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dracoqueen22 · 2 days

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For Eph: Rathi/Sinoun - Rathi makes good on an unspoken promise by borrowing one of Nym’s "inventions" (strap, femdom, bratty sub)

“I’m doing this as a favor for you,” Rathi says as she cinches the buckle to the harness, tightening it in place around her hips and thighs. The end of it settles right over her clit in a delightful pressure.

This strap has many other wonderful features, according to Nym, but it’s not quite time to activate them.

“Yes, what a sacrifice you’re making,” Sinoun drawls. He sits on the end of the bed, fully nude and already hard, but the hunger in his eyes belies the dismissive tone. He’s practically vibrating with need.

Rathi snorts. She plucks at the stretchy leather, lets it snap back against her skin with a satisfying pop of noise. The enchanted dildo gives a little sway, girthier than her personal preference, but probably not thick enough for Sinoun the size queen.

Still, it’s not about size. It’s about skill.

“If you sass me, I’ll walk out that door,” Rathi says, tilting her head to said door behind them. Sinoun’s put up some kind of sound-dampening barrier, but they’re still in a very public inn.

Rathi could walk out without looking back. She’s got options. Sinoun came to her because he doesn’t. Nym’s too busy with his many, many bonds, and Easton’s pissed off about something. Rathi doesn’t know what it is, and she’s not asking either. It’s none of her business.

She supposes Sinoun could tempt Tempest away, but she doesn’t offer what he wants right now. And gods forbid Sinoun pay for it.

“And miss the chance to put me in my place? I doubt that very much,” Sinoun says. He tosses his head, hair an enticing fall around him, like he knows how much she wants to pull it.

“Are you trying to get me to leave?” Rathi crosses the floor and puts herself between Sinoun’s knees, her fancy cock pointed right at his lips. “Lick it.”

Sinoun blinks, and there’s a pretty furrow of confusion in his forehead. “Beg pardon?” His eyes flick from the enchanted strap and back to her face.

Rathi plants her feet and her hand on her hip. “You heard me.”

“For what purpose?” Sinoun asks, sounding genuinely confused. It’s a good look on him, chasing out some of that arrogance he wears like a mask. “We have more than enough lubricant.”

“Because I told you to,” Rathi says, and waits.

Sinoun’s mouth twitches, but notably, his cock does, too. A blurt of pre beads at the tip, drips onto his thigh. He licks his lips, looks at the toy, and back up at her. His greenish eyes darken, pupils blowing wide.

“Are you trying to humiliate me?” he asks, voice breathy, hands clenching on his knees.

Rathi slips forward another few inches, the tip of her toy close enough to kiss his lips. “You want me to use it, don’t you? Then get it nice and wet for me.”

Sinoun sets his jaw and tries to look obstinate, but he can’t hide the flush in his cheeks, or the way his cock twitches. He wants this, wants her, but needs to act like a brat before he’ll let himself have it.

“Fine,” he bites out after a handful of seconds waiting.

He looks up at her, sullen and bratty, and licks the tip of the toy. It bobs in the air. Rathi raises her eyebrow.

“What in the Pitch was that?” she asks, hand on her hip. “You suck cock as pitifully as that? Give me a show, Sinoun, or I’m walking out.”

Sinoun huffs and grabs the base of the toy, his eyes rolling up. “You better make this worth my time,” he says, and finally puts his mouth on the polished wood, cheeks hollowing, as he slowly swallows it down like a proper cock-sucker would.

“Better.” Rathi rests a hand on his head, threading his fingers through his soft as silk waves. “But no hands, pet. Just those pretty lips.”

Sinoun glares, and she just knows he wants to say something. He shifts like he’s going to retreat, and nope, Rathi’s not having that. She tightens her grip on his head. She rocks her hips and pushes deeper into his mouth, muffling his protest.

Rathi grins. “No talking either.”

Sinoun huffs through his nose, but he drops his hands to his thighs. He works his jaw, lips parting as he licks around the toy, laving it with his spit. His throat bobs, and his eyes go a little hazy – just like she thought they would. Puts up a fight, Sinoun does, but he really wants to stay on his knees like a good boy.

Still.

She can’t let him be too comfortable, can she?

Rathi shifts her weight, sliding one bare foot forward, nudging between his knees. “Make room for me, pet.”

This is one thing he doesn’t protest. His eyes sparkle as she slides up and up, until her toes can press up against his dick, already hard and leaking. His hips rock, grinding against the top of her foot, dripping a little pre onto her ankle.

Rathi lets him rut, watching with breathless awe. She lets him grind over her foot, as he slowly swallows every inch of her toy, until his lips are pressed to her mound and his throat is full. She fists her hands in his hair, hard enough to pull on his scalp, and she keeps him there.

She counts to ten. Twenty. Thirty.

Sinoun jerks his head. His eyes go wide. He looks up at her, spit gathering in the corner of his mouth. He tries to hold back, but she holds firm. Even when his hands press at her thighs, and a tear leaks from his left eye.

Oh, but a fat drop of pre dribbles from his cock to her ankle, so his body speaks what his mouth can’t.

Rathi grins, long and slow, and loosens her hold, lets him pull back only enough to gulp a breath, the toy still heavy on his tongue, caught between his lips.

He glares up at her, spit-slick lips shiny and taut.

“Hands down,” Rathi says, and her insides twist with heat when his hands drop back to his thighs. When he sits pretty, his cock throbbing against her foot, his eyes bright with lust and indignation.

“Good pet,” Rathi purrs as Sinoun makes a noise in his throat. She swears it sounds like encouragement, and well, who is Rathi to deny him. “Again.”

She grips his hair, she rolls her hips, and she pushes back into his mouth, slow and steady. Fills him to the brim, to the roof, tilts his head to slide down his throat, and holds, holds, holds.

Then she does it again. And again. Until his eyes are wet, and his cock is heavy, and her own cunt throbs, dripping slick along her thighs.

“Over,” Rathi rasps as she lets him go, as she yanks him off the toy with an audible gasp, and he’s shaking with need. “Show me your hole.”

He scrambles to obey, because he wants this as much as she does. Rathi activates all of the toy’s features with a flick of her wrist, and her moan is nearly as loud as Sinoun’s when she slides into him, and pleasure licks up her spine.

This might all be a favor for Sinoun, but she’s getting her fun out of it, too.

Fair is fair after all.

***

#Rathi/Sinoun #Rathi of the Cinders #Sinoun Sunblood #femdom #flash fiction fills #draco writes #original fiction #original characters #nsfw text

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dracoqueen22 · 3 days

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In honor of Lesbian Visibility Week, how about you check out my short story, Eleventh Hour Reunion?

Support an indie writer, support an indie artist because all of my earnings go back into the indie pool as they are used to hire more artists, and well, I'd be pleased as punch if anyone purchased and enjoyed this piece.

Now on itch.io since Gumroad gave nsfw the axe.

Thanks kindly!

Reblogs are also appreciated! <3

#draco writes #short story #lesbian short story #sapphic short story #wlw short story #original wlw fiction #sff short story

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dracoqueen22 · 3 days

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hmmm, for a prompt:

Piers Nivans going to the gym with Chris and trying to be subtle about his admiration as Chris works out.

(yes I'm still thinking about it)

Piers is in the zone, mind thankfully blank, and breathing perfectly in control when he hears the door thud open behind him. It’s just after midnight in the BSAA gym, and usually, Piers has the place to himself. Everyone else would rather be out and about on a Friday night, then cooped up in headquarters in the gym.

It’s probably Marco. He’s the only one who has even less of a life than Piers.

There’s movement in his peripheral vision – the visitor taking the treadmill next to Piers – and he glances over for a quick confirmation. His rhythm stumbles.

It’s not Marco.

“Oh, uh, hey, Captain,” Piers says, trying to sound cool and collected and not at all inwardly freaking out. Chris’ wearing shorts that barely brush mid-thigh and a tank top that’s two sizes too small. “Didn’t think you’d be here so late.”

Chris gives him one of those gorgeous half-smiles that lights up his eyes. “Am I out past my bedtime?” he asks.

