fic: gnashville snippets (ff7, zack/cloud)
Okay, so, like, have some fic, or rather some scenes from a real-world AU fic I started but haven't finished yet. Also Gongaga is in India because of reasons, well, specifically the Bengali region, namely because of stopthatgirl7's overanalyzing of linguistics and geography, to which chofi originally introduced me. I can't find the relevant post but have all of them instead. Title from WHY?'s song of the same name, idk.
Gnashville (snippets)
FF7 || PG-13 (language, suggestiveness) || Zack/Cloud || ~960 words
Zack's a world-class hacker, Cloud is the capable mechanic he gets to molest on a regular basis, and Sephiroth is the harried FBI agent trying to track them down before the ShinRa mob family does.
Scene 1
Cloud was a goddamn wizard, Zack decided. His baby was running smooth as cherry lube and purring in a sexy whisper.
“You better not replace me with your computer,” Cloud called from the kitchen, which was eerie, because he was totally out of the kid’s line of sight and how could he know Zack was all but molesting the laptop? And no one could really blame Zack for that because, holy crap, Cloud could work magic with wires and a couple hairpins. Goddamn MacGuyver. Whatever Cloud had done to the hardware had increased the computer’s processing to the point that Zack was sliding like an eel through firewalls in such a way that Sephiroth was going to think he was chasing a ghost. Or someone from The Matrix. Zack spent a pleasant moment dreaming of flying like Superman and kicking ass like he was fucking Bruce Lee or something. He didn’t think Cloud was ever gonna go for a leather catsuit, but that was what jerk-off fantasies were for.
“Earth to Superman,” said Cloud wryly, setting two beers and a bowl of what looked like Kraft Mac & Cheese on the coffee table before flumping down onto the couch beside Zack. The movement bounced them closer and left their thighs pressed together hip to knee, and yeah, this was turning out to be a sweet day.
Zack made grabby hands for the pasta. Cloud patiently passed it over, taking one of the forks stuck unceremoniously in the middle, and said, “I hope you appreciate this. I’m only making things with colors actually found in nature for the next week.”
“Cloud, if food isn’t at least ninety-nine percent preservatives and doesn’t look like something that came out of Chernobyl, then it isn’t American. Are you anti-American, Cloud? Are you the reason for Palin’s inexplicable rise to fame?”
“Yes.”
Zack blinked a few times. Cloud took the chance to knock the pasta off Zack’s fork and steal some for himself, and then Zack said, “You little punk,” and dumped a forkful of Mac & Cheese into Cloud’s bright yellow hair. “You can’t even tell the difference,” Zack crowed, and he ended up on the narrow strip of floor between the couch and the coffee table with beer soaking into his jeans, macaroni being ground in an indelible orange stain into the carpet under his back, and Cloud sprawled on top of him.
“Come here often,” he wheezed, and for the second time that day found himself with a hand down his jeans and a hot guy doing his best to demonstrate why homophobes were just jealous.
Scene 2
When he found a townhouse he liked, Cloud called Zack from a payphone.
“County Crematorium - you kill ‘em, we grill ‘em!”
“…Zack, how did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t.”
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“And yet you love me. What does that say about you?”
“That my mother dropped me on my head a few too many times as a child.”
Zack’s pout was nearly audible. Cloud said, “How does Castro sound?”
A long pause. “Are you talking the Castro District?”
“Yes.”
“The gayest community in the States?”
“Uh,” said Cloud.
“I’ll make sure to grab a flag on the way home, pumpkin.”
Cloud sighed and gave him the address.
“I’ll see you soon, honeybunch sugar-pie.”
Moving to San Francisco had a few advantages: one, the traffic was so bad that it’d take squad cars an hour just to cross an intersection, which would give Cloud and Zack enough warning to jump the fence, so to speak. Two, the crowds were easy to get lost in and Cloud’s hair was about as distinctive in this area as a sailor on the Village People lineup, making it that much more difficult for anyone to track them down by description alone. Three (and more for themselves than anything else), unlike in the Midwest, being in a gay relationship here was pretty much the new heterosexual.
“Hell,” Zack commented, thinking of long silver hair and too much black and leather, “even Sephiroth could manage here. They’d just think he was a drag queen in the bondage scene.”
Cloud hated himself for blushing.
So the two of them moved into one of the small Victorian houses that’d been divided into two separate homes. Cloud was pleased to find a small attached garage, and Zack was pleased to discover the family next door - mother, father, two kids, and a dog, all they needed was a goddamn white fence - was Indian. Their first night there, sitting on bare hardwood floor with their few boxes of crap stacked against the bare white wall, Zack came back from the neighbor’s with a huge pot of fish curry under a smaller bowl of rice.
“What’s this?” Cloud asked warily, and Zack declared, “Macher jhol! Eat it.”
Cloud did, and afterwards, sprawled over the floor beside the empty pot and his belly achingly full, he declared his love for the neighbors and decided he needed to take over a Nibelheim pie sometime.
“Good lord spare them from such a fate!” Zack wailed to the ceiling. As it turned out, the Banerjee family did like the Nibelheim pie, and it didn’t take long for Sunday evenings to turn into a friendly competition of cuisine. At one point Zack tried to play Chairman Kaga for his two favorite Iron Chefs, but when his flamboyant gesturing nearly knocked over a simmering pot Mrs Banerjee set her two young children on him.
“Cloud!” Zack cried as he crumpled to the kitchen floor under the weight of shrieking kids and a dog that came running over and started barking at the commotion. Cloud, obediently following Mrs Banerjee’s directions in preparing the rice for aaloo bhaate, neatly sidestepped one of Zack’s flailing limbs and said, “Please don’t scratch their floor, Zack.”
