Chapter Text
“Do you have anything to say?” Vincent murmurs over Sephiroth’s harsh breathing.
He’s just made Sephiroth come. Sitting on the man’s lap, knees rudely spread, with his thighs held open by the hands now gently stroking along their insides, as if Sephiroth hasn’t been dragged away without any warning and forced into the backseat of this car. He’s Gaia knows where now, stripped down to just a black silk slip that’s straining with every gasp he takes and a pair of come-soaked panties, with Vincent’s fingerprints still smeared over them where the man had fondled him.
His stockings are off, being idly twisted in Vincent’s right hand as Vincent runs his thumb teasingly over a scratch he’d left on Sephiroth’s leg, making the bright pink line sting and Sephiroth’s breath catch. Sephiroth jerks his hands, jingling the cuffs he’s wearing, and half-bites back his whimper.
“No,” he says, and then twists weakly against Vincent when Vincent’s hand comes up off his thigh, letting the ends of the stockings drift up his front as they rise towards his face. He gasps in another breath and the pressure rings Vincent has fitted over his nipple piercings tighten, squeezing him as if he’s held in a giant hand. “No, but Cloud—”
“Hasn’t heard from his pretty—” Vincent’s other hand lifts and catches the dangling end of one stocking “—helpless—” the black silk slips over Sephiroth’s eyes even as he turns his head “—scientist. Not in a while. Would you like to guess how long?”
Vincent wraps the stocking snugly over Sephiroth’s eyes as Sephiroth whimpers again, fingers gripping so tightly at the chain of his cuffs that he can feel their tips bruising. So far only his hands are bound, but what Vincent says is true. And even truer, Sephiroth isn’t certain where they are, only that they’re alone and Vincent is entirely capable of overpowering him no matter what he does.
It seems better to wait and conserve strength for a more favorable opportunity, but even as Sephiroth thinks that, he can feel how brittle that hope is. Vincent knows better than to leave him one, and he’s already worn out, his shoulders trembling as Vincent’s palms drop to rub at their tops. He still can’t help a low cry, which spurs Vincent to pull him back against the other man, one hand massaging over his chest so that his nipples are pinched again, the other falling to grab his wrists and draw them back by their chain from where he’d been trying to push the hem of his slip down.
“No,” Sephiroth breathes, hips shifting futilely away as Vincent pushes his hands clear and then raises his slip again. He feels Vincent’s teeth sink into the curve of his shoulder, stinging and then rising into a wet burn, like a wash of acid, as Vincent starts to suck the spot. “No, please—”
“If you’re not going to tell me anything, then you don’t need to speak,” Vincent says. As his fingers hook away the panties, the sound of them shredding off Sephiroth’s hips seeming unnaturally loud.
Sephiroth jumps and has a nipple tweaked for his pains. He’s whining at the hurt there, trying to curl himself forward and away from Vincent, when something wet and sticky is forced into his mouth: his soiled panties, bound into a gag by—the other stocking. Which is looped several times over the knotted panties, keeping them firmly in his mouth as he initially tries to spit it back out and then has to subside, sucking at the taste of his own come, as the stocking pulls tautly at the corners of his lips. His cock and balls drop against the car seat, brushing briefly over the leather as he squirms.
Then he’s forced up onto his bare feet, wincing as his sweaty skin is made to peel off the seat. One patch on his ball sac and another on the back of his right thigh feel particularly raw, sparking prickles of heat as Vincent pushes him out of the car and across…a concrete floor. Then up some sort of short ramp onto a steel floor, which moves slightly under their weight. He smells fuel, layers of it: they’re in some warehouse or other industrial location. In a truck, in the back of a truck and that realization makes him shiver even before Vincent pushes him down, because that means Vincent could take him anywhere and he wouldn’t be seen.
After he’s bound up again. There’s a chair under him, bolted to the truck floor from the way it holds fast against the glancing kick he accidentally gives it. Unforgiving metal, hard on his buttocks and shoulderblades, chilly through the silk slip so that his nipples, though untouched now, try to pebble in their clamps.
