The Pursuit of Pleasure

Pip Malloy

A/n-No place, plot wise. No reason, really. Wanted to write smut. Purely self indulgent. Purely. Don't want anyone to think this is a serious piece.

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“The things people do in the pursuit of pleasure.” Tseng observed, absently, as he kicked aside a pale blue dildo. Blood stained the tip of it, and it rolled to a halt near his hit, a pair of porn stars who had failed to pay protection to Shinra on time. Vincent paused in reloading the Widowmaker.

“People are motivated by pleasure, Tseng.” He lectured, softly. “You were once as they were, only living for your next high. Do not be so quick to judge them.”

“I’m not judging.” Tseng corrected, studying the half nude form before him. Dead, the woman showed all the signs of a harsh life make up and lighting sought to hide. “It just amazes me, now, to see all this, from the outside.”

Vincent strapped his gun back into place, then moved to the window, careful to avoid the pools of blood dotting the floor. “It’s getting light. We can file a report soon, then take the day off.”

“To pursue pleasure?” Tseng inquired, wryly, twining fingers through an industrial cuff mounted on the wall. Chains chimed, knocked against each other as he did so. “Do Turks do such things?”

“We are still human.” Vincent answered, moving back to the body. He checked it over, making sure the hit was obvious as to its executers.

“Yes, we are that.” A slim smile, dangerous. “I suppose you will spend it with the lovely Lucrecia.”

A shake of his head. “No. She is working today.”

Tseng caught his arm, turned him. “Will you spend it with me, then?” Murmured request, he moved closer, invading the other man’s space. “Will you persue your pleasure with me?”

“Tseng…” Warningly, soft. But burgundy eyes were darkening, melting.

“You are still human.” Tseng reminded him, pulling him back with nothing more than a breath and a promise. Close, so close he could hear heart beats, count irregularities and tempo.

“I cannot do this.” A protest. A request. Lips, almost touching, faux caress. “She…”

Lips touched, savage, seductive, demanding, stealing her name and thought from the tip of his tongue. Street taught moves, a touch of hipbones to bring groins together, tighten them. A stroke of fingertips, between buttons to find skin, searching out nipples. A hand, heavy, under shaggy hair to cup the back of his head and sip the poetry from his blood.

She had the poet’s soul, but Tseng had his passion.

“She is not like us.” Whispered, as positions were reversed. Harsh whispers dripping in hatred, in lust. Plaster pressed against an expensively tailored suit, and the jacket was torn open, buttons popped, soldiers, the last defense between him and the skin beneath. “She could not understand the need…” Teeth, on his ear, pulling, sharp pain. Down, to sooth at the neck, lave with tongue tip.

“She could not understand the sex in violence.” Nipples tortured, teased. The dim click as busy fingers locked cold metal around over heated wrists.

“Tseng!” A gasping reprimand, the world clicking into the sharp focus usually reserved for sniping missions. A jerk, and a rattling protest of chains.

“Could she do this for you, Vincent?” Returned to lips, pressing them together. “Could she understand the perversion inside without flinching? Would she accept the kink, because she needs it too?”

Response was taken, accepted greedily from poet’s lips. No delicacy, no intimacy, only need and driving lust, tearing at belts, at zippers. Skin against skin, reaching out to find it. The soft sounds of immortality, harsh breathing, burning words interrupted by the need to map the inside of the mouth. The rattle of chains, as they twist, wrap around joined hands, tighten, fingers losing the feeling so desperately needed elsewhere.

And triumph, and completion, and the dizzy loss of sense.

Deadened eyes watched every movement with the interest of a corpse, and later, police would find them curiously wide.