Piers laughs, and hopes it doesn’t sound as awkward as it feels. “Of course not. Just surprised is all. Usually, I’m the only one here.” He slows to a stop, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Do you prefer to be alone?” Chris asks. He hasn’t climbed up on the treadmill yet, like he’s genuinely going to turn around and leave if Piers asks him, too. Because that’s the kind of guy Chris Redfield is.

Good to the last drop.

Also, it’s a tough question. Piers absolutely doesn’t want Chris to go anywhere, but he also doesn’t know how well he’s going to focus if his captain is right beside him, sweating and grunting and looking too fuckable.

“Nah,” Piers says, the demon whispering just how much he doesn’t want to miss out on the sight of Chris Redfield, covered in sweat, wearing those too-short shorts. “Don’t mind the company if it’s yours, sir.”

Chris huffs a laugh. “We’re off duty,” he says as he climbs onto the treadmill, tucking water bottle and phone into the holders. “You can call me Chris.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Piers offers an unsteady smile.

Chris shrugs and powers on the treadmill, plugging in all the settings he prefers. “Suit yourself.”

Piers does the same, getting back to work, trying to focus on his breathing, his pace. If he runs and doesn’t have to think, if he lets the rhythm pound through his feet, it’s like meditation. His mind drifts to nowhere and nothing.

Not tonight though.

Not with Chris Redfield a pace beside him, muscles flexing, body moving, a thin sheen of sweat building after ten minutes. He’s focused, sometimes typing on the phone with one hand, oblivious to Piers tracking a bead of sweat down the curve of his neck until it vanishes into the drooping dip of the tank.

Christ, why does Chris always have to buy clothes two sizes too small?

Piers swallows and stares at the readout on his own treadmill. He’s been at pace for fifteen minutes, more than warmed up, so he steps away, wipes his face. Normally he’d go into some light sparring with the dummy, but the LAT machine is right there, and he’d have a great view of Chris’ ass.

He shouldn’t.

But he does. He sits his ass at the LAT machine and starts to work, heart in his throat and mouth dry as Chris runs. His ass is perfectly framed by the taut stretch of his gym shorts, the way they ride up the back of his thighs.

They’ve sparred a few times, Piers and Chris. Friendly wrestling matches out on the mats or testing spars between a captain and his subordinate to keep their skills fresh. Piers has been beneath Chris and on top of Chris and caught by Chris, so he knows how all those muscles feel. How strong Chris’ legs are, and how it’s like being in a cage when those thick arms wrap around you.

Oh, fuck.

Piers lets the LAT machine rest and leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to catch a breath. He’s dizzy. This is such a bad idea. He should have said no.

The rhythm of the treadmill slows and stops. Chris hops down, wipes sweat from his face, sucks down half the water bottle. Some of it escapes, trickles out the corner of his mouth, and Piers’ gaze is glued on that spill. It soaks the top of Chris’ white tank, and Piers swears he can see Chris’ nipples through the thin fabric.

“You already done?” Chris asks as he moves to the bench and starts loading an ungodly amount of weight on the bar.

“Yeah,” Piers says, though he’s nowhere near done. He didn’t even finish a set.

“Spot me?” Chris asks as he lays on the bench, feet to either side of it, thighs spread. Piers’ can’t even form the spit to swallow. “I’ll return the favor.”

“Sure,” Piers says, and embarrassingly, his voice cracks. He clears his throat and stands, moving to the head of the bench like a good spotter would.

From here, he can look down the whole length of Chris’ body, and it’s a dizzying view. The tank has slipped a little, revealing one peach-colored nipple. A dusting of dark hair decorates Chris’ chest and disappears behind the white cotton. The gym shorts lay flat against his groin, but don’t do anything to hide his package.

Christ. Piers isn’t going to survive this.

“Thanks,” Chris says with a friendly wink. He looks up as he wraps his fingers around the bar. “Hope it’s not too much for you.”

It’s an ungodly amount honestly, but there’s no way Piers is going to say that. “It’s fine,” he says, and Chris’ eyes sparkle.

He starts to press the weights, and Piers kicks into automatic mode. He spots Chris without thinking, keep the captain safe chanting at the back of his mind, like it always does when he’s covering Chris’ back.

But his eyes wander. Up and down, from bare ankles to bare legs to bare knees, to partially bare thighs, all dusted with hair. To the space between thighs where Piers could easily fit himself and rub his cheek on the soft dick beneath. To where Piers could sit, on those wide hips, his own legs splayed wide as he ground down and Chris fucked up into him. How wide those big hands might feel on his waist.

That’s dangerous so Piers drags his gaze up higher, and that’s no safer. That taut tank hides nothing, not the planes of Chris’ belly, soft and muscled, or the swell of his pecs, strong but pillow soft. Piers’ mouth wets itself at the thought of tasting Chris’ nipples, making him moan or pant. Of bending over to kiss Chris, and taste the heat of his mouth.

He wants to sit on the space at the end of the bench, put his mouth on Chris right now, so that when he leaves tonight, it’s with the taste of Chris lingering on his tongue.

“Piers?”

Piers blinks and is suddenly aware of the heat on his face, the red flush down his neck and chest. Chris looks up at him, at Piers’ iron grip on the bar Chris is trying to lift, and embarrassment makes his ears go hot.

“S-sorry, Captain,” Piers stutters, begging to God that his shorts hide his boner. “Guess I’m more tired than I thought. Raincheck on that favor?”

Chris pushes the bar back onto the rest, and Piers hastily steps away, turning his hips out of view. “You work too hard.” He sits up, twisting to keep Piers in his peripheral vision. “Go get some rest, kid.”

Kid!? Oh, the indignity.

“Funny. We all say the same thing about you, sir,” Piers says. He backs away, step by step, veins running hot and cock filling at the weight of Chris’ scrutiny.

Chris laughs. “Fair enough.” He grabs his water bottle and takes a swig, toasting Piers with it. “I’ll take that raincheck then. Get some sleep.”

Sleep is the last thing on Piers’ mind.

“Yes, sir.” He shoots off a playful salute and makes a hasty escape, his heart hammering, his cock throbbing, and the star of every wet dream sitting there, glistening with sweat.

Fuck his life.

Piers skips the shower. No way he can lather up knowing Chris is a wall and an unlocked door away. Not knowing that Chris will be using this shower minutes after he does.

Nope.

Piers is going straight to his bunk.

***

#Piers Nivans #Chris Redfield #one-sided Piers/Chris #Resident Evil fanfic #flash fiction fills #Piers is THIRSTY #Chris give this poor man a drink #draco writes #draco writes fanfic

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dracoqueen22 · 4 days

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For Yummy: top!Leon/bottom!Luis, maybe some ice cream food play?

It started with a popsicle.

Truthfully, it started ages ago with a dingy bar, a ghost, and a drink, but this right here, it started with a popsicle. Cherry-flavored. Cheap. Guaranteed to turn your lips and your tongue cherry-red.

Luis had gone tearing after the ice cream truck circling the neighborhood with a gleeful “I can’t believe they’re real!” and Leon had no choice but to pick up the discarded grocery bag and follow. They waited in line behind eager children and frazzled parents, and they weren’t the only childless full-grown adults eager for an over-priced frozen treat.

It’s hot as balls in DC today, and tomorrow’s going to be hotter. High summer is not the time to be wandering around in a concrete jungle.

“Our milk’s going to sour,” Leon grumbled as Luis hemmed and hawed over the selections before opting for the popsicle.

“I got you an ice cream sandwich,” Luis said as he all but skipped away from the truck, bearing two plastic-wrapped treats.

Leon sighed and steered them toward home. He ate the ice cream sandwich in a few quick bites, but Luis.

Luis chose to savor his.

And that’s how it started.

Leon puts the groceries in the kitchen, stows the perishables in the fridge while Luis sits on the counter and eats his popsicle. Licks the popsicle. Laps drips of sticky cherry from his fingers and smears his lips in bright-red dye. He could have finished it off in a handful of bites, same as Leon, but he’s not.