Vincent wedged a plug into him a while ago, and while it’d been uncomfortably present when on the man’s lap, with the metal seat digging against its end, Sephiroth’s insides soon feel bruised, sending hot, liquefying electricity into his knees and arms whenever he moves. So he tries not to, whining around his gag, shaking anyway whenever his prostate is grazed by the plug, and is made an easy captive for Vincent’s purposes.
His wrists are uncuffed and then rebound behind the chair, to the seat so his arms are stretched down. More rope is looped under his arms and over his shoulders to keep his back straight and flush to the chair, and then a coil pulls up against his throat. He jerks forward and Vincent, laughing at him, has to yank him back by his braid to keep him from choking himself. The loops at his shoulders are tightened to keep him from moving enough to do that again, so the band about his throat is merely a dark reminder. Telling him his struggles are useless, that any degree of freedom is merely ornamental, and that everything is up to the man binding him to the chair.
More rope is wound about the middle of his chest, just under his pectorals. It’s a frame as much as a restraint, Sephiroth realizes as Vincent’s fingers brush against his slip, ensuring that the silk is stretched between the ropes. Not only is he a captive, Vincent is so relaxed about it that he can take his time to make Sephiroth look as appealing as he cares to.
To the other man, since no one else can see them. The understanding of that isolation, of being at his mercy makes Sephiroth’s tongue thick and heavy behind his gag, so that he’s barely mewling as his legs are pulled open and tied to the chair’s front legs. Bound at the ankles and then at the knees, forced wantonness that has his thighs quivering, his chest pressing up against the ropes about it, even before Vincent’s hands sweep over him. Tied up like a pretty toy, wide open and made available for as long as Vincent wants, for whatever Vincent wants.
At first, anyway. Vincent does play with him, fingers pinching at his thighs and buttocks while a hot, sharp-toothed mouth slowly leaves twin trails of raw bites down either shoulder. His nipples are rolled mercilessly in their clamps, made to swell till Sephiroth’s hardly clear on how any flesh is left between the brutal dilemma of the pressure rings and his piercings. When he whimpers, Vincent does drop down to suck at them, providing false relief—false because at the same time Vincent’s hands go up his slip, stroking at his cock till he’s on the verge of coming and then casually, firmly crushing around it till he can’t.
But then Vincent steps away. Sephiroth’s left shivering in the chair, nosing blindly at the air, breath hitching with every rasp of the rope about his throat and the rivulets of sweat pouring off him feeling like little floods of hot acid whenever they touch the bites and scratches and scrapes on him. A step sounds behind him, hands fall on his shoulders again, and he startles. Then shudders, the plug rocking in him, his burning nipples flaring hotly as Vincent’s fingers slide down his front just short of them.
“You’re going to wait now,” Vincent whispers to him, lips caressing his ear as he moans. “I might touch you for a little longer, but then…I have other obligations, pretty as you are. And Cloud…will find you. Eventually.”
The implications of those words, few but steeped in threat, make Sephiroth go still. The coldness of the space around them suddenly comes to the fore, wrapping all around him even though he’s still sweating, icy fingers of air pressed against him as he thinks about what Vincent means. Thinks about it as gel earplugs are inserted, as smooth latex is tugged down over his forehead—then he realizes and starts up, as much as his bonds allow, but it’s already too late. He's deaf now, deaf and blind and mute, trapped nursing on his come-sodden panties as the hood’s laces pull snug against the back of his head. He tugs at his arms, then his legs, but only manages to flip a few folds of the slip over his cock, the lace hem aggravatingly scratchy against the overheated skin and then not scratching enough, as he squirms and twists.
Vincent’s fingers leave his head. He whines under the hood, thinking the man’s already left, and a sharp smack on his right shoulder catches him so off-guard that he falls silent. Breathing only, breathing is the only thing he can do, strapped down to this chair and breathing and feeling how the blow slowly moves from a bright point to a smearing pain to a low throb. He’s helpless.
The thing that delivered the blow returns but softly, just touching him at the breastbone. It’s so light that at first he isn’t certain it’s there, with how its tip rides up over the vibrations of his groaning, but then it whisks to the side. Circling about his nipple, just occasionally flicking at it so that the pressure ring tweaks him. He shivers, anticipation of pain swirling up in him so that he’s dizzy in the dark for a moment.
