[ previous birthdays have always been easier to arrange, mostly because tseng has always had some level of access to rufus' living space. not so, here. he can't get in to rufus' room without rufus there to open the door, and asking him to do so would rather defeat the purpose of a birthday surprise, wouldn't it?
so instead, tseng settles for what he can manage. a cinnamon roll wrapped first in wax paper and then in tinfoil to keep it warm and moist; a thermos of coffee, although rufus is surely capable of making his own, but on your birthday it's nice if you don't have to. and in a small black box wrapped in dark grey ribbon, the actual gift: two golden coins, the same size and weight as gil would be, embossed with darkstar's likeness on one face so rufus knows which side is heads.
these all get put in a plain black gift bag and handed over to a staff member to be delivered to rufus at 10am sharp, along with a note from tseng, folded in half and tucked inside: this probably isn't how you wanted to spend it, but happy birthday, nonetheless.
[Everyone knows his birthday in Midgar, it feels like. It'd be difficult not to, when for years upon years it's been treated as all but a national holiday — ironic, really, in how even something as personal as that was never really about him, but about what his father could leverage toward his own benefit. The summer of 1977 had been one victory after another for Shinra: the first anniversary of Midgar's completion, the birth of the next generation of the company, the day Reactor One was approved to come online for the very first time.
And those were just the ones that the general population was permitted to know about.
Everyone knows his birthday in Midgar, but naturally most of his memories of the day itself are sour ones. Sour, that is, except for one tradition that never seems to fade — how even in confinement and disgrace, there would be at least a text and some understated kindness, inconspicuous and easily-overlooked by everyone except its intended recipient. Rufus would forget his own birthday before Tseng overlooks it; as in all things, Tseng is steadfast and predictable and consistent.
But even so, he's still just a little bit surprised when the knock at his door turns up, late enough in the morning that he gets to sleep in and luxuriate extravagantly in his bed, but early enough that he hasn't yet had time to wonder or doubt whether some sort of message will show up at all. That the bag and its contents come in nondescript black and shades of gray are classic Tseng: sleek and unassuming, and he's almost instantly curious about what could be inside as he takes the bag from the staffer and returns inside with an almost dragonish desire to covet the experience.
He finds the food first; not surprising, when the thermos is an obvious shape and the heat of the roll draws his notice. It's gooey and sticky and a little bit mashed from the trip up, and there's no one around to see or scorn Rufus as he pulls it apart with his fingers and shoves a piece into his mouth, licking the remains of the sugar away and sucking on them for good measure.
The box — what must be a gift — is small and light. Jewelry? Some sort of accessory? Cufflinks, maybe, or a watch chain. A keychain would suggest a sense of humor about the day out of Tseng that he has his doubts about, but still, not entirely unheard of.
He shoves another piece of roll into his mouth, wipes his hands, opens the box — and finds himself instantly at a loss, clutching the box in frozen fingers as he tries his damnedest not to drop it.
What gets him isn't, in and of itself, the coins — though the thought inherent in the gift absolutely gets him. It isn't that they're the perfect weight, the perfect size. It isn't that he can pluck one up and roll it effortlessly down the backs of his fingers and it feels just right, this tiny piece of familiarity that he'd been willing to sacrifice just like everything else, on the altar of his time spent here, and yet now all of a sudden he doesn't have to.
What gets him is —
It's the fact that someone had to make these. That Tseng had someone make these. That Tseng went out of his way to put Darkstar's image on these coins, for him, and made the likeness so exacting that he knew what it was from the moment he laid eyes on it. That she's not here, and he aches for how much he wishes she was, but now he has this. Now he has her, just this little bit of her, just like always.
Still idly toying with one of the coins, he opens his coffee and sips it, feeling the heat of the still-warm liquid go all the way down his throat and pool in the pit of his stomach, a physical echo of the warmth already buzzing over his nerves as he silently processes the reality of his gift.
Eventually, and perhaps not unexpectedly, he reaches for his watch.]
How should I spend it instead?
[No preamble, but he doesn't really need one. The confirmation of receipt is all inherent in the way he initiates the conversation as though they're already partway into it to begin with.]
