[FANFICLETS] FF7 x1, KHR x2
[FANFICLET]
Title: We can't take you anywhere
Source: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Zack, Sephiroth, miscellaneous SOLDIERs
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Written for a kinkmeme back in '08
If there was one thing about time between missions that always turned out to be a bad idea, it usually revolved around Zack. Zack and his sudden flinging open of a door to declare that today would be a day with the guys! Doing what guys did best (or rather, what Zack did best, while the rest mumbled abashedly among themselves and watched him with envy easily concealed beneath their thick scarves).
This time turned out to be different (and far worse) than usual: this time, Zack managed to convince the stoic and utterly unapproachable Sephiroth to join the group.
Perhaps things might not have turned out quite so bad as they did if the trip hadn't ended beneath a glowing neon sign promising the best legs in all of Wall Market, among other things. But it was, afterall, the ultimate reason for the trip, and ultimately the reason it would (likely) never happen again.
Surely, if Zack had known beforehand that from the back in a dimly-lit room flooded with disco lights, Sephiroth looked remarkably like a particular dancer who had missed her shift that night, he never would have suggested that specific club. And surely, he couldn't have possibly realized that, disoriented by alcohol as Sephiroth was, he would agree to be led backstage by an incredibly relieved club owner. ("So what if this one is a little muscular? Under the lights, who'll know the difference!")
The main problem, of course, was once they returned to base. Explaining the gil tucked into a g-string that Sephiroth certainly hadn't been wearing at the start of the day was one thing. Explaining the dramatic increase in phone calls asking for 'Sephy' was a completely different story.
[FANFICLET]
Title: Oh god what is this I don't even-
Source: Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
Pairing: 3359
Rating: R
Notes: Another kinkmeme fill. >___>;;
The throaty whisper that brushes his ear as Ryohei's lips hover tantalizingly close is nothing like the hoarse shouts the boxer sends reverberating off the world outside this room. When they meet, the sounds he makes are so different from everywhere else that Gokudera has to strain every muscle in his body just to hear them.
A soft growl as lips and teeth suck and nip at his jawline, down his neck, along his collarbone.
The exhale of breath and the flicker of tongue against his chest, so similar to actual words that he almost asks what did you say but his throat is too tight and the question is reduced to staccato gasps.
The touches alone can't do nearly as much. No matter how many times they have fallen to the bed, springs creaking, him below, Ryohei above, the boxer is still clumsy. Uncertain. Overcompensating for his brutal strength outside with featherlight brushes against skin in here. He takes too long, takes too fucking long, and Gokudera wants to just grab his shoulders, reverse their positions, and show him how it's supposed to be done. Only, Ryohei whispers his name - his first name - as the boxer's fingers dip slowly, agonizingly slowly, down Gokudera's backside. Whispers it again, close enough to Gokudera's ear to rustle the hair clinging to his cheek.
Again, and again, and again, and Gokudera wants to cry out at the heat racing through his veins, shivers each time the boxer speaks. And when Ryohei enters him - carefully, slowly, his voice a throaty whisper against Gokudera's neck: Does it hurt, let me know if it hurts, Gokudera knows the boxer is struggling to keep his volume in check. But he can't suppress the growls rumbling from deep in his throat at each thrust, hot groans that send a chill down Gokudera's spine. And Gokudera wishes he could stop himself from crying out, stop the moans that leave his throat unbidden, stop the needy gasping of air his lungs demand, because all of it competes with the sounds of Ryohei's pleasure, of Ryohei's whispers and growls and groans, and in the end it is those - only those - that can push Gokudera over the edge.
[FANFICLET]
Title: Under an Italian Sky
Source: Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
Characters: the Varia
Rating: PG-13
They aren't meant to grieve.
They are the elite of the elite, so dysfunctional in their relationships with each other that they would sooner laugh than cry at a funeral for one of their own. But the only laughter under the gray Italian sky is Belphegor's - laughing so hard his sides ache, and then laughing even more. A sad, wailing shadow of disbelief all strung in an endless screech of shishishi.
In gloved hands, Lussuria holds a tied bouquet of kingcups and yellow poppies - wealth and fortune, in the language of flowers. Surely the price would have caused complaint, but he felt the meaning suitable. Behind the sunglasses he doesn't really need, the man's eyes are blotchy and red. He lays the bouquet at the base of the headstone, steps back, and raises a hand to his mouth in sorrow.
"Enough of this shit." Xanxus leans against the side of a mausoleum, arms crossed and lips pulled down in a scowl. He wears black like they all are wearing black, but it isn't as if he has any other colors in his closet. Deaths mean next to nothing to him - his subordinates' deaths even less so. "I'm leaving." When he turns, jacket flapping behind him, Levi follows almost immediately. Boss comes first. Everything else is secondary.
He can always pay his respects later.
"Fucking greedy little idiot." As Belphegor shrieks with laughter and Lussuria stifles tears, Squalo simply glares at the headstone and the packed earth in front of it. He isn't sad, because death was always a logical conclusion for any of them and he has danced at the edge of that tango before.
There is no rain to beat down on the mass of graves among which they stand, no rain to allow them to properly grieve while claiming to do anything but. No rain to drown out Belphegor's restless giggles, or Lussuria's sobs, or the distant sound of a car horn from their ever-impatient boss.
Squalo shoves at the back of Belphegor's jacket, shoots Lussuria a look. He isn't as rough as he would be otherwise, isn't as loud, and perhaps that is the greatest sign of grief he has. Beneath the gray Italian sky, they trod the grass away from the headstone and its gift of yellow flowers.
"C'mon, brat," Squalo says, pushing the Varia's youngest forward with each step, "we're going."
