Advantage - Rufus/Cloud - for Vasher - NC-17
Title: Advantage
For: vasher
Medium: fiction
Request: FFVII AC, Rufus and Cloud
Fandom: FFVII
Characters/Pairings: Rufus/Cloud, mention of Turks
Rating/Warnings: THIS EARNED A RATING OF “PORN”. No, seriously. NC-17, NWS. For powerstruggle, dub-con, oral sex. Um. SORRY?
Feedback: GIVE IT TO ME HARD.
Spoilers: Well, if you haven’t seen the movie by now ...
Word Count: 1683
Summary: No Summary. Too PWP for summary. It just is.
Notes: OMG, I COULD NOT GET A PLOT TO FIT IN THIS NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRIED. AND I TRIED HARD. HARD LIKE RUFUS. So, after much deliberation ... uhm. Yeah. Smut. Smut is the answer to all problems. Uhm. Pretty sure they both have shitty characterization; I am not good at Rufus-in-sexual-situations-that-don’t-involve-Reno-or-Tseng-or-both, but I’m better at that than I am at Sephiroth (period), and I just don’t write Seifer/Squall, kthxbai.
Uhm. That was a long AN. OFF TO THE SMUT.
---
The kiss takes him off guard. A hand, rough on his chin, turns his head, and there are Ice-cool lips against his, moving with as much talent as he can vaguely remember (or perhaps not) from nights in SOLDIER barracks, which only makes him groan in a distaste that makes the other press harder. There are no nipping lips like he pseudo-remembers; more grace than that, the lips are softer, he can smell no alcohol though he can taste it. He supposes his only real complaint is that he wasn’t expecting in; he’s grown to hate surprises.
Rufus’ lips are red and swollen and covered in spit when he pulls back. He’s frowning, and Cloud has half a mind to ask what he’s frowning about, he’s not the one who just got ambushed, but then Rufus is licking the corner of his mouth lewdly and leaning back against the desk.
Cloud says, “You didn’t ask me here for this,” but it comes out as more of a question than he meant. Rufus smirks-he’s been spending too much time around his damn Turks-and is playing with the buttons on his jacket. Even though the Geostigma is gone from his flesh, his hands shake, and there’s a strange, vague-scar around his eye where the patch was months earlier; it reaches down toward his mouth and Cloud almost spits.
“The reason for my call wasn’t exactly disclosed, Cloud,” is all Rufus says, and by then Cloud is already turning away, scowling to himself and wiping his mouth.
He stops at the door when Rufus says, “You understand that, should you leave, the least of your problems will be getting passed my Turks.”
When Cloud looks back, Rufus has his shotgun out oh-so nonchalantly, as though it were just another accessory. Again, there was that soft little flick of the tongue, and then Cloud was asking, “What do you want?”
Rufus chuckles. “Bad choice, Cloud.” He leans the gun against his desk, and circles around to the other side, pressing his palms to the top and still managing to sprawl like a cat as he says, “Lock the door, would you?” and kills the main light in the room. Edge glows beneath them, and Cloud, locking the door (and hating his obedience), thinks he can pick out the sparkle of light where Seventh Heaven is.
He stares at the window, and Rufus half-demands, “Do you have somewhere you need to be, Cloud?” He hates how his name sounds of Rufus’ tongue, and walks to the desk, hoping he looks as angry and frustrated as he feels. Rufus laughs, and stands from his chair. He goes around the room, flicking off the floor lamps and the one side-lamp, until there is only Edge far below, and Cloud can barely see his reflection in the glass.
Rufus steps up behind him. Cloud doesn’t remember the older man being as short as he is, but Rufus’ chin does indeed barely clear Cloud’s shoulder in the reflection. His hands are cool through Cloud’s shirt, and Cloud holds as still as he can while the hands slide downward. At his stoicism, Rufus chuckles maliciously; “Am I going to have to make you enjoy this?”
He grumbles over the buckles and belts and clinging fabric, and when his knuckles graze Cloud’s stomach, then he reacts-a controlled movement that makes Rufus gasp in pain and stumble back a few paces as Cloud falls into an open-handed fighting stance, wishing he had a sword or anything, anything to use against this-.
Cloud doesn’t remember the older man being so fast, but he gasps when Rufus rushes him and shoves him into the desk, bending him back a little and pressing close (too close), until Rufus’ breath is hot on Cloud’s face and his hands are cold just under the edge of Cloud’s shirt. Their hips touch intimately, and Rufus rocks against him. There are too many layers of fabric between them, but Cloud is tense, and Rufus just grins at him like this lecher.
