Usual babble: FFVII, Rufus ShinRa, Reno, none of this belongs to me. I simply write it. If you like, please review - I love feedback!
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You know that Reno is up to something when he comes into the room. A cigarette hangs from his lips, and that sets you off, because he knows better then to just walk into the office with a lit cigarette. It's dripping ashes all over the white carpet. The smell is ruining your enjoyment of your perfect martini; dry, sour, with an onion, which is also perfectly white, the color of your office, your suit, and the view from the top of the building.
Reno perches himself on the edge of your desk, and he extends an arm out, a single cigarette flicking, unlit, between his ridiculously long fingers. You wonder briefly if he's got some kind of extra digit, because no one should have fingers like that. The thought of his fingers, and how they move, makes you suddenly uncomfortable. You have to shift in your chair.
"You want one," he asks without asking. When he says it that way, it's more of a demand than anything else. You take it and don't light it. It's white too; it's a slim cylinder of white and poison. You don't smoke. You know what's in the soil in the tobacco plantations where the stuff grows. It's like eating sushi. With what ShinRa dumps into the planet, you wonder how you can even manage to down tomatoes with your lunch.
It's the thought of tomatoes, and Reno's apple-red hair, and the thought of Reno's cherry red skin when he's erect and moaning that makes you lick your lips.
Reno notices. He notices everything. That's what Reno is paid to do, after all; analyze movements, decode body language, watch you. Even then, it's a game. It's a game he plays with himself. You're just a puzzle piece, a pawn in Reno's mind.
The thought irritates you, as Reno curls his long finger around the stem of your martini glass, you feel that irrational anger that always accompanies Reno fill you. It's something you can't act on. Taking your anger out on the Turks has never been what's stopped you with Reno.
With Reno, it's that he's not really tame. He's loyal to ShinRa, of course, he'd never be allowed to be alone with you otherwise, but he wears the leash; the leash doesn't wear him.
Reno slides his lips against the glass and just the tip of his tongue emerges. Its bright pink, and you remember what it's capable of, and you shift again.
He looks down at the cigarette and asks, "Aren't you going to smoke it?" He leans over the desk, and picks it up. He slips it in your mouth and his fingers brush your lips. They're electric and smooth and callused all at once. You just sit there, silently, pouring every bit of coldness you can manage into your eyes. It's the little things that keep the wall between you up; that remind him that he's the employee and you're the boss.
He doesn't take the hint. He leans forward, so far forward that his face is almost touching yours. You want to close the gap, but you don't. Instead you wait, fisting your hand into the leg of your pants, you clench your feet in your shoes because there Reno can't see you lose control.
His own cigarette he puts back between his lips, and without touching you he touches the cigarettes together. That alone almost drives you over the edge. Your cigarette doesn't quite light and Reno smirks, pushing them together again. His nose touches your cheek, but only for a moment.
The cigarette lights and you would pull it out of your mouth, but your hands are clenched in your pants and you know that if you let go, they'll go to your crotch.
When Reno sits back you can see the bulge in his pants, and he releases a cloud of smoke along with a sigh. "You're fucking cold," he pants, and you know that it turns him on.
You think of the color white, and your eyes flick to the white carpet, where a flurry of ashes have piled up, and you wonder, briefly, how in the name of everything you hold dear could you let this contagion into your world.
Your eyes flick back up to him, and he's thumbing his red scars, pushing back strands of his hair, and you remember.