(A/N: Did a fairly thorough revision of the whole shebang, as I wasn't comfortable moving forward with new content until I improved what I had already written. Still not happy, but I hammered out inconsistencies, resolved tonal errors, and modified some of the awkward phrasing that comes about from my loathing of overusing words… And words in general are hard to come by right now. Had to have the eldest dog in the family put down. Rest well, puppy. [Masaki, 2000-2018, Sharp as a Tack and Stubborn as a Mule, BEST FOUR-LEGGED FRIEND EVER])


"Not exactly as you please," I contradict mildly, unsettled by the manner in which he is staring down at me, as though I am a buffet of appetizers about to be devoured. I have rarely taken offense to my appearance being objectified in the past, but my previous security was bolstered by having the option to dismember any who dared to touch me without my permission. I am not even completely certain if I have given my permission to Tuesti, or if I am confident that I want to allow him the authorization to control me at this base of level. My logical reasoning is unquestioningly muddled by the release of hormones that surge through my body, the primitive craving to join flesh to another that triggers at a heightened urgency when too long denied, and my ability to determine what I actually desire is failing spectacularly in the wake of his pursuit.

It is always about power. Am I really willing to lose myself in this? In him? And all for what, to satisfy a trivial biological weakness?

My inner conflict, my diminished passion, must be visibly apparent, and would be physically detectable to him had he not been maintaining an incongruously polite distance between us. When I drag my concentration out of myself, his gaze is concerned and no longer straying from my face, but I can identify faint hints of disappointment and resignation in his demeanor.

"You think too much, don't you? Always talking yourself out of what you want," he muses distantly as he lazily explores my features with a vague blend of affection, amusement, and exasperation.

"We should officially change our names. I prefer 'Kettle', and you will be 'Pot'," I comment dryly. "Are you going to try to talk me back into what you want now?"

He chuckles lightly and states, "We are much more alike that I had thought… but I claim 'Kettle' on account of my advanced age, and," pausing to rise up higher, arching his back to leave his hips jutting forward at an arrogant slant, and then cocking his head to peer imperiously down at me, he continues smugly, "my obviously superior position."

I let my eyes flutter shut briefly to block out the enticing sight above, mastering my reaction to the arousing juxtaposition of his assertive nudity and my prone but fully clothed form, and emit a contemptuous groan, before informing him, "You look as superior as a stripper about to cross into an even more debauched line of work."

"Oh? You disapprove of exotic dancers and sex workers, too?" His expression changes from glib curiosity to reproachful censor as he mockingly inquires, "Your line of work is more moral than an exchange of physical labor for monetary compensation between consenting adults? My my, who knew that extortion, theft, both intellectual and material, destruction of-"

"I'm starting to doubt you think I have any honor," I interject blandly as he gathers steam, but his lecture does not falter in the least.

"-property, illegal surveillance, abduction, torture, and murder for hire held such a lofty ethical standing above that of fulfilling a necessary commodity? One where those who provide the service are often abused, treated as lesser and subhuman, even killed, with little compassion or understanding given to their situation, just because what they do is considered wrong by puritanical hypocrites like yourself?"

"…You've made your point," I eventually reply neutrally when he concludes his rant and glares down at me fiercely.

"Have I?"

"Yes, my house is made of glass, I get that, but you actually believe it's a 'necessary commodity'?" Keeping my tone impartial is a struggle and I manage to with only limited success.

"Do you think people are owed sex by others?"

"Of course not," I respond evenly.

"And you know that while there are some who can remain celibate with little ill effect, the mental and physical health of the majority is significantly and negatively impacted by the lack of sexual contact?"

"…Yes."

"No one should be required to have sex with someone if they don't want to, but going without is detrimental to a person's wellbeing and many are not able to find willing partners. Common sense dictates, and evidence from the ridiculous abstinence programs proves, that simply denying one's sexual desires doesn't make them go away or easier to control. In fact, the opposite appears to be true. So, what solution would you propose?" When I remain silent, he issues another query, "Is the concept really that awful, paying for sex legally and fairly, in comparison to the alternatives?"

Averse to accepting his point, I instead express, "I wasn't aware you were a staunch advocate for prostitution."