Title: We can't take you anywhere
Source: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Zack, Sephiroth, miscellaneous SOLDIERs
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Written for a kinkmeme back in '08
If there was one thing about time between missions that always turned out to be a bad idea, it usually revolved around Zack. Zack and his sudden flinging open of a door to declare that today would be a day with the guys! Doing what guys did best (or rather, what Zack did best, while the rest mumbled abashedly among themselves and watched him with envy easily concealed beneath their thick scarves).
This time turned out to be different (and far worse) than usual: this time, Zack managed to convince the stoic and utterly unapproachable Sephiroth to join the group.
Perhaps things might not have turned out quite so bad as they did if the trip hadn't ended beneath a glowing neon sign promising the best legs in all of Wall Market, among other things. But it was, afterall, the ultimate reason for the trip, and ultimately the reason it would (likely) never happen again.
Surely, if Zack had known beforehand that from the back in a dimly-lit room flooded with disco lights, Sephiroth looked remarkably like a particular dancer who had missed her shift that night, he never would have suggested that specific club. And surely, he couldn't have possibly realized that, disoriented by alcohol as Sephiroth was, he would agree to be led backstage by an incredibly relieved club owner. ("So what if this one is a little muscular? Under the lights, who'll know the difference!")
The main problem, of course, was once they returned to base. Explaining the gil tucked into a g-string that Sephiroth certainly hadn't been wearing at the start of the day was one thing. Explaining the dramatic increase in phone calls asking for 'Sephy' was a completely different story.
[FANFICLET]
Title: Oh god what is this I don't even-
Source: Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
Pairing: 3359
Rating: R
Notes: Another kinkmeme fill. >___>;;
The throaty whisper that brushes his ear as Ryohei's lips hover tantalizingly close is nothing like the hoarse shouts the boxer sends reverberating off the world outside this room. When they meet, the sounds he makes are so different from everywhere else that Gokudera has to strain every muscle in his body just to hear them.
A soft growl as lips and teeth suck and nip at his jawline, down his neck, along his collarbone.
The exhale of breath and the flicker of tongue against his chest, so similar to actual words that he almost asks what did you say but his throat is too tight and the question is reduced to staccato gasps.
The touches alone can't do nearly as much. No matter how many times they have fallen to the bed, springs creaking, him below, Ryohei above, the boxer is still clumsy. Uncertain. Overcompensating for his brutal strength outside with featherlight brushes against skin in here. He takes too long, takes too fucking long, and Gokudera wants to just grab his shoulders, reverse their positions, and show him how it's supposed to be done. Only, Ryohei whispers his name - his first name - as the boxer's fingers dip slowly, agonizingly slowly, down Gokudera's backside. Whispers it again, close enough to Gokudera's ear to rustle the hair clinging to his cheek.
Again, and again, and again, and Gokudera wants to cry out at the heat racing through his veins, shivers each time the boxer speaks. And when Ryohei enters him - carefully, slowly, his voice a throaty whisper against Gokudera's neck: Does it hurt, let me know if it hurts, Gokudera knows the boxer is struggling to keep his volume in check. But he can't suppress the growls rumbling from deep in his throat at each thrust, hot groans that send a chill down Gokudera's spine. And Gokudera wishes he could stop himself from crying out, stop the moans that leave his throat unbidden, stop the needy gasping of air his lungs demand, because all of it competes with the sounds of Ryohei's pleasure, of Ryohei's whispers and growls and groans, and in the end it is those - only those - that can push Gokudera over the edge.
[FANFICLET]
Title: Under an Italian Sky
Source: Katekyo Hitman REBORN!
Characters: the Varia
Rating: PG-13
They aren't meant to grieve.
They are the elite of the elite, so dysfunctional in their relationships with each other that they would sooner laugh than cry at a funeral for one of their own. But the only laughter under the gray Italian sky is Belphegor's - laughing so hard his sides ache, and then laughing even more. A sad, wailing shadow of disbelief all strung in an endless screech of shishishi.
In gloved hands, Lussuria holds a tied bouquet of kingcups and yellow poppies - wealth and fortune, in the language of flowers. Surely the price would have caused complaint, but he felt the meaning suitable. Behind the sunglasses he doesn't really need, the man's eyes are blotchy and red. He lays the bouquet at the base of the headstone, steps back, and raises a hand to his mouth in sorrow.
"Enough of this shit." Xanxus leans against the side of a mausoleum, arms crossed and lips pulled down in a scowl. He wears black like they all are wearing black, but it isn't as if he has any other colors in his closet. Deaths mean next to nothing to him - his subordinates' deaths even less so. "I'm leaving." When he turns, jacket flapping behind him, Levi follows almost immediately. Boss comes first. Everything else is secondary.
He can always pay his respects later.
"Fucking greedy little idiot." As Belphegor shrieks with laughter and Lussuria stifles tears, Squalo simply glares at the headstone and the packed earth in front of it. He isn't sad, because death was always a logical conclusion for any of them and he has danced at the edge of that tango before.
There is no rain to beat down on the mass of graves among which they stand, no rain to allow them to properly grieve while claiming to do anything but. No rain to drown out Belphegor's restless giggles, or Lussuria's sobs, or the distant sound of a car horn from their ever-impatient boss.
Squalo shoves at the back of Belphegor's jacket, shoots Lussuria a look. He isn't as rough as he would be otherwise, isn't as loud, and perhaps that is the greatest sign of grief he has. Beneath the gray Italian sky, they trod the grass away from the headstone and its gift of yellow flowers.
"C'mon, brat," Squalo says, pushing the Varia's youngest forward with each step, "we're going."