Happens just post-Advent Children, but assuming some Lullabye for the New World Order history.
Tseng was sorting his desk. An attack on the city always meant re-sorting his information, prioritizing the small fears and unrests that would always flare in the aftermath. The focus of the task was soothing.
Given the basic equation of fears and unrest, of course, it was predictable that he would be interrupted.
Rufus didn’t bang the door open. He opened and closed it behind him very precisely, the only sound a soft click of the latch. That was a far stronger danger sign than overt temper, and Tseng prudently laid down his files and pen, well out of the way. Rufus crossed the office with a measured step and laid a hand on the back of Tseng’s desk chair.
Tseng calmly tucked his knees back to keep from banging them on the desk as Rufus swung the chair sharply around and leaned over him. “Yes, sir?” he asked, leaning his head back to look up at the President. Rufus was steady on his feet, and the chair creaked under his grip; he looked entirely recovered from the Geostigma, and Tseng spared a moment of thanks to Aerith, wherever and whatever she had become now.
“You miscalculated the risk of going to the Northern Crater,” Rufus stated flatly. “Don’t let that happen again.”
“I will certainly endeavor not to,” Tseng answered dryly. Being tortured by broken fragments of Sephiroth’s spirit was not an experience he wanted to repeat.
“Do more than that,” Rufus ordered. “Understand me, Tseng. You do not have my permission to die.”
Tseng froze in his chair, staring up at Rufus. Even in this language, the words dove down into the center of him and rang there. Death, and the manner of it, were the final right of the humblest warrior. To safeguard his family and secure his honor, to deny the enemy, to choose his own end, all that was the right of any warrior whose determination did not fail him. To surrender it…
Protest struggled with a curl of hot response, wrapping around each other in his chest, and Tseng’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair.
Rufus caught his chin, burning blue eyes locked with his, fixing him in his chair sure as a sword thrust. “You do not have my permission, Tseng,” he repeated softly. “Not while I live.” Tseng could feel the force of Rufus’ will like the heat of a fire on his face, and the part of him that had waited so many years for Rufus to grow into his own soul couldn’t help but answer.
“I receive your command,” he murmured in his own tongue, measured and formal, acknowledging Rufus’ right. A corner of his mind remarked dryly that his family would have mass heart failure if they ever learned of this. A larger part was ruefully aware of how hard he was.
“Good.” Rufus’ thumb stroked along Tseng’s jaw slowly. “Then come here.”
Yes, Rufus had definitely noticed.
Tseng rose from his chair, and Rufus’ hands were on his belt, and as quickly as that he was bent over his desk with Rufus’ fingers in his ass. Tseng moaned low in his throat at the rough, slow stretch. The dry corner of his thoughts observed that the door was not locked and Reno never knocked. The part of him that was hot and hungry with his surrender to Rufus half hoped someone would come in, that someone else would witness the fire that Rufus was burning with and understand why Tseng offered his life and soul to it.
Rufus fucked him slow and hard, leaning over Tseng, hands running up and down his body. He could not have more clearly marked his possession without tattooing property of Rufus Shinra, do not touch across Tseng’s back. Possession… and protection. Even as Tseng panted with the hard, driving thrusts of Rufus’ cock into his ass, he could feel the gentleness in Rufus’ hands as they slid up under his shirt, careful of Tseng’s injuries even now they were healed. It was the care that drove a soft, unvoiced, “Lord,” out of Tseng, and when Rufus leaned down, chest against Tseng’s back, and whispered in his ear in the same language, “Yes,” Tseng came completely undone.
Rufus worked him through it and it wasn’t until Tseng was a limp, boneless mess sprawled across his desk that Rufus took his own pleasure. He had, Tseng reflected through the haze of satiation, learned a gratifying degree of control.
They rested against the desk for a while, quiet, and Tseng was content to stay there. He could feel the steadiness of Rufus’ heartbeat against his spine, and the easy heat of his body. Not fever-hot and not chilled. Healed and well again. The fear and fury that had, Tseng knew, kept him searching the Northern Crater long after the signs of danger would normally have sent him back to fetch reinforcements, finally eased all the way. He was relaxed enough to make a contented sound as Rufus’ fingers rubbed slowly up and down the nape of his neck.
“Remember,” Rufus said quietly.
“I won’t forget what I am,” Tseng returned, voice steady.
Rufus’ man. Life and soul.
There was an extra leash on what he could do in that cause, now, but that was all right. Fighting fate was already more or less Tseng’s job. He could add this to the list of things he tried to circumvent. And if that happened to cause a disagreement or two, or give Rufus reason to reassert his command…
Tseng smiled into the crook of his arm.