but they don't pay to hear that, he knows that. the clientele from shinra come to play hard with a pretty doll they can put back on the shelf when they're done, something they aren't responsible for fixing. under ordinary circumstances he knows what he's to say - to cant his hips down and press his lips to tseng's ear, breathe that he wants to be used like the two-bit slut he is. there's a reason there are full cure materias in the back, magical potential maxed out from extreme use.
but the way he asks strikes the wrong nerve. rubs raw against pride he shouldn't still have, arrogance that he should have dropped long ago.
whorish isn't a new term. he's heard it a thousand times, but never in thaat tone of voice. never so in such cloying tones, deceptively pleasant despite the under. tseng's voice is the sweet nectar, his eyes the infinite depths of the flytrap. cloud's used to disassociating, taking pleasure where he can get it and counting down the clock when he can't. he's used to it, to compartmentalizing, to gently sparing himself further pain by not opening his mouth.
his fingers walk a path up tseng's arm, trailing through the silky curtain of his hair. he'd always liked long hair, though he prefers silver to onyx. ]
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2020-05-15 04:40 am (UTC)but they don't pay to hear that, he knows that. the clientele from shinra come to play hard with a pretty doll they can put back on the shelf when they're done, something they aren't responsible for fixing. under ordinary circumstances he knows what he's to say - to cant his hips down and press his lips to tseng's ear, breathe that he wants to be used like the two-bit slut he is. there's a reason there are full cure materias in the back, magical potential maxed out from extreme use.
but the way he asks strikes the wrong nerve. rubs raw against pride he shouldn't still have, arrogance that he should have dropped long ago.
whorish isn't a new term. he's heard it a thousand times, but never in thaat tone of voice. never so in such cloying tones, deceptively pleasant despite the under. tseng's voice is the sweet nectar, his eyes the infinite depths of the flytrap. cloud's used to disassociating, taking pleasure where he can get it and counting down the clock when he can't. he's used to it, to compartmentalizing, to gently sparing himself further pain by not opening his mouth.
his fingers walk a path up tseng's arm, trailing through the silky curtain of his hair. he'd always liked long hair, though he prefers silver to onyx. ]
Do you really care what I like?