But it only keeps tracing over him. Down his belly, over the part of the slip that covers his cock and then along his thigh as his leg twitches. The knots at his knee dig in and he whimpers, canting back on his buttocks even though that presses the plug in him in a way that draws up sobbing gasp after gasp to cram against the hood. He’s mouthing at the latex from the inside, mouthing and sucking at the cloth nestled on his tongue, when he’s finally struck again.
Low on the right inside thigh, just above the knee. Then a little higher up on the same leg, so that a streak of lightning seems to run through the two places and right up into his groin. It’s almost enough—but Vincent’s fingers wrap around his cock just in time, keeping him from seeking relief in oblivion. No, instead he’s held in aching, tormented limbo, mewling pleas muffled away as something silky is tied about his cock, and then is used to bundle his cock to his balls. Made into another pretty package, just like the rest of him, useless for anything but someone else’s pleasure.
Once Vincent’s ensured he can’t come, the man methodically brutalizes him. Blows rain down on his thighs, turning them hotly tender so that he’s arching his legs wide against the ropes, presenting himself shamelessly in a futile attempt to escape the pain. Then they move up to his shoulders, lashing across the bites Vincent has already left there until Sephiroth is slumped in the chair, only the occasional moan threading out from behind the hood. The tip of the crop—Sephiroth thinks it’s a riding crop—draws playful curlicues down onto his chest and then from nipple to nipple, until Sephiroth has stopped tensing in expectation. And then Vincent hits him there too.
His nipples are on fire now. Raging hot, spiking white behind his double blindfold whenever a gasp catches him in the belly and drags his chest out against the ropes—which hold back his slip so that the silk rasps him raw in between breaths. And the welts spiral out from there, covering his pectorals in what feels like a band of searing heat, a vise that pulls his breathing up short more forcefully than any chain could have. He’s already whimpering uncontrollably from that when the crop dances its way down between his legs and rests its tip just over his cock head.
Sephiroth cries out into the gag, the hood. He’s only being touched, the crop no heavier than a feather, but even so, his mind can extrapolate the rest from what’s already been done to him, from what’s been done and how he hasn’t been allowed any relief from any of it. Has only been able to sit here and take it, all the sensations mounting up inside his bound body until he thinks he can no longer house any of it. The bonds may remain but the flesh is going to fail, and he can’t do anything. He can’t—
The crop isn’t doing anything, he slowly realizes. Still crying out, but softer now, the sounds thick in his throat but not in his mouth as the shudders work through his body. He goes slack against the chair, feeling the sweat trickle off his limp fingers. Only breathes for a moment, breathes in the mute darkness.
Then he flexes himself. Nothing is touching his cock besides the silk Vincent tied around it, and the balls bound up alongside it. He flexes again, and the ropes tug at him, the pressure rings pinch. His hood stretches as he pushes his gag up against the latex with his tongue, then contracts back into place as he swallows. Nothing. He’s alone.
He thinks, but then he remembers he can’t hear Vincent. A tremor goes through him and he squirms in the chair, but runs out of breath and calms down again. Thinking. Thinking he’s alone and stuck like this, and the chill inside of the truck, if that’s where he is, is starting to get under the soaked slip, to make it feel clammy against his skin. He shifts in place, trying to get away from the feeling, but he can’t. He’s a prisoner here, left hoping for someone to find him—and in the meantime he aches.
Sephiroth tries to settle down, to let the smooth closeness of the hood keep out the thoughts, but then finds himself squirming again when a drop of sweat stings at a welt near his right nipple. Which then pulses with hurt itself, as he twists and the silk slip pulls across it. He tries again and something similar happens, only with a bite-mark on his thigh. Captive and tortured even without anyone, and if he is kept like this, he thinks, if he can’t think of anything else, he’s going to—
Air against his thighs. Warmer than the rest, a puff intentionally directed at his crotch. He jerks sharply, then moans and uses what little energy he has left to hike his groin towards the breathing. Breathing. Someone else, someone—he moans and twists and offers himself up as much as he can, silently begging with his body for them to touch him, to prove they’re there, to prove he’s been found after all and won’t have to sit here on his own.