"Right, I pushed through legislation to improve the working and living conditions of sex workers simply for my own amusement."

"I didn't know that was… your flagship."

"And you don't think it's a worthy one?" he retorts acerbically.

"I…" Sensing that I am suddenly in unexpectedly dangerous territory, I hesitate to articulate my own personal feelings on the matter. While regrouping my thoughts, I ask diplomatically, "Why is it worthy to you, Sir?"

The way his mouth tightens and draws down suggests that my attempt to pacify him is not as successful as I would have liked, but his voice is balanced when he also fails to answer with a question, "You do know how horrible circumstances have been for orphans, especially since Meteorfall?"

I am thrown again by what seems to be an abrupt change of subject, yet certain it is related, and growing tired of his rhetorical interrogation despite the method's effectiveness, I confirm with no small amount of trepidation, "…Yes."

"And that children with no guardians are preyed upon by the worst humanity has to offer?"

"Yes, I know all of this." I complain impatiently, "Just get to where you are going. The melodrama is redundant."

"I may have to adjust my assessment that you are intelligent."

"Tuesti," I growl low in warning.

"Fine, if I must spell it out for you," he huffs out in annoyance.

"You are a condescending prick when you're angry."

"Something else we have in common," he acknowledges dismissively. "Now, while many detractors of legalized prostitution cite increased trafficking statistics of minors, which is unfortunately true, the enforcement of safe environments along with protection for those that do operate within the law is still far below the standards that need to be met, resulting in better camouflage for predators."

"You believe the execution of the current regulations is the main problem?"

"I do, and that if it is fixed, the numbers for this type of crime would drop off in time. The very fact of more trafficking, itself, indicates this, because more traffickers are being caught, more victims freed from their slavery, and more awareness is being raised to prevent such atrocities in the first place."

"But wouldn't it be likely to create an even worse existence for those that are abducted as the perpetrators are driven further underground and demand for the illicit increases?" I counter, reluctantly finding myself fascinated with the bemusing and irrelevant debate.

"Until everyone ever abducted is accounted for, it would be impossible to know for sure, we can only assume, but yes, it is likely and an evil that must be tolerated if eradication of the practice is to ever be achieved."

After considering his words carefully, I summarize slowly, "Then your theory of cause and correlation for the prevalence of sexual enslavement isn't that the frequency has increased because of legalized prostitution, but how often it is detected has? And that if the legal operation receives better oversight and safeguards, it will decline?"

"Yes!" he exclaims happily before tempering his excitement to admit, "But we won't know for certain unless the sex industry is destigmatized and protected just like every other form of employment, something that is important in its own right."

"And very important to you. Why?" I can concede that there may be valid deduction behind his views, but I am still puzzled by his evident enthusiasm on the issue.

He aims a patently judgmental glance at me and chides, "Do I really need a reason to be decent and support a marginalized group of people?"

"No, but this… seems personal."

With a quick shake of his head, he denies the allegation, "It's not, whatever you are implying. Actually, that I have been so blessed as to never suffer such a fate is the driving force for my actions and advocacy. It offends my delicate, sheltered sensibilities." He winks slyly and then his face brightens to a mischievous degree I have now been taught to dread. "Do you agree with me, then? Have I won?"

I make a disgruntled sound and grant him a graceless, grudging concession, "Your opinions might not be completely without merit." At his look of self-satisfied pleasure, I grit out querulously, "As usual. Have I won even a single disagreement with you?"

He trails his fingers over his goatee absently with one hand and gazes down at me consideringly, humming quietly to himself, before answering with fake seriousness, "You have. Twice by bodily coercing my compliance, and once with manipulative emotional blackmail, so three times altogether. That is… 'winning', of a sort," he finishes with a playful quirk to his lips.

"Excuse me for not being as adept as you at convincing others that night is day and breathing under water would be a good idea," I remark cynically. "Why were we even arguing to begin with? If you berating me can be called that."

"You used 'stripper' as an insult," he replies promptly.

"My mistake," I observe casually and then rake my eyes over his naked body with a heated, intentionally probing stare that lingers on his growing erection. "It definitely should have been a compliment and your recovery time is impressive…" Returning to meet his bashful stare, taking satisfaction in the blush now gracing his face, I add on sardonically, "And disturbing. Talking about the exploitation of victims turns you on?"