Rufus’ lips are still Ice-cold. The finger tips of his right hand leave his shirt to trail along the side of his face as he uses the entire left side of his body to hold Cloud still and start prying the clothing off him. Cloud fights back, but not in earnest-there are Turks out there, and if he causes any real damage to the prick, there’ll be hell to pay-and Rufus makes a noise that’s almost half way between a laugh and a snarl of frustration.
“What’s your problem?”
Cloud wants to say Get off, but that sounds too much like begging or whining so he just stays quiet as Rufus rocks against him and holds him still, which really doesn’t serve any purpose because Cloud has stopped moving. Rufus stops trying to hold him still after a minute and takes his hands off Cloud to plant them on either side of his head on the desk. He bends and kisses Cloud’s lower lip almost affectionately, hips still rocking slowly against Cloud’s; Cloud is half ashamed to feel his feet sliding slowly apart and the coiling heat in his groin.
Rufus sucks on his lip, bites it hard, then pulls back. Cloud stares at the bare, faint scar once more and wonders if it is from Geostigma-for only half a moment and then Rufus is kissing him more fiercely and returning to trying to get their clothes off. The tripping fumble of his fingers, the shake in the very tips, the way his breath gusts in between hard kisses: they remind Cloud too much of the barracks, and he shoves Rufus off of him after too long. Rufus growls, legs little more than shoulder-width apart, chest heaving, straining but still devilishly in control-.
“Not that.” It’s almost a question again, and Cloud thinks he must sound so young. Rufus cocks a brow cynically, but then his lips spread in this mean little smirk and he steps away from Cloud. Cloud leans up onto his elbows, watches Rufus’ casual slump against the wall next to the window.
“So, what then, Cloud?” He drops his jacket then, then his waist coat. He looks much smaller without those two layers. Cloud climbs delicately off the desk, and slowly walks toward him. Rufus smirks and shakes his hair out of his eyes. “You didn’t seem to mind it there for a second.” And he laughs. Bastard. Bastard. But Cloud won’t say it.
When Cloud is in his reach, Rufus slips the belt on the shoulder guard (it drops with a startling clatter) and pulls the zipper on Cloud’s shirt before he can say anything. He pulls Cloud closer by the waist of his pants, and bites his lower lip again.
His hands are not so cold any more, but they’re only slightly warm-or maybe it’s Cloud’s own skin, maybe he’s burning up when Rufus touches his face and then his shoulder and slowly pushes him down until the carpeted floor of Rufus’ office is under his knees and he’s eye level with the bastard’s crotch. Rufus doesn’t look down at him, and only touches his shoulder (his other hand is pressed to the wall, like he’s weak-kneed). It makes Cloud just a little less nervous and flighty.
Cloud doesn’t think, just shuts his eyes and lifts his hands, and maybe he can just keep his eyes closed, so when he opens them this will all have been a very bad dream. It won’t be the first time he’s wished it.
He chokes for a second, when Rufus groans quietly and his hips surge forward. It’s been years since Cloud’s done this, and he pulls back to Rufus’ uncertain laughter high above him. It earns Rufus a little scrape of the teeth, which makes him swear harshly but also seems to keep him from thrusting again. After that, he goes slower anyway.
He remembers, after all the years, the feel first, which doesn’t surprise him. Before long he can remember doing this and remember what might make Rufus-. And then he remembers the smell and the taste and one of the reasons why he hates doing this, as the cock slides over his tongue and he grips Rufus’ hips and Rufus makes strained little noises.
Rufus’ hand never leaves Cloud’s shoulder, never buries in his hair or anything. He touches the back of Cloud’s neck once; his fingers flex, and burn on Cloud’s skin now.
Right at the end, Rufus makes sharp, sudden sounds, muffled by Cloud doesn’t know what, maybe his own clenched teeth, and Cloud doesn’t ask if he’s allowed to spit, he just swallows hard around Rufus’ cock and some hard little part of him hopes that teaches him a lesson. He rocks back onto his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he grabs his shirt and shoulder guard.
When he stands, Rufus somehow has the wits to grab him and throw him up against the wall. It’s skin warm. Cloud struggles for a moment, keeps his mouth shut when Rufus touches his crotch too intimately. Rufus chuckles huskily in his ear.
“Not even a little interested, Cloud?”
“Get off me,” he hisses. He doesn’t know where the anger came from. “You got what you wanted.” He shoulders Rufus off him. Rufus carefully (barely) hides the hurt in his eyes. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and nod as Cloud rights his clothing as though nothing happened.
“Tseng will escort you to the carpark,” Rufus tells Cloud. Cloud nods and can’t look at Rufus. He approaches the door, and is stopped when Rufus catches his arm.
The kiss takes him off guard. Rufus’ tongue invades his mouth, slowly and languidly, and Cloud finds himself actually returning the kiss for a second before Rufus pulls away and licks his lips. Cloud stares at the almost-scar again, and doesn’t say a word.
