The Worth of Things

Final Fantasy 7. Rufus/Tseng. NC-17. 500 words. D/s, chastity kink.

In time, Rufus discovered clarity and a blissful order in what was admittedly already a very structured world.

The Worth of Things

At first, Rufus played the game to test his own will.

It used to be that he’d watch for the key, keenly track its shape beneath the thin white cotton of Tseng’s shirt. He’d ask with his eyes and soft noises if the day would be one where Tseng allowed him freedom. Sometimes that quiet pleading would win him a few moments out of the cage, enough time to feel the shape of his cock in his hand again and stroke it hard while Tseng looked on. Most often it would earn him a key on the nightstand, and most often the key he so feverishly gripped did not fit the lock. Begging only brought him frustration, his cock swelling uselessly inside its rigid steel trap.

He should have known the outcome from the beginning; Tseng rarely lost the endgame.


In time, Rufus discovered clarity and a blissful order in what was admittedly already a very structured world.


He obeyed. Air flooded back into his system through shallow, panting lungfuls. Sweat slicked his skin. Faint light from high warehouse-style windows caught on the definition of his body like the moon painted on water, his lean muscles outlined in cool licks and deep shadows. He kept himself in excellent shape, and he strived for faultlessness in the sculpture that was his body, yet his arms trembled with the effort of holding himself poised and perfect.

On command, he arched his back, spine flowing into a high curve before his centre of gravity shifted forward and he waited attentively. The weight suspended between his legs sought to draw him down, to pin him to the floor and have him rut uselessly in search of the feeblest of pleasures. But the mantra in his head reminded him the cage did not own him. Tseng owned him. Rufus glowed inside, softly radiant, and kept position as instructed, his knees wide on the carpet for proof that his dirty, vulgar, disgraceful flesh remained locked up as it should.

Somewhere in the haze of the world that was gloved hands on his body, strong and thorough, that explored him pitilessly like he was an animal on show with imperfections hidden beneath a carefully groomed exterior, Rufus hoped that he looked beautiful for his master.

“Now?” he asked when given permission to speak. Uncontrollable shivers chased a flurry of sparks from his scalp to the soles of his feet. “May I?”

“No. Two more weeks for the pleasure of asking.” The finger tracing the divots of Rufus’s sacrum vanished.

Similarly abrupt, Rufus’s elbows failed him, and he caught himself with his chest an inch above the floor. His moan stirred stray fibres in the lush carpet. He shuddered hard enough for the tiny lock on his cage to shift and clink. Tseng’s arms slid under him, and prodded him with questions he struggled to answer.

Tseng hid the key beneath his shirt, and Rufus found freedom and release in slick, needful kisses.



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