Final Fantasy VII (Reno/Rude)
Title: Gunshot Echo
Author: sister_coyote
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex
Word count: 750
Summary: You can piece a lot together from just sound.
Prompt: Final Fantasy VII, Rude/Reno: Talking someone to orgasm - over the wire and into the darkness.
"You almost done?" Reno slid his thumb over the helicopter's cyclic. "It's fucking boring up here."
There was a hiss of static, and then Rude's voice, dry and sharp in his ear, "Don't rush me."
Reno eased on the cyclic, coaxing the helicopter to circle over the mess of broken buildings. His other hand rested light on his thigh, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. "You know I'd come down there if there was somewhere I could put down."
Rude made a little acknowledging noise. Reno heard the scratch of footsteps on gravel, and then the familiar creak of Rude's gloves. He let his eyes fall half-lidded, imagining the flex of Rude's fists. "Need air support?"
"Got it covered," Rude said in an undertone, and then, over the headset, Reno heard the thump of feet and then the heavy sound of a fist hitting flesh. Once, twice, a pause, a scuffle, and then again, punctuated by grunts and heavy breathing. Behind his eyelids, Reno could see Rude's shoulder and arm moving within his jacket, the savage controlled blows falling one after another. If there'd been a place in the ruin that could bear the chopper's weight, he'd've been there in a second, tasting the ozone on the air from the exposed crackle of his e-mag. As it was, he did the next best thing. With the palm of one hand he gave the cyclic another lazy nudge, keeping the chopper circling. With the other hand he thumbed open his pants and pulled the zipper down.
When the scuffling and muffled blows came to a stop, and all he could hear was Rude's heavy breathing, he stroked himself hard and said, "Taken care of?"
"Mm," Rude said. "You talk too much."
"One of us has to." He gave the chopper another little nudge and stroked himself again, again, imagining Rude sweaty and catching his breath. "You about done?"
"I -- " Rude said, and was interrupted by a sharp crack. Reno's ears rang. He heard, dimly, the sound of swearing, and then more cracks -- gunshots. When he heard the thud and crackle he knew Rude had gone up against the wall. He thumbed the head of his cock and caught his breath.
Rude didn't say anything. He never did. Reno could hear his breathing, could see in his mind's eye Rude standing -- no, crouching, crouching to make a smaller target -- against a wall, the long line of his arm and shoulder, eyes masked and mirrored behind dark shades. Gunshots, and he could as good as smell the smoke and brickdust and gunpowder on the air, and the sheen of sweat on the back of Rude's neck, reflecting sunlight -- sunlight obscured more each moment, as the air clouded.
He pieced together from the sounds, the way Rude's breath sped, the sound of frantic footsteps, the crackle and hiss of static. He could see Rude running in time with those pounding steps, the way he ran with his head down, a lot faster than anyone expected from such a big guy -- running and then, as the headset squealed in protest, leaping. Another heavy sound of flesh meeting flesh, a grunt, and then the squeaky crunch of sliding on gravel. He could see Rude three-point landing and then -- yes -- without even getting up a savage kick (probably to a kneecap?) that resulted in a popping sound, a muffled howl of pain.
His teeth caught his lip and he rolled his head back, not quite closing his eyes all the way because he wasn't stupid but lidding heavy because he couldn't help it, with nothing behind his eyes but darkness and what he could imagine, and pictured Rude getting to his feet -- the scrape of gravel again, the sound of his tread -- and then the crack of the gun.
He was so close he was beginning to see sparks at the edges of his vision when Rude said, "You're jerking off, aren't you?"
"Wanna get back up here and gimme a hand?" Reno breathed, his breath hitching.
"Would've given you more than a hand," Rude said, low, "if you'd had a little patience," and that was enough to send Reno over the edge, shuddering and jerking his hips and spilling warm over his knuckles. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked the back of his hand, absently.
"Then I'll give you a hand when you get back up here." Reno nudged the chopper down.
"Better," Rude said, his voice low with after-battle adrenaline, the faint compelling bass note of menace. "Appears you owe me for a show."
