Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Title: Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sexual situations
Pairing: Rufus x Reno
Description: It's become a ritual every Friday night, but there's more to the cigarettes than just ashes and dust.
Author's Note: Just a first-person PWP from Rufus's point of view (first time writing him, and this POV to boot) regarding his relations with a certain red-haired Turk. Special thanks to mercystars for her wonderful help with the cigarettes/cigars and cases. Everything else I googled and kind of rounded up the price because obviously Shinra's spoiled vice president wouldn't settle for anything but the best. Oh yes, and since I've never smoked a cigar in my life, all the descriptions to that effect were pulled directly off random websites. So...uh...please forgive any discrepancies.
Disclaimer: I do not own Rufus, Reno, Shinra, or any of the characters and/or item brands used below. They belong to Squaresoft and their respective originating companies. I make absolutely no profit off of this.

He always enters with a swagger. Head cocked high, hands thrust deep in threadbare pockets, the ever-present smirk plastered all over his lean, angular face. A shock of red hair that looks like it had never seen the business end of a comb before was tied back in a loose ponytail (he had actually bothered, for once. I should be honored by the thought, if it weren't so amusing), its bangs splayed haphazardly across his forehead, kept there only by the grace of his pilot's goggles. The sharp reek of bourbon trails after him like a mongrel dog. It is Friday night, after all.

"You called for me, boss?"

"Reno. A pleasure you decided to honor us with your company today..." I glance absently at my wristwatch (Rolex Oyster Perpetual collection, 16 grand) "...twenty minutes late."

He just shoots me that crooked grin of his and shrugs, as if keeping the vice president of the most powerful company in Midgar waiting for nearly half an hour meant nothing to him. And it probably didn't, considering the kind of work he did here.

"Yeah well, you know how hectic Fridays can get."

I can't help but raise an eyebrow at this claim. "Sector 8 bars do tend to be fairly crowded at the end of the week, but that never stopped you from getting drunk, did it, Reno?"

"Never." The other man beams cheekily and saunters over to the mahogany executive's desk (Avolli antique Gongaga design, 35 grand) in the center of my office, one hand running lazily, carelessly across the newly polished surface. I make a mental note to tell the maid to clean it again tonight.

"So..." Partly to break the silence, partly to call a halt to Reno's continued abuse of my vintage furniture (he's scraping at the varnish with one fingernail now, no doubt trying his best to provoke me) I offer him a cigar (Junon Montecristo, 300 after certain...exclusive discounts) from my ivory-and-gold cigar case, its inside lined with genuine whale baleen harvested off the coast of Icicle Inn.

But Reno just chuckles, shakes his head as he always does. "Real kind of you boss, but you know I only smoke Camel unfiltered."

I shrug indifferently, expecting as much. "I thought if I extended the invitation enough times, one of these days, you would finally see the light and trade in those filthy weed sticks for something more...cultured."

"Then you'll be doing this for a very long time."

A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips at the barely veiled innuendo. "Do you enjoy being difficult, or is it just a natural inclination?"

"Little bit of both." He digs in his pockets several moments before coming up with a wrinkled pack of Camels, a pack that looks like it hadn't seen the light of day since the Planet began. Oblivious to its age, Reno clamps his teeth around one cigarette's straggly end and then proceeds to cast about for his lighter.

I watch this search continue for some time with detached amusement, knowing full well that if the other had not left the object of his hunt back at his apartment, he had probably lost it in a drunken tussle at the nearby bar. A few minutes pass before Reno finally turns his gaze on my own lighter (Colibri satin pearl, quarter grand), which I had casually brought out to admire, and reaches for it.

"Ah, ah." With a chuckle, I snatch it nimbly from his fingers. Ignoring the hurt look I receive (despite his tough-as-nails appearance, Reno still manages to put on an excellent puppy dog impression when he believes it will work to his advantage), I take a cigar deftly from my case and place it between my lips, letting my tongue roll expertly over the rounded end. A click and a flicker of flame, then the peppery flavor of cream and cinnamon, slightly burnt yet rich in its dusky undertones, fills my mouth like a sensual dream. Eyes shut, head tilted back, I savor that first, virgin taste for an inconceivably exquisite second.