He’s savoring every bite like it’s a fancy dessert and not an overpriced popsicle from the neighborhood ice cream truck. He wraps his lips around the treat and sucks melting bits off in one long pull, just like he does when he’s taking his time sucking Leon’s dick.

Leon can’t stop watching him. Does he have to eat it like that? So lewdly? Is he doing it on purpose? Trying to make Leon think about the way his tongue curls, how good his mouth feels, how much he really just wants to be inside Luis right now?

He’s been out on mission for three weeks with nothing but blood and death and boredom and absolutely no privacy.

He came home to no groceries and a grumpy Luis when all he wanted was to collapse in bed and cuddle his scientist until both of them felt interested in more.

Well.

Leon’s definitely interested in more right now.

“What?” Luis asks, finally noticing Leon’s attention. His mouth is bright red. There’s half a popsicle left. It’s dripping down his thumb. “Oh. I’m on the counter. I forgot how much you hate that.”

He hops down, and Leon’s there in the space of a heartbeat, caging Luis between his arms, pinning Luis against the counter and cabinets. Luis smells like cologne and cheap cherries. He needs a shave, and he looks tired.

He’s still very much a sight for sore eyes.

“Why do you look so pissed off?” Luis rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, it’s my apartment, too. If I want to sit on the counter, I should be able to sit on the counter.”

“I don’t care about the counter,” Leon says. He plucks the popsicle out of Luis’ hand and tosses it into the sink.

“I was eating that.” Luis pouts, with his bright red mouth and his dangerous tongue, and Leon needs to kiss him right now.

He curls one hand around the back of Luis’ neck. “I’ll buy you a box of the damn things,” he promises before he pulls their mouths together, licking immediately past lips parted with surprise.

Luis’ mouth is cold, and too sweet, and barely tastes of cherry. But there his tongue is, just as eager and perfect. Leon groans, curving his other arm around Luis’ waist to crush him closer, his hips pressing into Luis with a delicious friction.

“If you wanted a kiss, you could have said,” Luis grumbles as Leon chases a trail of dripped popsicle with his tongue, Luis sweet and salty all the way to the hollow of his throat.

He shivers when Leon plants a kiss there, and groans when Leon noses his way past the collar of Luis’ shirt and sinks his teeth into the join of neck and shoulder. Not enough to pierce the skin, but enough for Luis to feel it. For a little bruise to be a constant reminder.

Luis shudders and tips his head back. “I’m thinking this is not about the counter.”

“It’s not,” Leon agrees and grabs Luis’ hand, eying that drip of popsicle with single-minded intensity. It, too, barely tastes like cherry, too sugar-sweet with the chaser of Luis’ sweat on the tip of his tongue.

Luis hums. “You should have just said so, sweetheart.” He gets his hand on Leon’s waist, slips it up under the hem of his tee, his fingers cool compared to the heat radiating from Leon’s skin.

“You want something?” Luis asks, and he tilts his hips forward, grinding against Leon, the line of his cock evident through his linen pants.

Leon pulls Luis into a kiss, licks the taste of cherry from his mouth, and gets a double palmful of Luis’ ass, pressing him close for a sweet grind. Luis groans, thighs tensing to either side of Leon’s. His teeth nip at Leon’s bottom lip, just the way he likes it, and a sharp throb of want grabs Leon by the dick.

“I want you,” Leon says. He licks his way back to Luis’ throat and paws at Luis’ pants, tugging the ties loose so they sag around his hips.

His fingers dip beneath the thin fabric, slide over Luis’ hipbones, and then push beneath the soft cotton of his boxer-briefs. Luis is already hard for him, dampening the cotton, and Leon gives him a squeeze.

Luis sucks in a breath, his back arching. “We have a perfectly serviceable bed in the bedroom.”

Leon laughs around the dark purple mark he’s leaving in Luis’ collar. “When did you get so boring?”

“Boring!?” Luis sounds so offended, like Leon had insulted his honor or something. “I can’t believe you’d –” He cuts off into a stream of Spanish that’s too quick for Leon to translate.

Luis twists in Leon’s arm and reaches up into the cabinet, rummaging around for something. Which is fine by Leon. Now he can shove Luis’ pants down and grind against Luis’ ass.

“I get it,” Leon says, pushing his athletic shorts down enough to get his own dick out. He presses against Luis’ back, the sweet friction making him shiver. “You get old, you get boring. That’s how it is.”

“I’m only two years older than you!” Luis splutters, aiming an elbow back at Leon. He neatly dodges it and gets his teeth in Luis’ other shoulder, one hand pushing up to thumb at a nipple.

“Brat,” Luis huffs and taps Leon in the side of the head with a plastic bottle. “Here. Make yourself useful.”

It’s olive oil.

Leon wonders if this is safe to use, then reasons that it’s safe enough to eat. Though it’s still going to make a mess, a sticky, oily mess that spills over his fingers, over Luis’ back, drips down his cleft and splatters on the floor. But Leon’s fingers slide in so easy, and Luis moans, arching his back for more, and Leon doesn’t care about the mess.

“I don’t need all that,” Luis pants.

“Don’t you?” Leon asks as he twists his wrist and his fingers, pressing in and down until Luis shudders and melts like liquid, grabbing into the counter to brace himself.

“That’s cheating,” he gasps, head drooping, hole clenching tight around Leon’s fingers.

Leon sets his mouth on Luis’ bared nape and digs in with his teeth, just to feel Luis tighten around his knuckles. “You told me to make myself useful.”

“Not what I meant!” Luis moans, whole body visibly shaking. His fingers curl against the counter, white-knuckled.

Leon mouths the back of his shoulder, licking over the impression of his teeth. He flirts with Luis’ prostate a few more times, just to see Luis’ knees go weak before he fumbles with the oil again, slicking himself with it.

They’re going to need to buy another bottle.

He tosses it in the direction of the trashcan and grabs Luis’ hip, guiding himself with his other hand to nudge at Luis’ hole. He’s so hot, so slick. Leon wants to take it slow, to drive Luis crazy the same way he does when he’s edging Leon to infinity. He rocks forward, grinding the head into Luis’ cleft, shuddering at the sweet friction.

“You’re such an asshole,” Luis gasps. “Fuck me already.”

Leon grins and grabs Luis by the hips, pulling him back, away from the counter so he can only brace himself on the edge. Luis lets out a grunt of surprise, and no doubt there’s a complaint forming on his lips, but Leon slides home in the next second. Words dissolve into clenching heat.

Luis goes soft and hot around him, back bowing, head dipping. “Fucker,” he pants, but he’s pushing back, pushing Leon deeper.

“That’s the point,” Leon says and holds Luis close for a nice, circling grind before he starts to move, yanking Luis back onto his dick and driving him to his toes.

A stream of Spanish erupts from Luis’ mouth. He hangs to the counter by his fingertips. His arms stretch out, shirt bunched around his shoulders, but his nape peeks from his collar, still with Leon’s teeth in his skin, and the sight makes Leon’s blood boil. Pink bites, red lips, Luis’ dangerous mouth – it’s a heady combination.

“Oh, fuck,” Luis moans, and pushes back, ass slapping against Leon’s hips. “Harder, carino. Make me feel it next week.”

Leon shudders, fingers tight on Luis’ hips, sure to leave bruises. But he knows Luis likes that, likes to touch them later, when Leon’s gone, like a memory. Same as Leon likes to dance his fingers over the bites in his shoulder, hidden from view, but each telling a story like braille in his skin. A memory he can cradle close in those long days and even longer nights.

But right now, isn’t a memory. Right now is present, and Luis pushes back on him, harder and faster, and Leon’s grip is iron, yanking Luis back onto his dick, pushing deep, circling his hips. Luis pants a little whine, unashamed in his pleasure, his cock hanging heavy and full, a sticky drip leaking to the floor.

They’ll have to clean that, too.

Luis’ back is a delicious arc, but he’s too far away. Leon licks his lips, tastes salt where he wants to taste cherry. He gets a fistful of Luis’ shirt and pulls him up to standing, shoves him back so that they’re pinned together, and Leon can grind, grind, grind.

