Blood Rich

Tseng/Reno. PG-13. ~850 words. For Spring Kink.
Bodyguards are accessories.

“You fucking kidding me?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Can’t just give me a watch or some shit?”

“That’s for your retirement. Put it on, Reno.”


Reno downs his bubbly in one shot. The waiter’s eyebrows nest in his receding hairline, but he moves in without comment to refill the glass. It’s the only thing that’s going to get him through the night—and it’s going on ShinRa’s tab—so Reno knocks this one back, too.

Once the glass is full again, Tseng waves the waiter off.

“Shit,” Reno says, shifting the glass to the other side of his plate and unrolling the industrial-sized napkin to keep from tugging at his tie again. “Don’t look it, but it’s got a kick like a pregnant chocobo.”

“A little too rich for your blood?” Tseng shakes his own napkin out with a practised flip that manages to be full of style and not half as queer as when Rufus does the same.

Too bad the kid’s not around now. ‘Cause if Rufus was here, Reno’d be on duty, and if Reno were on duty, he wouldn’t be sitting here with his shirt buttoned and jacket zipped and a tie tight as a hangman’s noose around his neck.

He probably wouldn’t be seriously considering getting drunk, either. Rufus at his worst still means Reno can slip under the dress code on ShinRa’s dime. Bodyguards are accessories. Nobody pays attention to what your cell phone’s wearing.

Tseng’s dark gaze is steady and warm. Reno plucks at a ravel on the tablecloth. He should complain about it. The guy up at the front podium with the tiny glasses and upturned nose would probably shit himself.

“Reno,” Tseng says.

Reno puts down the knife—real silver, probably fetch a few decent gil melted down on the streets—and slumps in his chair. Surviving a year on the job is no big deal. It’s a nice gesture to have somebody mark the occasion, but Reno’s not too into all the glitz and glam of the Shinra name.

“Be right back, boss,” Reno says, wadding up his napkin and tossing it on the plate. Tseng might not officially be the guy in charge, but hell if any Turk is going to follow the donkey’s lead. “Gotta powder my nose.”

He makes a beeline for the restrooms, trying not to think too hard about the flicker in Tseng’s eyes, or why somebody in the Department gets a one-year anniversary instead of a five.

The bathroom is as fancy as the rest of the place, soft, muted lighting and cushy chairs arranged around a little table, chrome and gold fixtures and textured wallpaper. At both ends of the marble countertop, there’s an array of bottles and tubes and even tiny electric razors. Stubble: the man-on-the-town’s broken nail.

He reaches for his tie and lets his hand drop. Like hell he’ll get the knot as crisp as it is again. He’d be lucky if he managed to get the damn thing back on.

Fiddling with the cologne and moisturiser kills a couple minutes. Taking a quick piss in a urinal that smells like fake oranges, washing his hands in the mellow soap and drying them in a fluffy handtowel kills a couple more. He’s half tempted to check the stalls and see if they’ve got giant wet nappies in there instead of toilet paper.

He’s still staring at the mirror when the door opens quietly and Tseng steps in.

“You miss me already?”

Tseng smiles easily. He shakes his head, one of his standard responses to ninety-seven percent of what Reno does, says, and is, and crosses the room as quietly as he entered.

Reno watches in a sort of daze, not enough alcohol in his blood to take the full blame for the way things crawl into slow-motion. He glances down at the slim-fingered hand tugging his tie free of his jacket and can’t think of one good reason why he’d want to be back out there at that table.

“You want to get it to go?” he says. “Go fuck around on your couch or something?”

“Or something,” Tseng echoes, turning Reno to face him with a gentle tug.

Tseng is a lot of things. He’s about as deadly as he is sexy, he fucks like a dream, and he’d probably win a couple awards for best boyfriend if anybody started handing them out. Tseng’s got Rufus’s polish but none of his ego, Reno’s taste for violence but none of his lack of control.

What Tseng isn’t is something Reno can’t quite figure out. He exists in a limbo category between casual fuck and centre of the world.

His breath on Reno’s lips is liquid gold. His tongue sliding between them sparks lust brighter and more blinding than the city at midnight.

It’s the way he moans, easy and free deep in his throat, that keeps Reno coming back for a taste of something he’s sure isn’t good for him, but it’s too late to quit.

Reno’s got a lot of that in his life. He’s not complaining.


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