"Damn straight," Reno said.
Author: sister_coyote
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex
Word count: 750
Summary: You can piece a lot together from just sound.
Prompt: Final Fantasy VII, Rude/Reno: Talking someone to orgasm - over the wire and into the darkness.
"You almost done?" Reno slid his thumb over the helicopter's cyclic. "It's fucking boring up here."
There was a hiss of static, and then Rude's voice, dry and sharp in his ear, "Don't rush me."
Reno eased on the cyclic, coaxing the helicopter to circle over the mess of broken buildings. His other hand rested light on his thigh, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. "You know I'd come down there if there was somewhere I could put down."
Rude made a little acknowledging noise. Reno heard the scratch of footsteps on gravel, and then the familiar creak of Rude's gloves. He let his eyes fall half-lidded, imagining the flex of Rude's fists. "Need air support?"
"Got it covered," Rude said in an undertone, and then, over the headset, Reno heard the thump of feet and then the heavy sound of a fist hitting flesh. Once, twice, a pause, a scuffle, and then again, punctuated by grunts and heavy breathing. Behind his eyelids, Reno could see Rude's shoulder and arm moving within his jacket, the savage controlled blows falling one after another. If there'd been a place in the ruin that could bear the chopper's weight, he'd've been there in a second, tasting the ozone on the air from the exposed crackle of his e-mag. As it was, he did the next best thing. With the palm of one hand he gave the cyclic another lazy nudge, keeping the chopper circling. With the other hand he thumbed open his pants and pulled the zipper down.
When the scuffling and muffled blows came to a stop, and all he could hear was Rude's heavy breathing, he stroked himself hard and said, "Taken care of?"
"Mm," Rude said. "You talk too much."
"One of us has to." He gave the chopper another little nudge and stroked himself again, again, imagining Rude sweaty and catching his breath. "You about done?"
"I -- " Rude said, and was interrupted by a sharp crack. Reno's ears rang. He heard, dimly, the sound of swearing, and then more cracks -- gunshots. When he heard the thud and crackle he knew Rude had gone up against the wall. He thumbed the head of his cock and caught his breath.
Rude didn't say anything. He never did. Reno could hear his breathing, could see in his mind's eye Rude standing -- no, crouching, crouching to make a smaller target -- against a wall, the long line of his arm and shoulder, eyes masked and mirrored behind dark shades. Gunshots, and he could as good as smell the smoke and brickdust and gunpowder on the air, and the sheen of sweat on the back of Rude's neck, reflecting sunlight -- sunlight obscured more each moment, as the air clouded.
He pieced together from the sounds, the way Rude's breath sped, the sound of frantic footsteps, the crackle and hiss of static. He could see Rude running in time with those pounding steps, the way he ran with his head down, a lot faster than anyone expected from such a big guy -- running and then, as the headset squealed in protest, leaping. Another heavy sound of flesh meeting flesh, a grunt, and then the squeaky crunch of sliding on gravel. He could see Rude three-point landing and then -- yes -- without even getting up a savage kick (probably to a kneecap?) that resulted in a popping sound, a muffled howl of pain.
His teeth caught his lip and he rolled his head back, not quite closing his eyes all the way because he wasn't stupid but lidding heavy because he couldn't help it, with nothing behind his eyes but darkness and what he could imagine, and pictured Rude getting to his feet -- the scrape of gravel again, the sound of his tread -- and then the crack of the gun.
He was so close he was beginning to see sparks at the edges of his vision when Rude said, "You're jerking off, aren't you?"
"Wanna get back up here and gimme a hand?" Reno breathed, his breath hitching.
"Would've given you more than a hand," Rude said, low, "if you'd had a little patience," and that was enough to send Reno over the edge, shuddering and jerking his hips and spilling warm over his knuckles. He brought his hand to his mouth and licked the back of his hand, absently.
"Then I'll give you a hand when you get back up here." Reno nudged the chopper down.
"Better," Rude said, his voice low with after-battle adrenaline, the faint compelling bass note of menace. "Appears you owe me for a show."
"Damn straight," Reno said.