Luis’ head tosses back against Leon’s shoulder, hair tickling at Leon’s ears. Their height difference is usually negligible, but Leon’s bigger, broader. His arms wrap perfectly around Luis, palm splayed wide against Luis’ chest, fingers toying with the dark dusting of hair. His other arm is a hook around Luis’ waist, oil-wet hand drifting down to squeeze Luis’ dick.

“Oh, fuck,” Luis pants, hips rocking back and forth between Leon’s hand and Leon’s dick. “I have to eat popsicles more often.” He reaches back, buries a hand in Leon’s hair, gives it a tug that sends lightning right down Leon’s spine.

There’s a bare curve of neck in front of him, and Leon leans in to taste it – warm, the salt of sweat, the smell of Luis’ cologne. He hums and kisses along the line of Luis’ jaw, smells sweet cherry, his mouth watering.

He turns Luis’ chin toward him, indulging in a sloppy kiss, the scrape of Luis’ day-old scruff on his cheek. Delicious heat pools in Leon’s belly. He squeezes and strokes Luis the way he knows his lover likes, and Luis melts in his arms, writhing and fervent. He grabs Leon’s wrist, squeezing tight, gasping into the kiss.

Tension grows taut in Leon’s body. He pushes it down, aside. He wants Luis to come first, so he grinds forward, grinds deep and hard the way he knows Luis likes. He squeezes on an upstroke, fists the wet head, toys with Luis’ foreskin, and grins when Luis shudders around him. He’s hot, clenching, pulling Leon deeper.

Luis breaks off the kiss with a gasp, head tipped back. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants as he fucks Leon’s fist, and he hisses when Leon sinks his teeth into Luis’ shoulder, not enough to draw blood, but to press bruises with his mouth, digging into the muscle.

Luis jerks in his arms, nails digging into Leon’s wrist, fingers tangled into his hair. He comes with a choked gasp, soaking Leon’s fingers in his spill, where it drips to the floor. He’s tension everywhere, sweat-slick and panting, until he slaps Leon’s hand away from his dick.

“Ease up, darling,” he breathes, heart-rabbiting under Leon’s lips. “I’m good.”

“I’m not,” Leon says against Luis’ neck. He tugs on Luis’ earlobe with his teeth. “Should I stop?”

“Hell, no.” Luis pushes back, takes Leon deep, fucking himself on Leon’s dick for a handful of seconds. “Take what you want.”

Take what you want.

The permission throbs in his ears, tightens in his belly. Leon groans, arms tight around Luis, face buried in his nape. His cock throbs. His thighs ache. He grabs Luis’ hips again, the world a smear of sight and sensation, of slamming into Luis, the slap of their skin. The way Luis squeezes around him. His panting encouragement.

Luis tilts forward, grabs the edge of the counter, braces himself and shoves back, and Leon feels like he turns into some kind of animal. Desperate and hungry as he looks down, watches himself fuck into Luis, stares at the dimpling of Luis’ skin beneath his thumbs. It starts in his toes and roars along his veins like a flashfire until it spills out and he’s coming, grinding deep, teeth grit and spots in his eyes.

Leon groans through his teeth, head hanging, panting in the aftermath. His whole body tingles, legs a little weak. He stumbles back and hits the fridge, knocking a few magnets loose. They clatter to the floor.

“... oops,” Leon mutters.

Luis chuckles and turns around, yanking Leon into a kiss that tastes like the lingering remnants of cherry. “Guess I’ll have to eat popsicles more often, eh, Sancho?”

“I said I’d buy you a box,” Leon says against Luis’ mouth. “With a bunch of different flavors so you can try them all.”

Luis laughs into the kiss. “You’re ridiculous,” he says. “Let’s go take a shower.”

Leon grins. It started with a popsicle, and they’ve made a mess, but what a fine mess it is.

***

#Leon/Luis #Serennedy #Leon S Kennedy #Luis Serra #nsfw text #flash fiction fills #unedited fic #ghost of a chance universe #the lucky ones series #draco writes fanfic #draco writes

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dracoqueen22 · 4 days

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Hypnos

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dracoqueen22 · 8 days

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For Quiet-Shadow, who asked for Barret & Yuffie -- Preparing for a Teenage Daughter

Barret’s head hurts.

Barret’s head hurts, and his ears are ringing, and he swears, if that ninja says one more stupid joke or yells another stupid insult, he’s going to toss her off the mountain and gleefully count every ridge she hits on the way down.

Barret sighs.

No, he won’t actually do that, but if it gives him a moment of peace, he’s tempted. Yuffie is loud and obnoxious. She never stops talking. She’s definitely hiding something.

Yes, she saved their asses a few times. And yes, she’s very skilled for someone her age. But gods, she is loud, and Barret’s getting too old for this.

“You look exhausted,” Tifa says. She sounds like she’s laughing at him, but the only thing on her face is that secretive, shy smile she carries.

Think she’s a big tough woman, Tifa does. And tough she is. Tough as nails, punches like a tank, and takes down things ten times her size without breaking a sweat. She’s got a gentle heart and a sweet soul, though, and this world just isn’t made for a sweet soul anymore.

Barret will do whatever he can to help her keep it though. World needs more of them, more people like Tifa.

“Long climb,” Barret says as he trudges along in Yuffie’s wake. He’ll take age and experience over youth any day of the week, but fuck, he could use a drop of that youthful energy right about now.

He hasn’t climbed this mountain in years. He didn’t think he’d be climbing it again so soon.

“Right. It’s the climb,” Tifa says, and that smile’s louder in her voice now. She’s got that teasing edge, and Barret just knows she’s about to say some fool thing that’ll get under his skin. “It’s not at all our newest, most energetic friend.”

Barret sighs. “She’s useful in a fight, and we could keep on saying no, but she’d be lurking around. Merc made the right choice in keeping her where we can see her but…”

“But she’s just a kid?” Tifa says.

“Something like that,” Barret says, right as Yuffie springs up into a tree and shades her eyes with her hand, squinting up the mountain.

“Hurry up, people!” she hollers loud enough to echo off the rocks and scare off a clump of birds resting their wings for a minute. “The mat– the robed guys are climbing faster than you!”

Tifa hides a giggle in her hand, like Barret can’t see it. “Marlene will be that age soon enough, you know.”

“She will not!” Barret says, whirling on her. “My sweet little Marlene may be that age, but she’ll never act like that.”

“Oh, she will,” Tifa says. She tucks her hands behind her back and skips ahead, only to look back over her shoulder. “All teenage girls do. You’ll just have to think of this as practice.”

Barret shakes his head. No, not his sweet little girl. She’s always going to be kind and generous and polite. She won’t make a ruckus or put herself in danger, or run around the world barely dressed without anyone to watch her back.

Absolutely not.

“Hey!” Yuffie hollers, her hands cupped around her neck.

A vein in Barret’s neck starts to pulse. “Lower your voice!” he hisses at her. He stomps over to the tree and glares up into the spindly branches. “You want every monster and fiend and ShinRa goon to hear you?”

“Pfft. I’m not scared.” Leaves rain down before Yuffie drops out of the tree with an exaggerated landing. She grins. “Hah. Nailed it.”

“It’s not about being scared,” Barret grinds out. “I thought ninjas were supposed to be stealthy?”

Yuffie beams and gives him a thumbs up. “We are where it counts!”

“Practice,” Tifa sings as she strides past, and Barret’s eyebrow twitches again. Tifa’s barely older than Yuffie. She’s a better example for Marlene anyway.

Not this ruffian.

“Well, it counts right now,” Barret says. “Zip your trap and get going. We got a job to do.”

Yuffine plants her hands on her hips and gives him an exaggerated frown that Barret swears echoes Marlene last week when she didn’t want to eat her peas. “You’re not the boss of me.” She pushes her nose to the air. “Keep that up and I’ll let the Bloatfish get you.”

“I don’t need your help!” Barret snaps as Yuffie skips away, hurrying to catch up to Tifa.

She spins and sticks her tongue out at him. “Nyah!”