Hotter, moister air, the mouth moving closer. Something grazing against his knee, and then firm palms, searching fingers moving up the insides of his thighs. He’s bitten, sharply and suddenly, and he sobs a little at the pain but also welcomes it, rubbing his leg into the teeth because that’s the best sign yet.
His flesh is nursed a little, then released. Throbbing as a thumb pushes curiously at it, plumping the forming bruise, while the mouth moves up to start working over his bound cock. At the same time someone touches his shoulders—he barely even thinks about that, more absorbs the additional presence as something to make him sag in relief. Whining even more as the hood is unlaced and then peeled up off his face, as hands carefully cradle his head against the increasingly insistent mouth sucking between his legs.
“Sephiroth,” Cloud says once the earplugs are out and Sephiroth trembles all over, grateful, as he feels Cloud step up behind the chair, rub fingers along the moans fluttering in Sephiroth’s throat. “Hey. I’m here. Vincent’s gonna suck you off now.”
The mouth between his thighs wraps over his cock head, with its tongue lapping strongly at the precome dripping out its slit, while fingers start to push away the silk tying up his prick. Sephiroth arches his head against Cloud’s arm and belly, then subsides with a whimper as he feels fingers pulling at the sides of his slip’s bodice. Cloud mutters something, an apology, as one finger knocks into Sephiroth’s nipple and makes him mewl, but then takes hold of the pressure rings. He unlatches them just as Vincent draws Sephiroth’s entire, newly-freed cock down his throat.
In all honesty, Sephiroth doesn’t remember coming, beyond the first initial impression of a white, all-encompassing wall slamming into him. He also doesn’t remember being untied or carried out of wherever they are.
He does have a vague memory of smelling soap, which must be the shower, but the next thing he truly remembers is lying on a bed, moaning into Cloud’s lap, someone’s hand rubbing cooling salve into his aching nipple as someone else’s tongue laps at his equally sore hole. “Maybe stop there,” Cloud is saying.
“No,” Sephiroth manages to grunt. “Fuck me.”
Cloud sighs, which is how Sephiroth knows it’s the man and not a dream; Cloud never sounds that same shade of resigned in his head. “He already did, he’s just—”
“Enjoying the taste,” Vincent says. With obvious relish, although as the world comes back, Sephiroth can hear an undertone of exhaustion in the other man’s voice.
Vincent gives him a last lick, then pushes up against his back, one hand skating over Sephiroth as new aches and pains awaken under it. Sephiroth shivers, then grimaces into Cloud’s leg as his elbow accidentally strikes Vincent hard enough to make the man huff. He expects Vincent to move away at that point but—Cloud does something. His arm comes out over Sephiroth’s head, and after a second, Vincent presses forward rather than back.
When Sephiroth twists his head and looks up, Vincent is letting his forehead rest against Cloud’s chest while the other man rubs along the side of his jaw, a little shiny roll of salve gathering up at the tip of Cloud’s thumb. Vincent’s hair is flopping in the way but Sephiroth thinks he can make out some sort of mark on Vincent, just where Cloud is touching.
“Your foot caught him when we were hauling you out of the bathroom,” Cloud says. He moves his hand to Vincent’s chin, pulling the other man around, and then resumes rubbing as irritation sluggishly crosses Vincent’s face; Vincent still doesn’t pull away, but actually settles in more closely against Cloud. “And just so you know, Vincent took his suppressants this morning, so his healing’s still a little depressed.”
“You’re supposed to do that tomorrow,” Sephiroth says. He twists further over, ignoring his body’s protests.
He can’t really ignore the bottle of water Vincent somehow produces from the sheets, despite being as naked as Sephiroth now, which is exactly why Vincent shoves it at him. “Rescheduled,” Vincent says as Sephiroth fumbles it open and then sips from it under Cloud’s quiet but very pointed gaze. “Since tomorrow, according to Rhapsodos, I’m supposed to show up looking like an executive and not like some ‘mercenary we hired out of the gutter.’”
Cloud snorts. “Did he actually put that in the notes?”