Rufus lets him go at that.
For: vasher
Medium: fiction
Request: FFVII AC, Rufus and Cloud
Fandom: FFVII
Characters/Pairings: Rufus/Cloud, mention of Turks
Rating/Warnings: THIS EARNED A RATING OF “PORN”. No, seriously. NC-17, NWS. For powerstruggle, dub-con, oral sex. Um. SORRY?
Feedback: GIVE IT TO ME HARD.
Spoilers: Well, if you haven’t seen the movie by now ...
Word Count: 1683
Summary: No Summary. Too PWP for summary. It just is.
Notes: OMG, I COULD NOT GET A PLOT TO FIT IN THIS NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRIED. AND I TRIED HARD. HARD LIKE RUFUS. So, after much deliberation ... uhm. Yeah. Smut. Smut is the answer to all problems. Uhm. Pretty sure they both have shitty characterization; I am not good at Rufus-in-sexual-situations-that-don’t-involve-Reno-or-Tseng-or-both, but I’m better at that than I am at Sephiroth (period), and I just don’t write Seifer/Squall, kthxbai.
Uhm. That was a long AN. OFF TO THE SMUT.
---
The kiss takes him off guard. A hand, rough on his chin, turns his head, and there are Ice-cool lips against his, moving with as much talent as he can vaguely remember (or perhaps not) from nights in SOLDIER barracks, which only makes him groan in a distaste that makes the other press harder. There are no nipping lips like he pseudo-remembers; more grace than that, the lips are softer, he can smell no alcohol though he can taste it. He supposes his only real complaint is that he wasn’t expecting in; he’s grown to hate surprises.
Rufus’ lips are red and swollen and covered in spit when he pulls back. He’s frowning, and Cloud has half a mind to ask what he’s frowning about, he’s not the one who just got ambushed, but then Rufus is licking the corner of his mouth lewdly and leaning back against the desk.
Cloud says, “You didn’t ask me here for this,” but it comes out as more of a question than he meant. Rufus smirks-he’s been spending too much time around his damn Turks-and is playing with the buttons on his jacket. Even though the Geostigma is gone from his flesh, his hands shake, and there’s a strange, vague-scar around his eye where the patch was months earlier; it reaches down toward his mouth and Cloud almost spits.
“The reason for my call wasn’t exactly disclosed, Cloud,” is all Rufus says, and by then Cloud is already turning away, scowling to himself and wiping his mouth.
He stops at the door when Rufus says, “You understand that, should you leave, the least of your problems will be getting passed my Turks.”
When Cloud looks back, Rufus has his shotgun out oh-so nonchalantly, as though it were just another accessory. Again, there was that soft little flick of the tongue, and then Cloud was asking, “What do you want?”
Rufus chuckles. “Bad choice, Cloud.” He leans the gun against his desk, and circles around to the other side, pressing his palms to the top and still managing to sprawl like a cat as he says, “Lock the door, would you?” and kills the main light in the room. Edge glows beneath them, and Cloud, locking the door (and hating his obedience), thinks he can pick out the sparkle of light where Seventh Heaven is.
He stares at the window, and Rufus half-demands, “Do you have somewhere you need to be, Cloud?” He hates how his name sounds of Rufus’ tongue, and walks to the desk, hoping he looks as angry and frustrated as he feels. Rufus laughs, and stands from his chair. He goes around the room, flicking off the floor lamps and the one side-lamp, until there is only Edge far below, and Cloud can barely see his reflection in the glass.
Rufus steps up behind him. Cloud doesn’t remember the older man being as short as he is, but Rufus’ chin does indeed barely clear Cloud’s shoulder in the reflection. His hands are cool through Cloud’s shirt, and Cloud holds as still as he can while the hands slide downward. At his stoicism, Rufus chuckles maliciously; “Am I going to have to make you enjoy this?”
He grumbles over the buckles and belts and clinging fabric, and when his knuckles graze Cloud’s stomach, then he reacts-a controlled movement that makes Rufus gasp in pain and stumble back a few paces as Cloud falls into an open-handed fighting stance, wishing he had a sword or anything, anything to use against this-.
Cloud doesn’t remember the older man being so fast, but he gasps when Rufus rushes him and shoves him into the desk, bending him back a little and pressing close (too close), until Rufus’ breath is hot on Cloud’s face and his hands are cold just under the edge of Cloud’s shirt. Their hips touch intimately, and Rufus rocks against him. There are too many layers of fabric between them, but Cloud is tense, and Rufus just grins at him like this lecher.
Rufus’ lips are still Ice-cold. The finger tips of his right hand leave his shirt to trail along the side of his face as he uses the entire left side of his body to hold Cloud still and start prying the clothing off him. Cloud fights back, but not in earnest-there are Turks out there, and if he causes any real damage to the prick, there’ll be hell to pay-and Rufus makes a noise that’s almost half way between a laugh and a snarl of frustration.