Barret growls. “You little–”

Yuffie promptly trips on a rock and falls on her ass. Probably would’ve tumbled right off the edge of the cliff if Tifa hadn’t grabbed her arm. “Ow! I’m blaming you, Barret!”

No. No way. His sweet, precious baby girl is never going to meet Yuffie, and she’s never going to turn into a teenager. Nope. She’s going to stay Daddy’s Little Angel her whole life.

Marlene’s not allowed to grow up.

That’s all there is to it.

“You should probably watch where you’re going,” Tifa admonishes as she hauls Yuffie up and checks her over for any real injuries.

“A ninja always knows where she’s going,” Yuffie declares as she dusts off her shorts. “That was just, uh, a check of your reflexes. That’s right. I was checking to see how quick you are.”

“Sure you were,” Tifa says, not that Yuffie sticks around to hear it. She’s bounding further up the trail between one blink and the next, before she abruptly veers toward a wall and takes out that stupid piece of chalk for another pointless drawing.

“So the others don’t get lost,” she says as she graffitis Mount Corel at every available opportunity.

Barret sighs and trudges along after them. His head hurts, and his ears are ringing, and one day, his baby girl is going to grow up into one of those things.

Life just ain't fair.

***

#Barret Wallace #Tifa Lockhart #Yuffie Kisaragi #FF7 fanfiction #flash fiction fills #draco writes #draco writes fanfic #unedited fic

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dracoqueen22 · 10 days

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For Maia: Chadley/simulated!Cloud - Chadley programs a Cloud simulation to practice flirting with

Chadley has had approximately (exactly) forty (seven) conversations with Cloud Strife, but somehow, guiding the topic beyond their mutually beneficial research partnership has turned his tongue to knots.

It’s unexpected, the way his heart flutters and his face warms, the very moment he spies his favorite speci– err, candidate.

Cloud either does not notice or is kind enough not to comment.

Chadley decides (hopes) it is the former over the latter. Cloud is kind in his own way, but Chadley would prefer to present a fully capable front. Unfortunately, he is too organic to simply reprogram the stutters out of his vocabulary, and while he’s read every instructional manual he was capable of downloading, none of them have presented a solution to solve this particular quandary.

The simulator is MAI’s idea.

“If it’s good enough for Cloud, it’s good enough for you,” she says. “And let’s face it, buddy, you need the practice.”

“I do not,” Chadley grits out.

(He definitely does.)

Virtual!Cloud is a near-perfect copy of the real Cloud. Chadley borrows data from the battle simulator and every recorded interaction, plus his own personal observations, to approximate a digital version of his favorite candidate.

Theoretically, with enough practice in the virtual world, Chadley will behave with dignity in the natural world. No more hot cheeks. No more stammering thoughts. Nothing but a scientist who is cool, calm, and collected.

“Just don’t get up to anything NSFM, alright? I’m watching, you know,” MAI says.

Chadley does not recognize the acronym. “NSFM?”

“Not safe for MAI!” She giggles and vanishes with a burst of glittery, virtual particles.

Now it’s just Chadley and Virtual!Cloud in an empty, virtual space.

“Hmm.” Chadley activates the holo panel and considers available settings. “It won’t do any good to practice in an obviously fabricated environment. I need more realistic parameters.”

He considers his options and dismisses anything related to Midgar. The city holds too many unpleasant connotations. No, what they need is a fresh start. Somewhere bright and cheerful with fresh air and sunlight.

Somewhere outside Kalm, perhaps. There are quite a few scenic spots that have been noted by local photographers, so Chadley picks one and builds it into the virtual space. There. A cliff overlooking the ocean with lots of grass and flowers underfoot. Perfect.

The setting blooms to life around them and Chadley deactivates the holo panel. Now it’s just him and Virtual!Cloud on a cliff on a bright, sunny day. Perfect.

Chadley stares at Virtual!Cloud and Virtual!Cloud… doesn’t stare back. His face is too blank for that. Empty.

Unactivated.

Oh!

Chadley taps the controls and Virtual!Cloud blinks. He looks around as if he’s confused, that little pinch between his brows.

“Cloud!” Chadley waves to get his attention. “What a surprise to run into you here!”

No, that’s inane.

Virtual!Cloud looks back at him. “How did I get here?” he asks. He plants his hands on his hips, but he looks more bewildered than angry.

Hmm. Perhaps a touch too realistic.

Chadley pauses, rewrites a few lines of code, and tries again.

“Cloud!” He smiles and waves. “It’s nice to see you again. I have worked hard on all of the data you’ve been collecting. I think you’re really going to like what I’ve created.”

Wait. No. That’s just business.

Chadley frowns. He’s doing this all wrong. Also, he didn’t re-activate Virtual!Cloud. Gods, Cloud makes him so flustered. Even a virtual one.

He tries again. Minor adjustments uploaded. Virtual!Cloud activated. Chadley takes in a deep breath, exhales, and starts over.

“Cloud! I’m glad to see you’re looking well,” he says, which is both true because Virtual!Cloud is a near copy of actual Cloud, and because Cloud gets into very dangerous situations, and Chadley often worries. Though he knows he shouldn’t.

Cloud is more than capable of taking down anything.

“... Thanks,” Virtual!Cloud says. “Uh, is that all?”

“Actually,” Chadley starts and stumbles. Even in practice this is difficult. “I was hoping you would be willing to assist me in a new venture.”

Virtual!Cloud tilts his head, a cute pinch of confusion between his eyebrows. Programmed perfectly. “You want me to kill something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Chadley says, waving his arms. “It’s something of an, eh, personal nature…?” He trails off and gives Virtual!Cloud a look.

People initiate dating protocols via lots of subtle words and gestures, Chadley’s read. He needs to master these if he has any chance of being successful.

Virtual!Cloud squints. “Personal?”

“Yes,” Chadley says with more confidence than he feels. “I would be honored if you’d accompany me on a personal errand. I would be happy to include a meal and a beverage afterward.”

Food and drink, both key factors of social interaction with interpersonal relationships. Also, sustenance is an important part of daily functioning. Cloud looks like he could use a few hearty meals and some relaxation, perhaps on a beach?

Oh, no.

Cloud on a beach. He certainly couldn’t wear his usual uniform. He’d have to dress more comfortably. Show more… skin. Even more skin than when he was wearing that dress, with the make up and the hair and–

Oh, dear.

“Your face is red,” Virtual!Cloud says, much more astute than the actual Cloud.

Chadley spins around, hits pause on the simulation, and tries to get ahold of himself. He finger-combs his hair, takes a few deep breaths, waits for the heat to leave his cheeks.

This is going to be a lot harder than he thought.

Chadley’s going to need a heck of a lot more practice.

***

#Cloud Strife #Chadley #SFW and cute as a button #flash fiction fills #Chadley/Cloud #ff7 remake & rebirth #ff7 fanfic #draco writes #draco writes fanfic #unedited fics

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dracoqueen22 · 11 days

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WE EATING SO GOOD HADES FAMILY

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dracoqueen22 · 12 days

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Flash Fiction Prompt!

I'm a big Weskennedy lover so I must submit my boys to your care. (Though if that doesn't tickle your fancy, Leon with a villain like Arias or Saddler and such would also work very well!)

Prompt: vampires; "Make me want this."

Side details: I do prefer an older and more experienced Leon. I very much enjoy dubcon, would love it to be nsfw. Thank you so much for opening prompts!

There’s a thin line between a thrall and a spawn, and some days, Leon isn’t sure which he is. When he was younger, for whatever is considered youth now, Leon would have called himself a thrall. He was captured by Lord Wesker’s gaze, and followed in the elder’s wake with helpless delirium.

He’s older now. Different. Still captivated, but with a thirst all his own. It’s not as desperate as Wesker’s, not as necessary. There’s a little voice inside of him, what remains of bright-eyed Leon S. Kennedy, who demands he hurts no one and always asks. It keeps him fed, keeps him on this side of sane, but never wholly satisfied. Never enough.

