jaw, turning him into a warm, damp towel that makes him shudder as it rubs over his face. It’s soft but the rasp of it against his unready skin sends overwhelming trails of electricity down into his body to pool in his gut, trapped along with the rest of his need behind the cage still locked about his cock.
“Tseng’s gone,” Vincent informs him. Then drops the towel and pulls his chair a little closer to Sephiroth.
“I…know,” Sephiroth grunts. He opens his mouth before he sees the glass in Vincent’s hand, out of sheer habit. Then lips its soothingly cool water and lets his throat be wetted. “I smelled…something else.”
Vincent smiles. He’s turned down the kitchen lights, thankfully, since the whiteness of his teeth alone makes Sephiroth’s dazed eyes squint. He puts the glass back on the counter and then picks up the steaming plate there. “You like this version better, with the water chestnuts.”
Sephiroth’s too weary to do much more than murmur appreciatively as Vincent tilts his chin in one hand. He is hungry, his stomach growling once as the first piece slides across his tongue, but Vincent still has to whisper to him to chew before he swallows. It’s much easier to let the other man direct him.
“I wonder if it was worth the trouble finding these,” Vincent says, the slight lilt of his voice enough to catch at Sephiroth’s ears. When he focuses, the man is raising a piece of food in chopsticks towards him, but then Vincent nods at something on the table. The earplugs. “I turned them off because I knew you weren’t even listening to me.”
“You’ll tell me what he said,” Sephiroth says. Then senses a flicker in Vincent’s attention, and curls his tongue down over his lower lip to catch that drop of sauce. He leans forward as Vincent watches him, straining against the posture collar to lick at the chopsticks. “Later.”
“Tomorrow at this point.” Vincent doesn’t make it a criticism, only a statement. He feeds Sephiroth a few more bites, then takes the plate off his lap and moves it to the table. “Show me your nipples.”
Sephiroth’s stomach has settled down, and while the food hasn’t overcome his exhaustion, he can feel the gloss it’s thrown over that. Thin, barely holding as he groans and then cants himself up and back, angling his chest towards Vincent’s dropping hands. “I don’t want to—”
“Stop, no, I know. You were what Tseng needed to see, for all that you weren’t listening,” Vincent says, smiling. His fingers brush with languid nonchalance against the clamps, letting Sephiroth twist on the hook, before taking hold of them. “But you still didn’t listen.”
“Are you—” Sephiroth starts, and then the clamps snap open.
He feels as if he drops through a trapdoor to slam knees-first against the floor below. The impact smashes up through him, a shockwave that has him reeling, feeling his mouth gasp without hearing it, for long minutes. And Vincent doesn’t soothe him either—the man seizes his shoulders so he doesn’t throw himself over, but otherwise merely lets Sephiroth jerk and spasm and shudder through the pain until it fades of its own accord.
“You know I don’t punish you,” Vincent’s saying when he drifts back to awareness. A finger curls between his jaw and the posture collar, running slowly back and forth to ease a stinging sore he hadn’t even realized was there. Another strokes gently over his forehead, then rubs about his temple as he sighs and leans into it. “I make you see consequences.”
“Vincent,” Sephiroth whispers. He rests his head in the caresses for another second. “Please. Tomorrow. Talk tomorrow about—”
“All right.” Vincent sounds indulgent, and confirms it with a laugh he muffles by kissing the top of Sephiroth’s forehead, just at the hairline. “All right. How do you want to come tonight?”
“Like this,” Sephiroth says, but then finds his head trying to twist in the collar. Vincent pushes him back and then pushes his shoulders down, making him stop moving the hook, but he still finds words coming out of him. “No, like—with—this—”
“I’ll keep you bound,” Vincent promises.
A ripple of relief goes through Sephiroth, and his thoughts come together a little more easily with Vincent already reading him so well. “With your mouth, please.”
That surprises Vincent. “Not my cock?”