…
THEN THERE WERE MORE SHENANIGANS in which there was SNARK and BIKE!SEX and SEPHIROTH'S EXASPERATION but certainly nothing about being Batman.
Gnashville (snippets)
FF7 || PG-13 (language, suggestiveness) || Zack/Cloud || ~960 words
Zack's a world-class hacker, Cloud is the capable mechanic he gets to molest on a regular basis, and Sephiroth is the harried FBI agent trying to track them down before the ShinRa mob family does.
Scene 1
Cloud was a goddamn wizard, Zack decided. His baby was running smooth as cherry lube and purring in a sexy whisper.
“You better not replace me with your computer,” Cloud called from the kitchen, which was eerie, because he was totally out of the kid’s line of sight and how could he know Zack was all but molesting the laptop? And no one could really blame Zack for that because, holy crap, Cloud could work magic with wires and a couple hairpins. Goddamn MacGuyver. Whatever Cloud had done to the hardware had increased the computer’s processing to the point that Zack was sliding like an eel through firewalls in such a way that Sephiroth was going to think he was chasing a ghost. Or someone from The Matrix. Zack spent a pleasant moment dreaming of flying like Superman and kicking ass like he was fucking Bruce Lee or something. He didn’t think Cloud was ever gonna go for a leather catsuit, but that was what jerk-off fantasies were for.
“Earth to Superman,” said Cloud wryly, setting two beers and a bowl of what looked like Kraft Mac & Cheese on the coffee table before flumping down onto the couch beside Zack. The movement bounced them closer and left their thighs pressed together hip to knee, and yeah, this was turning out to be a sweet day.
Zack made grabby hands for the pasta. Cloud patiently passed it over, taking one of the forks stuck unceremoniously in the middle, and said, “I hope you appreciate this. I’m only making things with colors actually found in nature for the next week.”
“Cloud, if food isn’t at least ninety-nine percent preservatives and doesn’t look like something that came out of Chernobyl, then it isn’t American. Are you anti-American, Cloud? Are you the reason for Palin’s inexplicable rise to fame?”
“Yes.”
Zack blinked a few times. Cloud took the chance to knock the pasta off Zack’s fork and steal some for himself, and then Zack said, “You little punk,” and dumped a forkful of Mac & Cheese into Cloud’s bright yellow hair. “You can’t even tell the difference,” Zack crowed, and he ended up on the narrow strip of floor between the couch and the coffee table with beer soaking into his jeans, macaroni being ground in an indelible orange stain into the carpet under his back, and Cloud sprawled on top of him.
“Come here often,” he wheezed, and for the second time that day found himself with a hand down his jeans and a hot guy doing his best to demonstrate why homophobes were just jealous.
Scene 2
When he found a townhouse he liked, Cloud called Zack from a payphone.
“County Crematorium - you kill ‘em, we grill ‘em!”
“…Zack, how did you know it was me?”
“I didn’t.”
“I worry about you sometimes.”
“And yet you love me. What does that say about you?”
“That my mother dropped me on my head a few too many times as a child.”
Zack’s pout was nearly audible. Cloud said, “How does Castro sound?”
A long pause. “Are you talking the Castro District?”
“Yes.”
“The gayest community in the States?”
“Uh,” said Cloud.
“I’ll make sure to grab a flag on the way home, pumpkin.”
Cloud sighed and gave him the address.
“I’ll see you soon, honeybunch sugar-pie.”
Moving to San Francisco had a few advantages: one, the traffic was so bad that it’d take squad cars an hour just to cross an intersection, which would give Cloud and Zack enough warning to jump the fence, so to speak. Two, the crowds were easy to get lost in and Cloud’s hair was about as distinctive in this area as a sailor on the Village People lineup, making it that much more difficult for anyone to track them down by description alone. Three (and more for themselves than anything else), unlike in the Midwest, being in a gay relationship here was pretty much the new heterosexual.
“Hell,” Zack commented, thinking of long silver hair and too much black and leather, “even Sephiroth could manage here. They’d just think he was a drag queen in the bondage scene.”
Cloud hated himself for blushing.
So the two of them moved into one of the small Victorian houses that’d been divided into two separate homes. Cloud was pleased to find a small attached garage, and Zack was pleased to discover the family next door - mother, father, two kids, and a dog, all they needed was a goddamn white fence - was Indian. Their first night there, sitting on bare hardwood floor with their few boxes of crap stacked against the bare white wall, Zack came back from the neighbor’s with a huge pot of fish curry under a smaller bowl of rice.
“What’s this?” Cloud asked warily, and Zack declared, “Macher jhol! Eat it.”
Cloud did, and afterwards, sprawled over the floor beside the empty pot and his belly achingly full, he declared his love for the neighbors and decided he needed to take over a Nibelheim pie sometime.
“Good lord spare them from such a fate!” Zack wailed to the ceiling. As it turned out, the Banerjee family did like the Nibelheim pie, and it didn’t take long for Sunday evenings to turn into a friendly competition of cuisine. At one point Zack tried to play Chairman Kaga for his two favorite Iron Chefs, but when his flamboyant gesturing nearly knocked over a simmering pot Mrs Banerjee set her two young children on him.
“Cloud!” Zack cried as he crumpled to the kitchen floor under the weight of shrieking kids and a dog that came running over and started barking at the commotion. Cloud, obediently following Mrs Banerjee’s directions in preparing the rice for aaloo bhaate, neatly sidestepped one of Zack’s flailing limbs and said, “Please don’t scratch their floor, Zack.”
…
THEN THERE WERE MORE SHENANIGANS in which there was SNARK and BIKE!SEX and SEPHIROTH'S EXASPERATION but certainly nothing about being Batman.