He’s strong enough to resist Wesker’s call. He’s neither spawn nor thrall, but a secret third thing. He can refuse as easily as he can relent, but one is harder than the other, and it’s not the one Leon thought it would be.

Even now, he lies in bed, and he waits. Heart in his throat, beating faster than usual for someone half-alive, half-dead. He’s naked beneath the silk sheets, the room pleasantly cool with a salty breeze drifting in from the open balcony doors.

Anticipation. Dread. It’s hard to tell the difference between the two.

He touches his throat. There are no marks. There used to be scars, but Leon’s powerful enough now that they don’t linger. Save the one at the base of his neck, the knotted mass of gnawed flesh that serves as Wesker’s claim. The others heal within minutes, after Wesker’s fed, after he’s licked Leon clean, after he’s vanished back into the night.

He doesn’t leave scars, but Leon swears he can feel the impression of teeth nonetheless.

Leon’s not a vampire. Not really. Not in the way that matters in the eyes of the Court. He can walk freely in the sun. His heart beats, and his blood pumps. But if he concentrates, he can grasp weaker minds. Or, if he focuses, he can withstand Wesker’s pull until his body aches and his mind crashes.

Sometimes, Leon resists, just to prove he still can. Sometimes, he pretends to resist, if only to lie to himself about why he’s really here.

Walk away, he tells himself as footsteps whisper up the hallway outside his room. A normal human wouldn’t be able to hear it, but Leon’s not entirely human. Not anymore. He’s infected all the way to his core, and if there’s a cure, he’ll never escape to find it.

(he doesn’t want to escape)

(he really should want to escape)

The door opens with an ominous creak. A bottle of WD-40 is cheap, but Leon’s pretty sure Wesker doesn’t oil the hinges on purpose. He likes the dramatics.

“There you are,” Lord Wesker purrs, as if Leon would be anywhere else instead of in his own room, anxiously-excitedly waiting.

Leon turns his back to the door, a pretense of disgust in the set of shoulders. “What do you want?” he asks, knowing the answer.

How long have they danced this battle? Playing a game of captor and captive? Of predator and prey? When did it stop being so obvious which was which?

Long enough that Leon barely remembers a time he hunted monsters. There’s an invisible collar and leash that keeps him tethered here, at Wesker’s side, but once upon a time, he’d have staked the bastard.

Once upon a time he tried, and look where it got him.

The bed dips behind him, tepid breath raising the finer hairs at his nape. “Some night you will greet me with the deference I deserve,” Lord Wesker murmurs. His hand skims down Leon’s arm like a chilly breeze.

“Doubtful,” Leon says as his heart pounds and his cock thickens and every inch of him aches. He wants because he can’t imagine not wanting now, and swears there must have been a time he didn’t, but it’s lost to the haze.

Wesker laughs and the sheets vanish in a blink, cool air rushing in to replace their warmth. Wesker presses close, skin to skin, coiled around Leon from behind. His lips wander a line across the back of Leon’s shoulder. He inhales like he’s savoring a meal, and his arm over Leon’s side is a parody of an embrace.

“When will you tire of this token resistance?” Wesker’s palm flattens on Leon’s chest, pushing, pulling him into the smothering cradle of the Lord’s body. He’s always cool to the touch, and Leon shivers. It’s disgust-anticipation, and he doesn’t have to look to know his cock is already thickening. Pavlovian response.

There’s a silver knife under the pillow. They both know it’s there. But Leon doesn’t reach for it.

“As soon as you let me go,” Leon says, but Wesker’s fangs graze his skin, and Leon bites his tongue to stop the moan.

“Never.” Wesker’s magic rises like a great wave of relentless heat. “You are mine, Leon, and I keep what I claim.”

“Fuck you,” Leon grits out, but the spell hits, and his nerve-endings come alive. He drowns in a wave of wanting, forced by the magic, but offering permission to loosen his own grip.

He doesn’t have to pretend thanks to the magic. It makes the decision for him, it makes him want things he shouldn’t, with an ounce of an excuse. It makes him yield as fangs sink into his flesh, and the smell of blood taints the air.

Wesker drinks; Leon writhes.

It’s impossible to be still, every suck has a line directly to his cock. He’s desperately hard with such speed it hurts. His hand spasms on the fitted sheet, but he can’t reach for himself. Wesker doesn’t allow it.

There’s a knife under the pillow, but Leon grabs the lube instead. He offers it with an enthralled plea, and Wesker uses only enough to slick himself before he pushes into Leon. Cold enough to burn, too thick to take easy, even if this is a nightly pattern.

Leon chokes on a groan as his body fights until it yields, and Wesker fills him to the root. Copper is thick in his nose; Leon can taste it. He trembles as Wesker grinds into him, as he nudges against the spot that makes him see stars. Blood trickles down his neck, mixed with Wesker’s saliva.

Leon turns his face into the pillow, muffling his moans. Wesker drinks. He rolls his hips to match the rhythm of his feeding, and Leon throbs, dripping steadily on the sheet. He tells himself it’s the thrall when he starts to meet Wesker’s thrusts, when he tilts his pelvis just right, and Wesker grinds, grinds, grinds on his prostate.

Wesker laughs, wet and breathy. He tightens his jaw, bites a little harder, and the pain turns to pleasure. Leon gasps, body jerking, and Wesker withdraws with a long swipe of his tongue.

“Your mouth fights a battle your body has already surrendered,” he says, and then there’s a hand around his dick, and Leon arches.

It only takes a handful of strokes for him to spill, shaking, tightening around Wesker, eyes squeezed shut, biting his tongue bloody to swallow the moans.

Wesker bites him again, slurping Leon’s blood with the taste of pleasure to sweeten the flavor. He keeps stroking, palm twisting, thumb a pressure over the slit. The pleasure goes on and on, long past personal comfort. Leon twitches, writhing harder, trying to break free of an iron grip, struggling to catch a breath.

Wesker laughs against the bite. He rolls, pinning Leon beneath him with weight and hands, biting and fucking, and Leon can only hold on for the ride, dick grinding into the mattress, already hard again, because that’s the way it works. Wesker wants it; the thrall makes it happen. And Leon doesn’t have to make a choice.

How many times will Wesker take him tonight?

Leon doesn’t know. Wesker likes to keep him guessing. He might drain Leon to exhaustion, never quite enough to kill. Use him until he’s limp and covered in fluids, wrung dry from far too many orgasms.

Or he’ll be merciful, for Wesker’s degree of mercy. He’ll pretend romance as he nuzzles the bites and strokes Leon’s skin, and Leon will continue to pretend he wants Wesker to stop.

Once upon a time, Leon fought monsters. Now he’s half in love with one. Whether that makes him a thrall or a spawn, he’s honestly not sure. Or even if it matters.

He’s here now, and there is no escape.

***

#Leon S Kennedy #Albert Wesker #Resident Evil #Vampire AU #Wesker/Leon #Weskennedy #nsfw text #flash fiction fill #draco writes #draco writes fanfic #draco writes resident evil #the con is dubious

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dracoqueen22 · 13 days

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i think it is time to bring them back

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dracoqueen22 · 14 days

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For Melly: Aerith/Tifa - against all odds

Tifa is exhausted.

She’s covered in cuts and bruises. Her body aches. Her head’s spinning, and worst of all, her heart has taken a beating. She doesn’t understand Cloud. She doesn’t know Cloud. She wonders if she ever did.

And she definitely isn’t sure what happened five years ago. Not anymore.

Tifa’s exhausted, but she can’t sleep. Energy runs through her veins, adrenaline certain another battle might come bursting through that door. She can’t seem to calm down.

It doesn’t seem like Aerith can sleep either. She’s been staring at the ceiling and fiddling with the buttons on her dress for as long as Tifa’s been fruitlessly counting chocobos. She’s up to 963.

Tifa rolls on her side, facing Aerith, arm tucked under her cheek. “Can’t sleep either, huh?”

“You’d think I’d be exhausted,” Aerith says. She turns to face Tifa, their bodies a pair of parentheses on opposite beds. Her shoulders are bare, but Tifa isn’t sure why she’s focusing on that fact. “I mean, I’m definitely tired, but I guess that’s not enough.”

