This Town’s Religion

Reno/Rufus. NC-17. ~550 words. For Spring Kink.
Rufus gives the show his all.

The sun bleaches the colour from Rufus’s hair and turns the white of his clothes to blinding. It’s late summer above the Plate. For the next few precious days, the sky’s going to be bluer than the ocean, clear of everything except a few white fluffy clouds and wheeling seabirds.

It’s the perfect time for ShinRa’s headman to be out giving speeches about how Reactor 6′s upgrades will reduce smog and up the Sector’s power by sixty percent. The first part’s nothing but bullshit; more power, more waste, that’s how ShinRa operates.

Rufus gives the show his all, his voice rising and falling in a soothing, trustworthy rhythm. His gestures are carefully scripted, flawlessly executed, and appear as genuine as a baby’s first wail. Nobody notices how his fingertips keep drifting back to his wrist, or how his thumb traces the band of his watch like he aches to touch the marks hidden beneath it.

Rufus twists to face the edges of the crowd, his gaze skipping over upturned faces to search the shadows at the end of the stage. His eyes are electric blue, so alive.


Evening closes in heavy and warm. The motel’s cheap because Reno’s the one footing the bill. The few surrounding rooms are empty because he wears a black suit and a smile that shows too many teeth.

The rumour mill says the President’s seeing a nice young girl from Nibelheim and doesn’t want to drag her like a lamb to slaughter into the limelight. The gossip mags say he’s banging slum prostitutes shipped above-Plate by the Don. Rufus smiles boyishly when somebody gets the balls to ask, an enigmatic glitter in his eyes, and changes the subject smooth as silk, reminding everyone he’s barely out of his teens and owns the world regardless.

He’s on Reno as soon as the lock clicks. His kisses are hungry and fast, frantic in the seconds before Reno’s hands push under his clothes, find the healing crescent-moons on his back and the dark bruises on his hips. His breath catches, his eyelashes tremble, and he melts into the next kiss sweet as warm honey.

Reno calls all the shots from there. Rufus isn’t quiet but he doesn’t say anything either, just moans for the scrape of teeth on his skin, moans louder when they dig into his flesh. His back is peppered with bites, damp with sweat and spit. His fingers drift slowly over his cock as Reno fucks him, and when Reno rolls him over, pale thighs still marked from the last time spread wide, he offers up his chest with a groan.

They’re only together for a few hours, long enough to ruin the sheets and for the ashtray to overflow. The scent of cloves and sweat clings to Rufus’s skin. He puts his clothes back on slowly, one piece at a time, as Reno lounges on the bed with a cig on his lips. The tailored suit hides everything but the tension in Rufus’s shoulders as the softest material money can buy abrades fresh scratches and mottled bruises.

Everyone knows Rufus has a claim on their homes, their money, their bodies and even their ideas. He owns it all, right down to the last piece of dirt, except himself.


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