Sephiroth moans before he can help it, which makes Vincent smile again. “No,” Sephiroth says before he loses his mind again. “No, I want—keep me open, I want to feel that. When I come, I want to feel my hole and your mouth, and wet, I want to come wet. And then—after—after I want you in me.”
“You want me to empty you out and then sleep in you, don’t you?” Vincent says. When Sephiroth whines in agreement, Vincent pets his cheek. “Would you like the hood back on?”
“Yes but—” Sephiroth runs out of breath and has to inhale “—you had my mouth tonight. I can still taste you.”
“Ah,” Vincent says after a moment, with both hands cupping Sephiroth’s jaw, thumbs just tucked into the posture collar. “The other one. So you’re all sealed up as I’m drying you out.”
“Please,” Sephiroth begs. “Please. I don’t want to—”
“Talk. Yes, I know,” Vincent says, voice and eyes warm. He leans forward again, his mouth pressing softly against the place between Sephiroth’s brows. Then against Sephiroth’s lips, drawing out a long, deep kiss as his hands run down Sephiroth’s body, lingering at every strap before settling at Sephiroth’s buttocks. Making them spread a little against the ache of the hook, making Sephiroth groan and open his mouth further. “Then we won’t talk. I think I’ve done enough of that tonight, too.”
His hands rub at Sephiroth’s buttocks a last time, then move to Sephiroth’s thighs. He unbuckles the leg straps, giving Sephiroth a quick massage under them as they loosen, and then helps Sephiroth stand up.
Sephiroth’s legs are stiff and unwieldy but it’s only a few steps to the bathroom, where Vincent has him relieve himself, leaning against the other man with Vincent’s hand guiding his cock. Then he’s wiped with another towel, face and chest and between his legs before it finally comes up to tease his cock head with its nubbly weave, rolling the flesh up against the sound speared through it. By the time Vincent flips the towel into the sink, it’s freshly dribbled with precome.
More flicks off the sound against Sephiroth’s thighs as he’s walked to the bed. He feels the rod shift at his back and the pressure of the hook lessens considerably. Vincent puts a hand between his buttocks to grab the top of the hook and keep it from moving about as the man tips Sephiroth onto the bed, face-first and then rolled onto his back. Then Vincent pushes him up till his legs can be folded fully onto the mattress.
He's left to lie there for a moment as Vincent moves to the top of the bed. Retrieving a silk belt, which he wraps about Sephiroth’s eyes and into his mouth before tying off. The light tension of the silk doesn’t replace the hood but it starts to run out the tension in Sephiroth’s body, enough of a replacement that he doesn’t feel the need to push up against his bonds. The leather bands Vincent adds over his eyes and mouth increase that feeling, and then—earplugs. And finally a leather hood, mouthless this time, stretching perfectly about Sephiroth’s face and over his head. Every pull of the lacing pushes more tension out of Sephiroth, until by the time the ends are pushed under the top edge of his collar, he feels perfectly slack.
A mere toy to be positioned, as Vincent lifts his knees and bends his legs. Straps them thigh-to-calf again, then plumps them up on pillows. More pillows cradle his torso, supporting him so that the rod along his spine aligns him rather than grinds up into him. Then he feels the hook slip fully into him again, adjusted till its curve is ever-so-slightly tugging at his sore, hot hole.
It tugs more when he whimpers and shivers, tied too tightly to struggle but unable to help himself, helpless as Vincent’s tongue dives into him and tastes him. Works at him, coiling along the hook, playing its tip against him, sometimes cushioning it and sometimes pressing down on it as he mewls. Only to himself, the double gag thoroughly silencing him, and then the hood stretched over that, holding in his cries as he lies there. Firm palms holding him spread, bound up like an offering, one Vincent is relentlessly devouring.
He doesn’t even notice when his cage is unlocked. Only when the sound is removed, barely ahead of his first orgasm. A flood of come that disappears into Vincent’s mouth as he switches to Sephiroth’s cock, sucking it through the climax and then beyond, bringing it back to erect almost immediately. It hurts but Sephiroth can’t resist it, can only whine to himself as his body is played with.