[ it's only when his watch buzzes with the message from rufus that tseng realizes he was waiting for something like this, a confirmation that rufus had received the gift. he'd never needed a confirmation in years previous, again because of his access to rufus' living space and his ability to ascertain that the gifts would be left in places rufus would certainly find them—but now, relying on a staff member to get the bag where it's meant to go, he finds himself relieved by the message that clearly indicates the gift was received.
the relief immediately turns to... something, not quite anxiety, but perhaps some strange kind of anticipation once tseng has read and understood the question. how should rufus spend his birthday? one answer, which tseng can't bring himself to say; another answer, which calls back to something tseng said during that fateful morning in his suite's master bath, although tseng can't know for sure whether rufus will interpret it how it's meant. ]
But if I really wanted to get more favours out of you I'd tell you that I ran out of material and needed more °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° Since that isn't the case, have you considered that I maybe just want to get smoothies with you just because?
[ It's been some nebulous time after their little romp as monsters and while Hilda can say for certain that she hasn't been avoiding him (Why would she? Nothing about their run in had bothered her at all. Why would it?), she isn't sure that the same can be said about him.
Which is why she sends a very silly and probably stupid text. ]
So...are we ever going to talk about the daddy thing?
[He's not upset, honestly; upset isn't really the word for it. Conflicted might be a better one. Tumultuous. But he understands lying for the sake of the bit, and why she might've done it in the moment. Even knowing — even having seen his doppelganger, even knowing that. What mattered was keeping her safe and it'd worked.
It's just. He's really not sure how he feels about it.
But luckily, he's been working on precisely that already, since coming to the resort. Since starting to open up to himself about his preferences, and about not forcing things he doesn't like, and about settling into embracing things he maybe does like. So he's a lot less prickly than he could've been, otherwise. Just conflicted. Just thoughtful.]
[ Try that again with a little less defensiveness now, Hilda. ]
...I'm sorry. It was the first thing that came to mind and I have no idea why. In any other circumstance I would have asked. And it just goes to show that not all of my impromptu plans work out the way I'd hope.
[ Truthfully she doesn't know how she feels about it either. It had started out as a survival mechanism with a joke at its core, but it's difficult for her to deny that she had enjoyed it in some form. But whether that had to do with calling Rufus that, the knowledge that they may have had vampires watching them, or that it was Rufus himself is still something she has to parse out. ]
Christ. No, sorry, I've been working on Feiyu and one of its tentacles got a little too enthusiastic with the face of my watch. My apologies for the interruption, Mr. Shinra.
Hello, Rufus! This is Mercedes, we spoke on the network earlier this month about making some personalized items for Darkstar. I just finished a sample—I apologize for the wait, the recent athletic events around the resort took up some of my time.
[ attached is a picture of the neckerchief in a deep violet pattern. there are round carabiner clips sewn in at the ends to attach to darkstar's chain collar, and along the bottom is a neatly embroidered shinra in red thread. ]
If it's to your liking, I'd be pleased to give it to you at your convenience, but do let me know if there's anything you'd like me to change or add!
[ she hadn't actually been sure if this place was real, though a part of her had only just barely doubted its existence, even if it's the kind of place she never would have slipped into back at home. an anonymous sex club — if anyone really knew that tifa lockhart, good girl of the community, was stepping into, she's sure it'd have been the talk of the slums for all that they loved the gossip. but that home is beneath rubble these days, half the people trying to find shelter in wall market or sector five and the other half simply gone. and here she is, alive, caught up in a whole other world with her mind too hazy to think about what's really important. how could she focus on the real mission to protect the planet when her body feels on fire as it does?
the disguise is a little silly, with her hair wrapped up in a bun and tucked beneath a stylish hat, sunglasses to hide the familiarity of her crimson eyes. it might still be a little too obvious and maybe even strange considering that there's plenty of people here that may not even know who she is, but this choice she's making — it's something that only the impulses of her skin have drawn her towards, a desperation that her own stubbornness has refused to tell her own friends about out of the embarrassment of that clawing need inside.
the inside feels rather simple in its lobby, just a polite receptionist who doesn't even ask her name and simply guides her to the dressing room. it's hard to tell how much the disguise will actually hide who she is, since the white bunny mask still shows plenty of her face, long black hair falling over her bare shoulders. the black unitard is especially revealing, breasts large enough to nearly spill out the top, with those straps really putting in the work to hold up her cleavage. when she walks, the fishnet stockings stroke against her legs, somehow making her even more anxious, heat pooling between her thighs, as the want encourages her towards the back rooms.