“What’s your problem?”
Cloud wants to say Get off, but that sounds too much like begging or whining so he just stays quiet as Rufus rocks against him and holds him still, which really doesn’t serve any purpose because Cloud has stopped moving. Rufus stops trying to hold him still after a minute and takes his hands off Cloud to plant them on either side of his head on the desk. He bends and kisses Cloud’s lower lip almost affectionately, hips still rocking slowly against Cloud’s; Cloud is half ashamed to feel his feet sliding slowly apart and the coiling heat in his groin.
Rufus sucks on his lip, bites it hard, then pulls back. Cloud stares at the bare, faint scar once more and wonders if it is from Geostigma-for only half a moment and then Rufus is kissing him more fiercely and returning to trying to get their clothes off. The tripping fumble of his fingers, the shake in the very tips, the way his breath gusts in between hard kisses: they remind Cloud too much of the barracks, and he shoves Rufus off of him after too long. Rufus growls, legs little more than shoulder-width apart, chest heaving, straining but still devilishly in control-.
“Not that.” It’s almost a question again, and Cloud thinks he must sound so young. Rufus cocks a brow cynically, but then his lips spread in this mean little smirk and he steps away from Cloud. Cloud leans up onto his elbows, watches Rufus’ casual slump against the wall next to the window.
“So, what then, Cloud?” He drops his jacket then, then his waist coat. He looks much smaller without those two layers. Cloud climbs delicately off the desk, and slowly walks toward him. Rufus smirks and shakes his hair out of his eyes. “You didn’t seem to mind it there for a second.” And he laughs. Bastard. Bastard. But Cloud won’t say it.
When Cloud is in his reach, Rufus slips the belt on the shoulder guard (it drops with a startling clatter) and pulls the zipper on Cloud’s shirt before he can say anything. He pulls Cloud closer by the waist of his pants, and bites his lower lip again.
His hands are not so cold any more, but they’re only slightly warm-or maybe it’s Cloud’s own skin, maybe he’s burning up when Rufus touches his face and then his shoulder and slowly pushes him down until the carpeted floor of Rufus’ office is under his knees and he’s eye level with the bastard’s crotch. Rufus doesn’t look down at him, and only touches his shoulder (his other hand is pressed to the wall, like he’s weak-kneed). It makes Cloud just a little less nervous and flighty.
Cloud doesn’t think, just shuts his eyes and lifts his hands, and maybe he can just keep his eyes closed, so when he opens them this will all have been a very bad dream. It won’t be the first time he’s wished it.
He chokes for a second, when Rufus groans quietly and his hips surge forward. It’s been years since Cloud’s done this, and he pulls back to Rufus’ uncertain laughter high above him. It earns Rufus a little scrape of the teeth, which makes him swear harshly but also seems to keep him from thrusting again. After that, he goes slower anyway.
He remembers, after all the years, the feel first, which doesn’t surprise him. Before long he can remember doing this and remember what might make Rufus-. And then he remembers the smell and the taste and one of the reasons why he hates doing this, as the cock slides over his tongue and he grips Rufus’ hips and Rufus makes strained little noises.
Rufus’ hand never leaves Cloud’s shoulder, never buries in his hair or anything. He touches the back of Cloud’s neck once; his fingers flex, and burn on Cloud’s skin now.
Right at the end, Rufus makes sharp, sudden sounds, muffled by Cloud doesn’t know what, maybe his own clenched teeth, and Cloud doesn’t ask if he’s allowed to spit, he just swallows hard around Rufus’ cock and some hard little part of him hopes that teaches him a lesson. He rocks back onto his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he grabs his shirt and shoulder guard.
When he stands, Rufus somehow has the wits to grab him and throw him up against the wall. It’s skin warm. Cloud struggles for a moment, keeps his mouth shut when Rufus touches his crotch too intimately. Rufus chuckles huskily in his ear.
“Not even a little interested, Cloud?”
“Get off me,” he hisses. He doesn’t know where the anger came from. “You got what you wanted.” He shoulders Rufus off him. Rufus carefully (barely) hides the hurt in his eyes. He shakes his hair out of his eyes and nod as Cloud rights his clothing as though nothing happened.
“Tseng will escort you to the carpark,” Rufus tells Cloud. Cloud nods and can’t look at Rufus. He approaches the door, and is stopped when Rufus catches his arm.
The kiss takes him off guard. Rufus’ tongue invades his mouth, slowly and languidly, and Cloud finds himself actually returning the kiss for a second before Rufus pulls away and licks his lips. Cloud stares at the almost-scar again, and doesn’t say a word.
Rufus lets him go at that.