His cock aches more now, free to harden and stand up in the air, than it was in its cage. Vincent bumps over its head as he crawls up Sephiroth’s body, biting and licking as he goes, and it feels like a slap. Sephiroth’s head twists, is caught by the collar and the rod, and then he arches the little he’s able as the hook rides the rim of his hole. Pulling him roughly open, his thighs now pinned by Vincent’s knees as Vincent’s tail slides into him. Vincent’s mouth is at his nipples now, switching between them as they peak with pain, so brilliant that Sephiroth squeezes his eyes behind the triply blinding layers, and then spread with Vincent’s attentions. Spread sore and swollen, the ache pervading all of his pectorals, under the soft, merciless sucking of Vincent’s mouth.
Sephiroth comes again from that alone. His cock untouched but for where his come occasionally sticks it to Vincent’s belly. He comes, and comes, and finally he can’t come any more.
Vincent senses that and doesn’t climb off, but lies against Sephiroth for a while. Mouth kind now, pressing kisses to Sephiroth’s shoulders and sometimes over his sealed mouth while Vincent pets his chest and torso in long, smooth, calming motions. His shudders, violent and bone-rattling at first, gradually slow and decrease, until he’s been eased back into slackness.
Then Vincent pushes off of him. It’s so soft and quiet at this point that Sephiroth doesn’t even think to make a sound, but only lets himself be cushioned in it. Dimly aware that he’s still displayed on their bed, ravaged to within an inch of his life and still in his bonds, still offered up for Vincent’s pleasure if the man wants it. He’s used up but that doesn’t matter, and he doesn’t think about it. He only waits.
Eventually, the aches grow. Niggling at first, then cramping seriously enough that he starts to drag at his legs and arms. Vincent touches him again at that point, pushing down on his shoulders just long enough for him to notice. Then untying him, working methodically from his legs to his chest harness. With a lengthier massage this time, helping muscles to wake and joints to break through the initial flush of pain into the steady ache he can manage without resorting to Curaga pills.
Once the harness is unstrapped, Vincent turns him on his side and unlocks his wrists. His gloves are left till after the posture collar and anal hook are removed and his torso can angle into the half-fetal curl it wants to. He’s glad of that, since while he recognizes he needs to be untied, the removal of his bonds still also removes the pressure that’d been keeping him together. In its absence he feels unformed and too loose, like sand slipping between the fingers, and the grip of the gloves and the hood help counteract that.
But Vincent eventually takes those off too. And everything under the hood, and then, as Sephiroth lolls limply against him, he hauls them into the shower. Just a rinse, but Vincent takes the time to rake fingers along his scalp, loosening the layer of dried sweat there.
Then back to bed, on clean sheets. Sephiroth still feels too loose and is revived enough to squirm restlessly as Vincent pushes him over. He calms a little, feeling an oiled finger at his hole, and when Vincent’s cock finally fills him, he groans. But it’s not till the collar pulls taut about his throat that he truly sags in relief.
“That’s enough,” Vincent murmurs, with an arm snaking over him. A warm mouth brushes at the collar—thin leather, barely functional beyond its illusion of snugness—then moves to the back of Sephiroth’s shoulder. “Enough. We’ll deal with the rest in the morning.”
Sephiroth sighs. “Thank you,” he murmurs back.
* * *
“Hood first,” Vincent says, after studying Sephiroth for a minute.
Anticipation is skittering about under Sephiroth’s skin, making it twitch and itch unpredictably, the epicenter constantly shifting. But so are…other things, and so Sephiroth holds himself to only a nod as he straightens up on his knees. His hands are opening and closing at his hips and he tries to stop himself as Vincent walks behind him, but that only seems to call attention to it.
Fingertips touch his left shoulder and he inhales sharply, then shakes his head in irritation. Vincent hooks his hand behind Sephiroth’s braid and presses rather than curls it against the back of Sephiroth’s neck. Sephiroth opens his mouth, but unexpectedly, the order that comes is, “Look at me.”