it doesn't take look from there for the men to rally around her, sly cocky smiles unhidden even with their masks, those boasting expressions that say she should join them in one of the private rooms before they even extend the invitation. these men, all strangers, tight shorts and leather pants giving a full display of their hardened cocks underneath, the sultry echo of their voices playing it cool in just how badly they want to fuck her —
her back's against the wall before she even has a chance to respond, knowing this is exactly where her usual politeness isn't ideal to voice rejection as at least three or four men trying to talk over one another on who can have her. no, this is a natural fight or flight situation, her mind trying to urge her to simply leave when she doesn't actually want to be there, fists curling like she might land a punch on the first one of these men that might dare to lay a hand on her, but her body — she needs it, needs it, the lust so heavy beneath her skin that she practically freezes in place for the first time since she could remember. ]
i am so sorry for the lag, i've been working like 12 hour days this week
[When Rufus comes out to Cloaca and Dagger, he wears black. It's one of the benefits of being so heavily associated with a signature color; people grow to associate the clothes with the man, which makes it all the easier to escape his own identity by simply choosing something different. The sleek canine-inspired mask he tends to prefer for situations like this can't hide the intense blue of his eyes, nor can it completely conceal the telltale wisps of his ice-blond hair. But there are many blond men in the world, and many with blue eyes, and Rufus Shinra wears white, not black.
And Rufus Shinra would never be caught dead in a place like this, but here he is.
Speaking of being caught, he quickly becomes aware of the pretty dark-haired thing who gets cornered by the gaggle of clubgoers; it's something he's learned to watch for since beginning to frequent the seedier side of the Peacock, less out of altruism and more because it's a very convenient way of making new "friends". Most people who find themselves in a rough situation appreciate a timely rescue, and there's plenty he can get out of a person when they're feeling appreciative.]
There you are.
[He says, making his way over with confident strides and bypassing the crowd of strangers as though they aren't even there to begin with, keeping his eyes solely on the girl. Such lovely long dark hair — eerily familiar, though maybe he's just biased with fond memories of Tseng.
Regardless. Unlike the other men and their grasping fingers, he offers his own hand palm-up.]
You should've told me you wanted me to hunt you down, little rabbit, and I would've found you much sooner. Now come on; our champagne is waiting.
[ the words they exchanged over truth or dare stay with her during the days that follow, slipping back to the forefront of her mind like an involuntary memory set to a routine reminder, how difficult it is to forget the way she'd been cornered. most of her wants to remain angry about it all, but there's a sadness in it too, from the parts of her that wishes she hadn't been pulled in by all the violence, by the ever extending chaos that's become that much harder to reel back in.
she still doesn't believe that rufus shinra can do anything for her, that peace is a possible option between them — especially not when barret is here now too, where anything beyond the surface truce they've agreed upon, could only result in some unintentional feud. but tifa is still prone to offering more chances than most, even in this.
one step. that's at least the most she can try for. ]
your offer to have a drink with you — is it still open?
[Well. Now this is an unexpected text to receive, isn't it? The cynical part of him can't help but think, so much for wanting nothing to do with me, and yet there's another side still that's too cognizant of an opportunity to squander this one when it presents itself. There's evidently something going on that he's not aware of — AVALANCHE has categorically been far more hostile to his overtures than they ought to be, even given old animosities. There's more here that he's not aware of; maybe this is one way to find out some of what's going on under the surface.]
It is, with a caveat. If you're coming to my penthouse, you should know that Darkstar is here. If that's a concern for you, then we'll need to meet somewhere else.