"Aww, boss. Won't you share just a bit?" I fix Reno with a thoughtful look, pretending to consider his request with the utmost care before reluctantly acquiescing. But instead of handing over the lighter, I lean in suddenly to grasp his tie, pulling him forward just enough to touch the end of my cigar to his unlit cigarette. Puff and release. He lurches back, startled. I smile inwardly at having caught him off guard.

Silence descends like a pearly haze upon our little ritual, this shared enigma in the evening shadows. Privately, I relish this moment the most, more even than the wry banter and the impudent mockery and the raw sex afterwards, though he'll probably never understand that. There's an odd freedom in this lonely act, after all, which few, if any, understand. Later on, he will return to being a Turk, and I will once more be the Vice President, but for now...in this single, dimly lit room in the highest tower overlooking the entire city of Midgar...all that exists are two nameless men sharing a smoke.

He always breaks the silence first.

"Thought you had to have top clearance to get in here."

I allow just the hint of a smile to cross my face. "We can make...exceptions."

"Heh, oh yeah?" Smirking, Reno exhales a plume of smoke in my direction. "Like what?"

"Top secret military work. Weapons R&D. Exclusive security clearance is granted on a need to know basis, no questions asked." I chuckle smugly. "Keeps the paperwork to a minimum."

He stares back blankly for a second, then breaks into loud, raucous laughter, slim frame shaking with barely controlled mirth. "Hell, that's just like you Ru – I mean, boss. What'd you tell 'em this time? Mako reactors? Artillery construction? Special ops, the kind that start with 'blow' and end with – "

"That's quite enough," I snap, cutting him off before he can elaborate in more explicit detail on our evening activities. Trust Reno to get right to the heart of things. Always crude, always unpredictable. The man's insolence can be positively astounding, although it does make these meeting's ends that much the sweeter...

"Right you are, boss." Reno finishes his cigarette and crushes it (this time, thankfully) in the glass ashtray (Wutai crystal, market value around 2-3 grand) on the corner of my desk. "Shall we get to it then?"

I don't bother answering, just take two quick strides over and, setting my cigar aside, kiss him roughly on the mouth. Violent clash of teeth and tongue, smoky taste of ashes. His coarse smell of sweat and grime mixes with my cologne (Bvlgari Bvl, little over a hundred after various deductions), sending a heady rush of incongruities spinning through my senses. No pretense or perfection. There is beauty in this abrasion.

Tightly, my fingers wind through his hair, jerking him deliberately off-balance, twisting right down to the scalp as he struggles to maintain that careful distance between what I want and what his body desires. In the end, gravity wins, though not before I keep him hanging on the precipice for an interminable, tortured moment, delighting in the nervous way he tries to shuffle along with my every sway and move.

A slight pressure on the shoulders, and he instantly drops to his knees, too well-trained to even question. Works the belt loose as he's done so many times, unzips and takes my length in his mouth. Yet still, despite the countless evenings we've played through this exact same scene, a hiss escapes me at that first heated touch of tongue on skin, a sensation I can, and never will, get used to when it comes to him. Hands clenching in the tangle of crimson hair, I force him ever deeper. Obediently, he leans forward on hands and knees, licking and sucking his way up my cock, straining his throat to take in every last inch up to the hilt (the warm clench draws a gasp from my lips), working back down the shaft just like he does his cigarettes – slowly, wetly, expertly.

It doesn't take long for climax to come, a flurry of fire and light. Cigarettes. Flame. Ashes. New brand must have been laced with something potent, cloves or strong hemp perhaps. For some reason, all I can think of is the smoke we shared earlier, the electric tingle as one smoldering end met the other. That startled look in his eyes. Off guard, off balance...my vision blurs for a moment as I fight to regain self-control.

Composure. Composure is what I need.

Abruptly, I release my hold on his hair and stand up, reaching instinctively for my pocket handkerchief. It wouldn't do to stain the suit, after all, and the staff around here did tend to get nosy. White can be such a lovely color when properly worn.

"I trust you'll be here on time next Friday?"

"Of course," Reno replies lightly. "Where else would I go?" Without waiting for an answer, he turns and heads for the exit, clothes only slightly more rumpled than before, brash swagger already falling back into place. I watch until he gets past the door before responding.

"Home."

His last step is a stutter.