Frowning, Sephiroth tilts his head back. He pauses when it bumps into Vincent’s thigh, but then Vincent’s hand slides out from behind his hair and up to cup over his forehead. Firm and cool and assured, and something of that last part seeps down into Sephiroth as Vincent’s red eyes watch him.
“You’re not going to see what I do. Or hear, or speak about it. You’re only going to feel it,” Vincent says softly. “You’re going to have no choice but accept it. So—”
A frustrating, contrary urge to snap at the man rises in Sephiroth, but as soon as it does, Vincent’s thumb swings out to stroke over his brow. A small motion, but one that interrupts the feeling, and by the time Sephiroth breathes out, it’s gone.
“—close your eyes,” Vincent says, as the world already starts to slip away.
Leather settles over Sephiroth’s eyes, pulls snugly about his head, both a barrier and a push at the tension lingering in him. His head is tilted forward again and then fingers touch at the corner of his mouth; he can’t help turning into them, flicking his tongue out at their tips as he opens his lips, but the thick, filling rubber cock that’s slotted between them soon stops that. It has grooves for his teeth that will keep it from being too taxing on his jaw, while still amply crowding out all the space in his mouth for any independent action—he feels his groan batter impotently at its tip, making it tickle the back of his throat.
Groaning, thinking about those insinuations, thought-out consideration mixed with intent to keep him like this for a while. It increases the prickling under his skin and makes his neck and shoulders loosen of their own accord as soft gel earplugs are pressed in, as a taut leather second skin is smoothed over his scalp and down his cheekbones, under his jaw.
The blackness is complete, and not only clinging but gripping, as the laces in the back of the hood are slowly, inexorably tightened. Vincent seems to take his time about it, giving time to the susurrations of pleasure that run down Sephiroth’s back to sluice through his groin and cock with every tug. Sephiroth’s wearing a cage, bound securely with steel rings and spitted through on a sound, but nevertheless he moans and humps the air as if he were free to rise.
He's not. Once the hood is on, Vincent makes certain of it. Pulling a harness about his chest and binding his upper arms to his sides, then wrapping a sleeve about his forearms to keep them close across his back. His fingers are left free, and Vincent gives them playful licks as they twist blindly after the man’s tongue, tingling with cooling spit while another harness is buckled tightly about his waist and hips.
This second harness loops to either side of his cock and balls, subtly plumping them forward, putting additional pressure on them when they’re already heavy with suppressed need. Then it runs back between his buttocks, lifting and spreading them in tight individual cradles so the straps bite when Sephiroth tenses.
He does that when fingers start to open him up. Two, rough and brisk for all that they’re liberally coated in lubricant. His chest harness seems to sling his breath back into him to smolder in his lungs, while his armbinder rasps across his spine. Then Vincent stops, reaches about him and ties up his legs. Thigh to calf, two thick straps about each leg, bruising him when Vincent returns to fingering him.
Slower for this second round, slower and patently lascivious, thumb lingering about his rapidly-aching rim, needling it as three fingers tease his prostate. He’s unable to rock very much in either direction, and when he goes so far as to try and slide one leg, Vincent catches him by the instep. Pushes his foot back and then pulls all the fingers out, leaving his hole empty but for the sticky, cold traces of gel as leather cuffs are locked about his ankles.
He's pinned at that point, pinned and spread, kept entirely in the dark and at the man’s mercy, but Vincent goes beyond what’s necessary to secure him. It’s merely pleasurable for Vincent, when Sephiroth’s nipples are clamped, biting steel dizzyingly icy against heating flesh, and then pulled so Sephiroth is forced to bend over his knees. To lay against them, squirm against them, whining into the soft, pervading, unyielding silence of his gag and hood, as the nipple chain is hooked to something on the floor.