[ rufus' gifts (and darkstar's, by association) are among the only that tseng delivers himself, mid-afternoon on christmas. he sets two black gift boxes in front of rufus' door, one of them tied with silver ribbon and marked for rufus and the other tied with gold and marked for darkstar.
the one for darkstar contains two packages of high-quality, handmade dog treats—real meat, no additives!—as well as a warming pad that will fit neatly inside or under the bed she has in rufus' bedroom. there's no card for her, since darkstar can't read, but tseng trusts rufus will convey his regards.
the one for rufus contains an impossibly soft, cozy but lightweight sweater, not in the cool blacks and blues and whites that rufus typically favors but, perhaps unexpectedly, in a rich deep shade of burgundy that tseng prefers. (it's a risk, he knows, but one he's willing to take at least once.) there are also four bottles of infused syrups for cocktails or other drinks, in flavors tseng knows rufus likes, and at the very bottom of the gift box, another smaller box containing a bracelet—a thin chain of silver, sturdy but unobtrusive, set with a single stone the exact color of rufus' eyes.
accompanying the gifts is a card that reads, ]
I don't know if I'll ever be good at the business of gifting, but I'd like to think I'm getting better at it little by little.
If you need ideas for how to use the syrups, I'm only a call away.
Tseng
[ the lack of formal address makes the note tellingly intimate, tseng knows, but he doesn't mind. ]
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text; un: cerberus (Backdated a bit to July 21st)
I'll pay you for your time.
This is Wriothesley.
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Though I assume it's not just my time you want.
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Payment can be whatever you wish within reason.
.
I prefer not to discuss matters on devices that are easily tracking our everything.
[Regardless if it actually matters or not given how the house obviously knows what they're up to most of the time.]
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( 8/13, morning )
so instead, tseng settles for what he can manage. a cinnamon roll wrapped first in wax paper and then in tinfoil to keep it warm and moist; a thermos of coffee, although rufus is surely capable of making his own, but on your birthday it's nice if you don't have to. and in a small black box wrapped in dark grey ribbon, the actual gift: two golden coins, the same size and weight as gil would be, embossed with darkstar's likeness on one face so rufus knows which side is heads.
these all get put in a plain black gift bag and handed over to a staff member to be delivered to rufus at 10am sharp, along with a note from tseng, folded in half and tucked inside: this probably isn't how you wanted to spend it, but happy birthday, nonetheless.
no "sir," this once. ]
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And those were just the ones that the general population was permitted to know about.
Everyone knows his birthday in Midgar, but naturally most of his memories of the day itself are sour ones. Sour, that is, except for one tradition that never seems to fade — how even in confinement and disgrace, there would be at least a text and some understated kindness, inconspicuous and easily-overlooked by everyone except its intended recipient. Rufus would forget his own birthday before Tseng overlooks it; as in all things, Tseng is steadfast and predictable and consistent.
But even so, he's still just a little bit surprised when the knock at his door turns up, late enough in the morning that he gets to sleep in and luxuriate extravagantly in his bed, but early enough that he hasn't yet had time to wonder or doubt whether some sort of message will show up at all. That the bag and its contents come in nondescript black and shades of gray are classic Tseng: sleek and unassuming, and he's almost instantly curious about what could be inside as he takes the bag from the staffer and returns inside with an almost dragonish desire to covet the experience.
He finds the food first; not surprising, when the thermos is an obvious shape and the heat of the roll draws his notice. It's gooey and sticky and a little bit mashed from the trip up, and there's no one around to see or scorn Rufus as he pulls it apart with his fingers and shoves a piece into his mouth, licking the remains of the sugar away and sucking on them for good measure.
The box — what must be a gift — is small and light. Jewelry? Some sort of accessory? Cufflinks, maybe, or a watch chain. A keychain would suggest a sense of humor about the day out of Tseng that he has his doubts about, but still, not entirely unheard of.
He shoves another piece of roll into his mouth, wipes his hands, opens the box — and finds himself instantly at a loss, clutching the box in frozen fingers as he tries his damnedest not to drop it.
What gets him isn't, in and of itself, the coins — though the thought inherent in the gift absolutely gets him. It isn't that they're the perfect weight, the perfect size. It isn't that he can pluck one up and roll it effortlessly down the backs of his fingers and it feels just right, this tiny piece of familiarity that he'd been willing to sacrifice just like everything else, on the altar of his time spent here, and yet now all of a sudden he doesn't have to.
What gets him is —
It's the fact that someone had to make these. That Tseng had someone make these. That Tseng went out of his way to put Darkstar's image on these coins, for him, and made the likeness so exacting that he knew what it was from the moment he laid eyes on it. That she's not here, and he aches for how much he wishes she was, but now he has this. Now he has her, just this little bit of her, just like always.