His flush deepens, but I suspect out of indignation as he glares darkly and crossly corrects me with, "No, it does not. I am turned on by arguing with you, or as you put it, berating you."

Fighting to keep from betraying my amusement, I declare with mock fury, "I knew it," and then begin to reach for his cock, only to end up glowering as he halts my attempt well out of touching distance with a hand around my wrist.

When I direct my forbidding gaze up to his own, he vows firmly, "If you don't let me get you off, no one is getting off any more tonight."

"That isn't necessary."

"Gaia, Tseng," he utters with enough thick, sharp frustration to startle me and I reflexively try to pull from his grasp, but he tightens his grip. "Do you want to be here or not? You forced yourself into my home and now into my bed, but you keep going hot and then cold! Make up your mind."

Have I been the one doing all of the pushing? No, he… he asked, begged, to kiss me and…

I quickly scour my memories of the recent events that led to this moment and feel the bottom of my stomach drop with a nauseous immediacy as a sickening, mounting disquiet settles in its place.

That's it. He's teased and flirted and provoked and repeatedly told me to leave him alone. The rest… the intimidation, the violation of boundaries, the violence, the assault… has been me.

"Reeve, I'm sorry."

"Now who's apologizing too much?" he quips.

"I'm serious," I insist solemnly, stuffing down the irritation that tries to rear its head at his baiting.

"And why are you sorry? What have you done that's managed to escape my very up close and personal attention?" Placing his hands to either side of my head on the pillow and leaning in closer to demonstrate his proximity, he maintains his humorous air in insulting denial of my gravity.

"May I explain without being interrupted?"

His forehead creases as he examines my expression thoroughly and the joking shine drains from him as he finally reciprocates my somber manner, before nodding and agreeing to my request, "Of course."

"There is no excuse for how I have mistreated you," I start and have to narrow my eyes at him when he immediately opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, as is his custom, but he obediently shuts it without a word in response. "You have been upfront, I think, about what you want from me and I have trampled, violently, all over what you have chosen. I have violated your consent and ignored your reasons, which, no matter how much I might disagree with, are valid because they are yours and should be respected. I should have respected you, and I failed in that so greatly I know no apology can ever begin to make amends, but I swear to you, from this moment forward, I will try to show you the respect and consideration you deserve."

During my speech, his features had arranged themselves into a studied, careful vacancy and I can read nothing from him. As the seconds tick by and I make a halfhearted plan in the back of my mind to seek out and destroy the clock, the churning unease within me steadily escalates when he merely stares down at me with that troubling blankness.

Unable to handle more of his lack of response, I prompt quietly, "Reeve?"

"Yes? Are you done? May I speak now?"

I had expected several reactions but the anger I can hear in his clipped voice was no one of them, and I cautiously tell him, "Yes, I'm done."

"Good, because I'm sick of listening to you place the blame for everything that's happened on yourself. It takes two to tango, you know."

The barrier I have locked my ire behind begins to collapse, the emotion rising up in defense against his own, and my tone is sharp when I reply, "I know that, but only one to abuse."

"You have not been abusing me! If anything, it's the other way around!" he proclaims loudly. "It's not all in your head, Tseng, I have been playing with you!"

"I know that, too!" My voice climbs to match his volume, but I reel it back in and continue with relative composure, "But just because you were asking for it, doesn't justify my behavior."

"It doesn't? Two seconds, please," he says, causing me to scowl in confusion, before abruptly pushing himself upright and crawling off of me, and then backwards off of the bed.

"What are you doing?" I ask as I rise to a seated position and watch him kneel on the floor, apparently searching for something in the pockets of his discarded slacks.

"You'll see, and then you might kill me," he states brightly and utters a strange, choked laugh. "You are… feeling a little more in control of yourself now, are you not?"

No, he wouldn't do that!

In spite of my automatic rejection of the implication in his words, what can only be described as terror flares brilliantly through my entire body momentarily and quickly burns itself out to be replaced with a numbing shock that I welcome with gratitude.

Eventually, he stands and turns to face me, his hunt obviously complete, and when he timidly reveals an activated Materia glowing radiantly in the palm of his hand, I feel nothing at all.