The smell of leather and sweat doubles and then triples, laced through with the scent of Sephiroth’s own trembling need. Thick and sticky in his sinuses, almost as if he can feel the precome slowly leaking out of his sound coating his nostrils. Then he blows out his entire lung capacity as a series of metal balls are pressed into his hole, and when he finds the little space left in him for a following inhale, he…doesn’t care about smell anymore.
He feels only, as promised. Doubled over and held there, as fingertips and then a tongue trace his twitching, desperately straining hole. The last metal ball is close enough to his entrance that he can’t fully close down about the thinner handle that’s sticking out of him and Vincent is—is licking him, tongue snaking into that space, working about the ball and Sephiroth whimpers and rocks in place and feels only the need filling him. And then—a hard, jerking push on the balls, as Sephiroth’s hips are forced upward a few inches. They tilt in him, strung not on string but on an unforgiving anal hook so he can’t resist it, ratcheted up at the back so the burning in his thighs runs straight into the grip of the clamps at his nipples.
Fucked both ends and yet not fucked at all, only teased with it by lifeless toys as Vincent leans back. Palms on Sephiroth’s buttocks, squeezing them carelessly. Then pinching. Slapping.
Pain blossoms across both buttocks, so stinging in its purity that Sephiroth briefly, initially forgets about his bondage. But then, cleverly, he’s allowed to settle into it. To grow accustomed to it, take in that burn till its edge dulls and no longer cuts away the rest of his suffering. Only adds to it, heightening his arousal and how keenly he feels the restraints on it.
The next time Vincent hits him, it’s with a long, flexible instrument. A belt or a rod, Sephiroth isn’t certain. Doesn’t care, only cares about feeling the way the blow ricochets through him. Nothing but shockwave at first, plain motion jarring his shins and breaking the slight stick of them against the floor. Then pain unfurling faster than he can breathe, caressing him at both ends, white-hot across his buttocks and drowning red in his head. He sucks on the cock in his mouth, clenches about the one in his ass, feels the waves of hurt pinging between each of them as he shudders.
Lesser points, bubbling up in uneven distraction: the yank at his nipples, the growing strain in his shoulders and hips and knees. A sliding press on the small of his back, washing down from his arms flexing in their binder. And then Vincent strikes him again and it all comes together in another blinding wave.
Two more and then—hands wrapped under his thighs, relieving some of the pressure of the hook bearing down inside of him. A warming, soothing mouth, a tongue that swirls tenderly over his shaking flesh as he rubs and drags his chest over his thighs, nearly forgetting the relentless nipple clamps. He’s lowered, weak thankful mewls trapped under his hood, until the end of the hook rests gently against his back.
Still filling him. Holding his hole a little open, just enough for Vincent’s tongue to work past the balls, cushioning his sore insides from the rigid steel even as he’s made to stretch a little more to accommodate it. He’s too wrung out to squirm and can only slump in his bonds, quivering, as an arm moves between his legs, as fingers touch his cock. Like fire, bands of fire, scorching him between the rings of the cage, but he can’t move away from them. Can only wait and feel his mind burn a little more, a little more as the sound is eased out of his cock slit.
An immense pressure seems to evaporate from him when the sound’s weight drops away, but an immense pressure remains. Relieved but not, Sephiroth quietly submits to the spasms that start to gather in his thighs and back as soon as he feels Vincent’s fingers about his balls, brushing up against the base of his cock. The cage loosens and he shivers against his knees, head hanging so his forehead grazes the floor. Vincent’s hand replaces it, strokes him twice and then grips him there as his orgasm tears the rest of him apart.
When Sephiroth gathers himself back up, he’s half-unbound. His legs are freed but sprawling uselessly out in front of him, feet pointed in different directions as Vincent pulls the blindfold off. His gag’s already out, as are the earplugs, and he finds himself blinking slowly at the discarded hood on the floor as Vincent pauses to pull his limp body back against the other man. His arms are still bound but he doesn’t protest, only rests his head against Vincent as he’s given a little liquid.