Still idly toying with one of the coins, he opens his coffee and sips it, feeling the heat of the still-warm liquid go all the way down his throat and pool in the pit of his stomach, a physical echo of the warmth already buzzing over his nerves as he silently processes the reality of his gift.
Eventually, and perhaps not unexpectedly, he reaches for his watch.]
How should I spend it instead?
[No preamble, but he doesn't really need one. The confirmation of receipt is all inherent in the way he initiates the conversation as though they're already partway into it to begin with.]
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the relief immediately turns to... something, not quite anxiety, but perhaps some strange kind of anticipation once tseng has read and understood the question. how should rufus spend his birthday? one answer, which tseng can't bring himself to say; another answer, which calls back to something tseng said during that fateful morning in his suite's master bath, although tseng can't know for sure whether rufus will interpret it how it's meant. ]
Any way you want.
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un: idlemaiden | text
[ His treat, naturally. ]
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[He is under no illusions that this is actually going to stop her but for the sake of form he's obligated to be a pillar of salt about it anyway.]
Second: is it really finished, or is this just another excuse to get favors out of me? :)
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What! I'd never.
But if I really wanted to get more favours out of you I'd tell you that I ran out of material and needed more °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° Since that isn't the case, have you considered that I maybe just want to get smoothies with you just because?
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un: idlemaiden | text
Which is why she sends a very silly and probably stupid text. ]
So...are we ever going to talk about the daddy thing?
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[He's not upset, honestly; upset isn't really the word for it. Conflicted might be a better one. Tumultuous. But he understands lying for the sake of the bit, and why she might've done it in the moment. Even knowing — even having seen his doppelganger, even knowing that. What mattered was keeping her safe and it'd worked.
It's just. He's really not sure how he feels about it.
But luckily, he's been working on precisely that already, since coming to the resort. Since starting to open up to himself about his preferences, and about not forcing things he doesn't like, and about settling into embracing things he maybe does like. So he's a lot less prickly than he could've been, otherwise. Just conflicted. Just thoughtful.]
It seemed to do the trick at the time.
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[ Try that again with a little less defensiveness now, Hilda. ]
...I'm sorry. It was the first thing that came to mind and I have no idea why. In any other circumstance I would have asked. And it just goes to show that not all of my impromptu plans work out the way I'd hope.
[ Truthfully she doesn't know how she feels about it either. It had started out as a survival mechanism with a joke at its core, but it's difficult for her to deny that she had enjoyed it in some form. But whether that had to do with calling Rufus that, the knowledge that they may have had vampires watching them, or that it was Rufus himself is still something she has to parse out. ]
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i'm so sorry for how late this is 😭 feel free to drop!!
un: witness / text
[ A message from the great beyond. Or the octopus. ]
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You're more incoherent than usual today, Mr. Mori.
Not all tied up, I hope.
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un: martritz / text
This is Mercedes, we spoke on the network earlier this month about making some personalized items for Darkstar.
I just finished a sample—I apologize for the wait, the recent athletic events around the resort took up some of my time.
[ attached is a picture of the neckerchief in a deep violet pattern. there are round carabiner clips sewn in at the ends to attach to darkstar's chain collar, and along the bottom is a neatly embroidered shinra in red thread. ]
If it's to your liking, I'd be pleased to give it to you at your convenience, but do let me know if there's anything you'd like me to change or add!
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This is exquisite. You seem to have captured perfectly what I'm in the market for.
There is, of course, still the question of your compensation.
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no worries and welcome back!!
