Chapter Text
The sound of Vincent tapping away at his tablet ceases. Vincent doesn’t use an external keyboard so the slight brush of his fingertips is barely audible even in the quiet office, but Sephiroth has become so attuned to the other man that he shudders heavily. His legs try to draw themselves up the couch, but a combination of his sweat-slicked skin sticking to the cushions and the chain locked about his tape-bound ankles pulls them up short. It makes him rock on his hip, his arms flexing in the tape sheathing them from elbow to wrist, and he can feel his fingerpads sticking where their helpless swiping runs across his buttocks.
“I should remember this one,” Vincent says, the dry, faintly self-deprecating tone of his voice in high contrast with how his hand moves assuredly from the point of Sephiroth’s shoulder into the ropes knotted over Sephiroth’s back. They form an inescapably teasing web that wraps around Sephiroth’s entire torso, ensuring that the smallest twitch at them will pluck his sore nipples, scratch the tender places between his ribs, roll tauntingly over his abdominals. And Vincent isn’t twitching: he twines the ropes up between his fingers so they yank cruelly all the way down to the aching cock imprisoned between Sephiroth’s thighs. “Explosive rounds—not armor-piercing, they actually carry a chemical load. I know that’s not under mortars but which category of special ammunition…”
Sephiroth is already whimpering, his nose and mouth pressed in an ultimately futile plea for mercy against Vincent’s knee, when Vincent twists the ropes again. The cut of the ropes angles down his belly and groin, catching about his prick and balls in a way that lances the breath from him, a guttural cry that scores his throat near-bloody as it comes out.
After, he breathes. It stings, stings deep even as the cool air rushes into his lungs and feeds his dazed brain just sufficiently to dredge up the correct answer. “Eighties, it’s—it’s in the eighties for handguns, you have to look under caliber first.”
He can’t see what Vincent is doing, but can only lie there in darkness and listen as Vincent swipes at the tablet. Then Vincent makes a pleased noise. Sephiroth whines, even as the ropes loosen and Vincent’s fingers run along them, rubbing soothingly over abraded skin.
“That’s it. Never makes sense to me, they don’t come in standard calibers but Shinra puts them under ‘additional sizes’ anyway,” Vincent observes. He leans back against the couch, his caresses growing a little more absentminded as they work back up to Sephiroth’s shoulder. “Good.”
Sephiroth, knowing by now what to do, inhales. At the peak of his breath, when he’ll feel the strain against his expanded windpipe best, Vincent tightens the coils. Rounds of muscular tail, unyielding but not inflexible in the way they’re able to communicate the power he has over Sephiroth right now, looped twice about the throat and then once over Sephiroth’s blindfold. When his breath breaks into a gasp, Vincent uses the leverage to tilt his head back, pushing at forehead and chin till his open lips are perfectly positioned for the lone finger Vincent slides between them.
“Good,” Vincent says again. A lower, lazier murmur, accented by the playful way his finger traces a zigzag on Sephiroth’s tongue. His tail relaxes just enough to let Sephiroth’s head find its natural resting place on his thigh again. “That’s three done. Three more…I realize I’m only forced to do this once a year to your quarterly, but I think I would’ve gone on a rampage by now if I had to do it that often.”
Forms, a small, strangely alien part of Sephiroth’s mind supplies. Forms, that’s what Vincent means. Covert ops doesn’t have to submit regular expense reports but they do have to provide annual accounting to back up the stipends they draw, and Vincent…Vincent dislikes the process. But he likes Sephiroth like this, shivering in his bonds, waiting with enforced patience for the man to inquire now and again about some arcane detail of Procurement’s byzantine classification system. And if Sephiroth answers him correctly, eventually there will be no more forms, and then Vincent promised a cock in place of the thick plug currently seated in him, a hand for the ropes wrapped about his own prick, soft suckling lips on the rasped lines drawing burning drops of sweat across his body.
That wasn’t a question just now, but Sephiroth still responds, lapping at Vincent’s finger till the man draws it out. Then he groans and nuzzles Vincent’s leg as much as his leash will allow, rocking his head while Vincent wipes the finger clean on his cheek.
“Hold,” Vincent says. His hand briefly comes curling over Sephiroth’s mouth, but lifts even before Sephiroth has finished sucking in his breath. Then it drops down to pet at Sephiroth’s chest, working temptingly down the ropes towards the nipple, as Vincent sighs and adjusts his other leg. “Now for industrial incidentals, and I understand this is where I should slot poisons and other off-label uses…hold…”
Three more. But it doesn’t truly matter how many, and as Vincent begins tapping away again, the numbers and rationales start to drift out of Sephiroth’s mind. He’s been told to hold, so he holds.