Not water, there’s something that gives it a tang. Electrolytes, Sephiroth thinks idly, as he uses the small spur of energy that results to twist his head enough to lap at Vincent’s jaw. Vincent dips down and kisses him, but then pulls away as he tries to suck at the man’s lip. He has to drink more for that. And then Vincent finishes untying him.
They shower, Sephiroth on his knees again with his arms propped against the wall as Vincent washes him outside and in, one fingers probing gently at his hole. When he starts canting his hips up into it, Vincent stops and pulls him out to dry and comb his hair. Ignoring his wistful, soft protests, it seems.
But not truly. As usual, Vincent’s only waiting for the right time, which is when Sephiroth’s damp hair is tied back into a loose tail, out of the way as Vincent tips his chin up with two fingers. “You need to eat,” Vincent says.
Sephiroth nods, but when the motion slips his jaw away from Vincent’s hand, Vincent doesn’t stop him. Instead he’s allowed to press his cheek to the man’s thigh, to nuzzle at it before lipping at Vincent’s fingertips. “You need to…finish planning,” Sephiroth murmurs. “If you’re not going to end up calling for another early pick-up.”
He doesn’t mean it as a slight against the man’s skills. Vincent doesn’t take it as one, though he does move his hand to lift Sephiroth’s chin again, studying Sephiroth’s face. Looking for any signs of the increasing frustration Sephiroth had been showing before they’d started, and finding absolutely none.
“Yes,” Vincent finally says. “I’ll do it on the couch, after we eat. What do you want with it?”
“Not the hood,” Sephiroth says, and then lets himself smile when he sees the surprise in Vincent’s eyes. He doesn’t feel the need to impress the man, or to challenge him, not at this point, but he does appreciate when he can catch Vincent, given how rarely that happens. “I want to see you. You don’t have to—tell me, but I want to…”
“You want to see, just that,” Vincent says in a soft, thoughtful echo. From the way he does, Sephiroth can tell the man’s reading through his slurred words, barely-coalesced thoughts to the full meaning. “Like a pet, watching their owner.”
Not a soldier, not a general who has to both consider how to control actions and events happening well beyond his personal reach and to submerge his feelings about some of the possible outcomes. Sephiroth flinches a little, not wanting that thought so soon, then twists his head over to suck at Vincent’s fingers.
“Slower,” Vincent says. Not mistaking the flinch, only watching him for longer. Putting together context, as the man does. “Collared and in your slip. You’re docile enough now, I think you’ll do as you’re told.”
Sephiroth shudders, then lets the fingers drop out of his mouth so he can press his cheek to Vincent’s hand. Which cradles it, thumb rubbing over his lips, before dropping to close about his jaw.
He’s dressed in a black silk slip and has a delicate silk-and-leather collar fastened around his throat before Vincent leads him to the kitchen. He’s fed on his knees, as usual, but left free. Not that it matters, with how slack his hands are against his thighs. He doesn’t touch anything Vincent doesn’t ask him to, and Vincent doesn’t ask.
They finish and go into the living room. Vincent sits on the couch at one end, lounging in a sleeping robe as Sephiroth stretches out over the rest of the cushions. Head in Vincent’s lap, wrists bound now in leather cuffs but still relaxed against his chest. He watches Vincent work on a tablet for a while. The tablet’s propped against the couch arm so Vincent’s free hand can pet along Sephiroth’s hair. Sometimes stirring it out of the way to stroke at Sephiroth’s back, circling over his shoulderblades and running down his spine to just where the slip’s back ties criss-cross.
It's peaceful. Disturbing that peace isn’t why Sephiroth eventually twists himself around; when Vincent glances down at him, he meets the man’s gaze and then holds it as he leans forward to nose open Vincent’s robe. Vincent smiles, and slides his hand into the front of Sephiroth’s slip to rub a sore nipple as Sephiroth lazily takes the man’s cock into his mouth. Watching him continue to work—not seeing the work, because that’s less important, and not ignoring it, because that’s only temporary. And what Sephiroth wants to see, in the end, is that this lasts. Which is what he sees, he thinks, before he closes his eyes.