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🖤 cloaca and dagger hell, if this works for you!!
the disguise is a little silly, with her hair wrapped up in a bun and tucked beneath a stylish hat, sunglasses to hide the familiarity of her crimson eyes. it might still be a little too obvious and maybe even strange considering that there's plenty of people here that may not even know who she is, but this choice she's making — it's something that only the impulses of her skin have drawn her towards, a desperation that her own stubbornness has refused to tell her own friends about out of the embarrassment of that clawing need inside.
the inside feels rather simple in its lobby, just a polite receptionist who doesn't even ask her name and simply guides her to the dressing room. it's hard to tell how much the disguise will actually hide who she is, since the white bunny mask still shows plenty of her face, long black hair falling over her bare shoulders. the black unitard is especially revealing, breasts large enough to nearly spill out the top, with those straps really putting in the work to hold up her cleavage. when she walks, the fishnet stockings stroke against her legs, somehow making her even more anxious, heat pooling between her thighs, as the want encourages her towards the back rooms.
it doesn't take look from there for the men to rally around her, sly cocky smiles unhidden even with their masks, those boasting expressions that say she should join them in one of the private rooms before they even extend the invitation. these men, all strangers, tight shorts and leather pants giving a full display of their hardened cocks underneath, the sultry echo of their voices playing it cool in just how badly they want to fuck her —
her back's against the wall before she even has a chance to respond, knowing this is exactly where her usual politeness isn't ideal to voice rejection as at least three or four men trying to talk over one another on who can have her. no, this is a natural fight or flight situation, her mind trying to urge her to simply leave when she doesn't actually want to be there, fists curling like she might land a punch on the first one of these men that might dare to lay a hand on her, but her body — she needs it, needs it, the lust so heavy beneath her skin that she practically freezes in place for the first time since she could remember. ]
i am so sorry for the lag, i've been working like 12 hour days this week
And Rufus Shinra would never be caught dead in a place like this, but here he is.
Speaking of being caught, he quickly becomes aware of the pretty dark-haired thing who gets cornered by the gaggle of clubgoers; it's something he's learned to watch for since beginning to frequent the seedier side of the Peacock, less out of altruism and more because it's a very convenient way of making new "friends". Most people who find themselves in a rough situation appreciate a timely rescue, and there's plenty he can get out of a person when they're feeling appreciative.]
There you are.
[He says, making his way over with confident strides and bypassing the crowd of strangers as though they aren't even there to begin with, keeping his eyes solely on the girl. Such lovely long dark hair — eerily familiar, though maybe he's just biased with fond memories of Tseng.
Regardless. Unlike the other men and their grasping fingers, he offers his own hand palm-up.]
You should've told me you wanted me to hunt you down, little rabbit, and I would've found you much sooner. Now come on; our champagne is waiting.
no worries at all! i'm more than happy to backtag through it
<3
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ok but the spiderman pointing after this is going to be so fucking funny
it's gonna be so beautifully disastrous, i can't wait
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text — un: tifa ( days after truth or dare )
she still doesn't believe that rufus shinra can do anything for her, that peace is a possible option between them — especially not when barret is here now too, where anything beyond the surface truce they've agreed upon, could only result in some unintentional feud. but tifa is still prone to offering more chances than most, even in this.
one step. that's at least the most she can try for. ]
your offer to have a drink with you — is it still open?
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It is, with a caveat. If you're coming to my penthouse, you should know that Darkstar is here. If that's a concern for you, then we'll need to meet somewhere else.
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( 12/25 ) — special delivery
the one for darkstar contains two packages of high-quality, handmade dog treats—real meat, no additives!—as well as a warming pad that will fit neatly inside or under the bed she has in rufus' bedroom. there's no card for her, since darkstar can't read, but tseng trusts rufus will convey his regards.
the one for rufus contains an impossibly soft, cozy but lightweight sweater, not in the cool blacks and blues and whites that rufus typically favors but, perhaps unexpectedly, in a rich deep shade of burgundy that tseng prefers. (it's a risk, he knows, but one he's willing to take at least once.) there are also four bottles of infused syrups for cocktails or other drinks, in flavors tseng knows rufus likes, and at the very bottom of the gift box, another smaller box containing a bracelet—a thin chain of silver, sturdy but unobtrusive, set with a single stone the exact color of rufus' eyes.
accompanying the gifts is a card that reads, ]
I don't know if I'll ever be good at the business of gifting, but I'd like to think I'm getting better at it little by little.
If you need ideas for how to use the syrups, I'm only a call away.
Tseng
[ the lack of formal address makes the note tellingly intimate, tseng knows, but he doesn't mind. ]
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Hello. Have a spare minute to talk? -R
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1/2
2/3 i was wrong
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@tseng / text
[ it's a late-night text, after all, and tseng doesn't want to flood his inbox if he isn't. ]
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