Sephiroth doesn’t even have to ask. He pushes the bottle back to Vincent and puts his head face-down in Cloud’s lap for a moment. Then he twists his head out so he can look at both of them again. “Leave Genesis to me. He’s mine to deal with.”
“Good, because handling him doesn’t appeal to me,” Vincent mutters.
He takes the water, but doesn’t drink from it. And when Cloud finishes treating that bruise, he takes the bottle and puts it away somewhere with just a sigh, so Vincent can’t be that badly off. The suppressants these days shouldn’t hamper the man unless he’s pushing himself…and then Vincent sighs and pulls the hair from his face, one eye tracking over to look tolerantly at Sephiroth.
Not even a hint of black veining, Sephiroth notes, though that shadow is light bruising, already in the yellow-green stage. “We could have rescheduled this,” he still says.
“True,” Vincent says, with somewhat less reluctance than Sephiroth was expecting. Sephiroth does believe Vincent wouldn’t put them both in any real danger, if only because Vincent’s not enough of an altruist to damage himself for Sephiroth’s sole benefit, but Vincent’s assessment of his health is…unique. “But then I can’t spend the dull parts of tomorrow thinking about how sore you are under your suit.”
“Hey,” Cloud says. He puts his free hand out, ruffling it through Sephiroth’s hair as Sephiroth—flushes both at his face and between his thighs. “If it’s that bad, you can just message me and I can salve you up during a bathroom break.”
Vincent is smirking against Cloud’s shoulder. Eyes closed, cheek nestled, utterly unconcerned even when Sephiroth pushes across Cloud’s lap towards him. “Remind me to leave a few more bites on his thighs during breakfast, in that case. Then you can use that excuse with a straight face.”
“Cloud should make you do it,” Sephiroth mutters. He puts his head down again, its back against Cloud’s belly. Then he picks up Vincent’s hand from where it’s dangling against Cloud’s leg. He waits for Vincent to open his eyes, then pulls it up to his mouth and starts to nibble at its fingertips, watching how Vincent’s pupils dilate. “Make you take care of me. This conference is going to be painful enough, he doesn’t need to have to worry about me.”
Vincent’s fingers twitch against his mouth. Then slide over his lips, tips curling against his tongue when he pushes that up to meet them. “Do you want to tell me to do that?” Vincent says after a moment, a little low and not to Sephiroth, with his head sinking a little further down Cloud’s chest as he strokes his thumb along Sephiroth’s lower lip.
“…yeah, but also, I don’t want to figure out where my Curaga’s gotten to,” Cloud says dryly. Though when Vincent lifts his head up for a look, Cloud smiles. Then pulls Vincent over and presses a kiss against Vincent’s temple, before using his hand to push Vincent’s head back against his shoulder.
Gestures like that still give Vincent pause. It’s not noticeable unless you’re looking for it, but Sephiroth is. And he watches as Vincent thinks through it, then relaxes under the hand Cloud keeps tangled in his hair—and how Cloud looks for that moment too. Only after that does he let his own head slip, going slack as his body’s complaints mostly die down. Vincent’s hand is still by his mouth and he lips at it, but doesn’t chase it when Vincent moves it away. Cloud’s other hand settles on his shoulder and he sighs under that, then closes his eyes.
“I need to do a few things,” Vincent says, but he sounds reluctant about it. “After lunch.”
“Shit,” Cloud says, and then his hand leaves Sephiroth. Then comes back, pushing down as Sephiroth stirs. “No, stay put, I just forgot about it but I can get my phone from here, I just—”
“Order noodles,” Sephiroth says, suppressing a sigh. “I have no idea where this is, but it’s still Junon, we can’t be that far from a noodle stand.”
“Yeah. Yeah, good point,” Cloud mutters as he fumbles with something. It’s very, very hard for Sephiroth to resist the urge to reach up and help, but…
Something touches his face. Vincent, looking down at him as he bites back another sigh and obediently stays in place. Vincent’s thumb just crossing over his mouth and the rest of the hand curved along his jaw, a silent promise to gag him if he tries to say anything while Cloud puts in a food order. So he doesn’t. He lets Cloud do it for them, and instead rests.