“Worried?” Tifa asks. “About your mom?”

Aerith smiles, gentle and sweet all the way to her willowy bones. “No. She can take care of herself.”

“Do you think we made the wrong choice?” Tifa blurts out, almost before Aerith can finish answering. It’s something Tifa’s gnawed on, over and over, especially after Cloud’s recitation of an event he can’t have seen.

Is he wrong because he’s lying on purpose? Or is he actually remembering something he experienced because the choice they made, there on that highway, has fundamentally altered the course of their universe? Is he even her Cloud? Or is Tifa the one misremembering?

Tifa doesn’t know.

“It’s too soon to say.” Aerith draws nonsense on the mattress in front of her. That soft smile lingers. “It’s terrifying, but it’s also kind of exhilarating.”

Tifa would chalk Aerith’s optimism up to naivete, but that’s far from the truth. Aerith’s life hasn’t been a picnic and that she can still be sweet is a testament to her strength.

Tifa envies her for it. That strength that allows her to be weak.

“How so?” she asks.

“Well, I’ve never had a sleepover before,” Aerith says with the frankness that makes Tifa’s heart ache. “Or a girlfriend.” She pauses, cheeks going pink. “I mean, a woman who is a friend. Woman-friend? No, that just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Tifa laughs quietly as Aerith’s face scrunches with genuine confusion.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a girlfriend,” Tifa says. “Most of the kids my age were boys.”

“Like Cloud?”

Tifa’s too slow to stop the flinch. It’s hard to say if Aerith noticed. “Yeah,” she says quietly, but then the memory hits her, easing the sting. “Though he’s always been pretty enough.”

“He sure is.” Aerith giggles and turns on her back, stretching her arms over her head with a hum. “But that’s what I mean. We made a choice and decided to fight, and now here I am, against all odds, on my first sleepover.”

Tifa doesn’t tell her all the ways this doesn’t count. It’s a simple wish. A simple joy. She wants Aerith to have it.

“Do you think we should have a pillow fight?” Aerith asks, but before Tifa can answer, she laughs and says, “Hmm. Maybe not. I think you’d win in one hit.”

“I’d be gentle,” Tifa says.

“I know you would.” Aerith’s grin makes Tifa’s heart go thump-thump-thump in a way it hasn’t before.

Aerith abruptly sits up and looks around as if an idea has popped into her mind. “Hmm,” she says. “There’s not enough furniture to make a fort, and I don’t think that vending machine had any candy. I’m stumped on ideas.”

“Aren’t we a little old for sleepovers anyway?”

“Probably.” Aerith sighs, and there’s a wealth of disappointment in the small sound. “I guess we should be sleeping. We have a lot more walking ahead of us.”

Aerith flops back, pulls the blanket up to her chin, and stares at the ceiling. She dutifully closes her eyes, and Tifa feels a bit like she’s kicked a bucket. Could it really hurt to entertain such an innocent joy?

Tifa rolls off the bed, bringing her blanket with her, and flops down next to Aerith. “Tell me a secret,” she says as she squirms down to get comfortable.

Aerith blinks at her. “What?”

“It’s what you do at a sleepover.” At least, in Tifa’s experience, that what she thinks most young girls do. “You tell each other secrets.”

“Oh.” Aerith’s cheeks turn a pretty pink. “I don’t think I have any that you don’t already know.” She presses her lips together, face scrunched in serious thought.

“Nothing?” Tifa prompts as she tucks her arm under her head. “Not even an embarrassing story you don’t want anyone to know?”

Aerith laughs and turns to face her, voice going softer like they are two young woman sharing a secret with no one else. “I have plenty of those stories. But what about you? Do you have any secrets?”

“Too many,” Tifa sighs, and her thoughts wander again, to home, to Nibelheim, to five long, confusing years, and one stubborn, confusing blond the next room over. Maybe this is a bad idea after all.

She shouldn’t spill all the troubles on her shoulders. Aerith shouldn’t have to help bear that load. She has enough problems without Tifa adding to her stress. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

Tifa shifts, intending to go back to her own bed, and back to chocobo number 964. But Aerith touches her arm, and that’s enough for Tifa to freeze. Surprised.

“We don’t have to share secrets,” Aerith says, her resting hand curling into a gentle hold, “But we can share the bed. If you want, I mean.”

Tifa’s heart throbs so loud, it thumps in her ears. Slowly, she settles back into place, arm tingling under the barely noticeable weight of Aerith’s hand.

“That is one of the rules of sleepovers,” Tifa says, even though they’re both too old and bruised for such a thing. But they are also a lot alike. Tifa’s never had a “girlfriend” either.

Aerith giggles and winks at her. “I won’t tell if you don’t. It can be our secret.” She holds out a hand, pinky crooked. “Promise?”

Tifa’s face heats, almost like she’s blushing, but that would be ridiculous. No less ridiculous than hooking her finger with Aerith’s and saying, “Promise.”

Lying there next to Aerith, Tifa doesn’t even get to chocobo number 965 before she’s fast asleep.

***

#aerith gainsborough #tifa lockhart #aerti #aerith/tifa #ff7 fanfic #flash fiction fills #draco writes #unedited #ff7 rebirth

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dracoqueen22 · 16 days

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For Eph: Cloud/Vincent - neither of them intended to overdrink, but it's hard to fight the loneliness - and harder still to refuse relieving that loneliness together (aka Vincent breeds Cloud with 50 years worth of blue balls and they both agree it's fantastic)

Cloud didn’t mean to get so drunk.

Honestly, he didn’t know he could get drunk anymore. He thought the mako burned it out of him, but whatever vintage bottle Vincent had unearthed from the ruins of ShinRa Manor was potent stuff. Sweet and burning, it went down easy, and pooled in his belly with a heavy warmth.

It left his brain swimming in hot-wanting and can’t-having. Tifa reached for him, and he wanted to reach back, but that was a very bad idea. So he staggered off to catch his breath without the weight of expectation boring between his shoulder-blades. He didn’t expect anyone to follow. He didn’t think anyone would.

Now he’s lying on the hard, grass-patchy ground, staring up at a familiar night sky, while the world spins and spins and his dick gets harder and harder. That liquor had Hojo’s name all over it, had to be, that’s the only explanation for this unexpected boner. Or he’s finally relaxed enough to realize he can’t remember the last time he touched his dick.

Hell, it could be both.

Dead grass crunches. Rocks clatter beneath armor-tipped boots. Cloud tips his head as a shadow falls over him, and it’s Vincent, looking as unsteady as Cloud feels.

“I… should apologize,” he says. “For the drink.”

“S’fine,” Cloud says. He closes his eyes as the world dips and sways, as the smell of must and something else, something dangerous, drops down beside him. “Needed it, I think.”

“I can relate,” Vincent says. He flops, graceless for once, and stretches out beside Cloud. He’s staring up at the sky, and maybe it’s familiar to him. As familiar as it is to Cloud.

He wonders if the booze affects Vincent the same way. He wonders if Vincent’s noticed Cloud’s boner. He wonders if Vincent is half as lonely as Cloud feels, what with having slept in a coffin for three decades and all.

God. Cloud’s drunk. And hard. And lonely. And hard. He pushes the heel of his hand against his dick, shudders as a wave of feel-good-nice flows through his body. When was the last time he felt good?

Can’t remember. There’s just too much he can’t fucking remember.

Oh. Damn. He’s not alone.

Guiltily, Cloud drags his hand away. On second thought, he tucks both beneath his ass. “Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Vincent says, drowsy.

Cloud turns his head. Laying back, dark hair has fallen away from pale, pale skin. Vincent’s staring up at the sky. Collar tugged down, lips parted, tongue slipping out to wet them. A coil of want shuffles restlessly in Cloud’s belly.

“What?” Cloud says.

Vincent turns his head, too. He’s looking at Cloud with unfathomable something in his cherry-red eyes. Brighter than Tifa’s. Darker, too. Somehow less scary, probably because he’s less dangerous for Cloud than Tifa is.

“You were SOLDIER,” he says, and Cloud flinches in a wave of was-I-of-course-I-was pounding in the back of his swimming skull. “I was something like it. Sometimes, soldiers find comfort in each other without any expectations.”

Oh. Ah.

Cloud’s face goes hot. Vincent’s attractive. Cloud thought that from the moment they shoved open the coffin and Vincent emerged, all narrow waist, and silky black hair, and tense aura of danger, danger, danger.

“Been awhile,” Cloud manages while his pulse goes ‘yes, yes, yes’ and his common sense drowns in possibly experimental liquor.

Vincent’s lips twitch. It might be a smile. “Is that a no?”

He’s fucking this up, isn’t he?

Cloud sits up. His head swims a little. He gives himself two breaths for the world to stop spinning and then he leans over and kisses Vincent, sloppy, a bit off-centered, but hopefully, Vincent gets the picture. Their breath smells like liquor. Like gin.

Vincent’s fingers slide through his hair. He pulls Cloud into the kiss, his tongue teasing into Cloud’s mouth, and yeah, that’s pretty nice and good. Warm. Wet. Good stuff.

Cloud makes a noise, hungry for more, and he climbs on top of Vincent because that seems to be where this is going. It’s weird to feel a body beneath him, and not be trying to cut off its head. Been awhile since he was this close to someone without it being life or death, with permission to touch, though Vincent’s so wrapped in leather and fabric, Cloud’s not sure if he can actually manage to do that.

Touch, that is. He settles for grinding down, rocking his hips against Vincent’s pelvis, getting some pressure against his own aching cock. Vincent’s hard, too. Because of the liquor? Because of Cloud? No, this isn’t the time for questions.

Vincent breathes a moan, and Cloud’s lust skyrockets. He gets his mouth on Vincent’s throat, feels the weirdly slow beat of Vincent’s heart against his lips. There’s something about that skin contact that makes him tingle everywhere.

“Is this how you want it?” Vincent asks, his hands on Cloud’s ass, one gloved, the other gauntleted. His grip is firm, strong enough to pull Cloud down and keep up that steady, hard grind.

Cloud shivers. “Would your gun oil–”

“Absolutely not,” Vincent says, in a voice so firm that Cloud moans and rocks down against him, soaking his pants with pre.

He needs Vincent in him like yesterday, and he’s just drunk enough to start begging for it. He pushes up to his knees, fumbles at his pants with one hand and Vincent’s at the other, fingers shaking and useless. Why does Vincent have so many belts?

“Cloud–” Vincent starts and stops. He doesn’t finish his thought, but now there are twice as many hands working at belts, and that’s all Cloud wants.

His head’s floating on his shoulders, there’s warmth in his belly, and Vincent’s hand is cool and gun-calloused around his dick. Vincent’s grip is firm, perfect, and lightning licks up Cloud’s spine. He closes his eyes to the spinning, spinning and gasps when Vincent’s cock presses against his, fatter and heavier and fuck, it would fill him so good.

What a time to be out of lube. He should have listened to Zack, should have a packet in his pocket for times just like this? Why hadn’t he listened to–

Zack.

The name, the memory, both hit him like a sack of bricks, and Cloud’s tumbling head over heels in an onslaught of sight-sound-sensation-emotion. He’s lost to it, head spiking agony through the liquor, but then Vincent’s mouth is on his, teeth a sharp prick on his bottom lip, and Cloud crashes back into his body.

He’s–

He’s on his back and Vincent’s crouched over him like something feral, eyes aglow, his hand wrapped around their dicks. He’s breathing heavy, his forehead pressed to Cloud’s, his hair like a dark curtain around both of them.

“Stay here,” he says, like he knows. “Right now.” He nudges forward, his knee pushing Cloud’s legs further apart, a tease for what he can’t have at the moment.

“Okay,” Cloud says, and the gauntleted hand braced near his head curls, clawed fingers digging furrows into the grass-dirt-rock.

Vincent grabs his hand, tugs it between them, and Cloud groans as his fingers fumble over hot, aching flesh, wet with pre. Vincent’s more coordinated than him, somehow, but they’re both fumbling. Fingers bumping, tangling, Cloud’s dick against Vincent’s, slippery wet and so hot.

“Next time,” Cloud says as they tug and grind and sweet friction sizzles up his spine. His toes curl in his boots.

“What?” Vincent pants against his ear, face tucked into his neck.

“You’re fucking me,” Cloud says, his thighs clamped around Vincent’s leg, squirming. He’s pinned beneath the ground, beneath Vincent, but he still feels like he’s floating.

Vincent groans and their mouths crash together, teeth clacking, Cloud’s lip caught between and bruised. But the flash of pain is spice, like the taste of blood on his tongue, the pressure of Vincent’s hand around his dick, the touch of another person.

“Next time,” Vincent growls against his lips, his teeth somehow sharper, his voice darker. “I’m fucking you.”

Cloud’s whole body jolts as he comes, stars bursting behind his eyes, body tense, their hands soaked in his spill. Vincent’s hand tightens around him, thumb pushing just beneath the crown, and the pleasure goes on and on, Cloud writhing, gasping around labored breaths.

Vincent drags it out, stroking, and squeezing, until he stills and lets Cloud catch his breath. He’s still hard though, need in every tremble, his dick radiating heat against Cloud’s. But he’s not reaching for himself, not doing anything but giving Cloud the space he needs to get his head on right.

Pfft. There’s no such thing. Cloud’s head is never going to be right.

“Your turn,” he says.

“I’m fine,” Vincent says, a lie, with his cheeks pink, and his breath sharp, and his dick dribbling pre.

Cloud knows the answer to this lie. He wraps his legs around Vincent’s waist and rolls them until Vincent’s the one on his back, blinking startled at the stars, his cloak spread across the ground beneath him.

Cloud ignores the mess on himself and shuffles down until he gets an eyeful of the dick that he’s going to get in him as soon as possible. He can’t hold someone’s hand without his face turning crimson, but a dick in his mouth is as easy as holding his breath and swallowing.

Vincent makes a punched out helpless kind of noise. The gauntlet tears furrows into the ground and fingers twist sharp in Cloud’s hair. He moans around Vincent’s cock, the press of it into his throat. He grabs Vincent’s hips, holds them still, and swallows, working his throat like he’s learned, breathing through his nose, burying Vincent as deep as he can manage, his jaw stretched wide.

Vincent hisses. Bucks. Or tries to at least. His heels scrape at the ground. His dick throbs. Cloud pulls back, rolls his tongue along the head, over the slit, then swallows back down, all the way to the root.

A gasping gulp of breath punches out of Vincent’s chest. His fingers scrape Cloud’s scalp, and then he’s coming, strong pulses of his cock that shoot down Cloud’s throat and over his tongue as he backs off to steal a breath. He works Vincent through it, gentle licks to keep the pleasure going until Vincent’s arched back flattens, and he collapses back into the dirt, panting.

Cloud swallows. He sits back on his heels, tucks Vincent away, tucks himself away. Rolls his jaw to ease the ache – out of practice apparently. Been awhile since boot camp.

“Thanks,” Vincent gasps out. Eyes closed, grass and dirt clogged into the claw tips of his gauntlet. Cid’s going to bitch about that later.

“Sure,” Cloud says. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, feeling more relaxed than he has in days. “I hope you kept that bottle,” he says with all seriousness.

Vincent’s eyes flutter open. He stares at Cloud like he’s not sure what he heard before he throws his arm over his face, and his whole body shakes. It takes a few moments before Cloud realizes that Vincent’s laughing, hitched and rough, like an engine that hasn’t been started in years.

“It’s in my tent,” he says from behind the cover of his arm.

Cloud topples back to the ground next to Vincent, staring up at the stars. Their shoulders are close enough to touch: his right to Vincent’s left. His head’s spinning, but his muscles are loose, and he feels a little less alone.

“Good,” Cloud says. “We can have it for next time.”

There it is again, that muffled laugh, before Vincent says, “Sounds good to me.”

***

#cloud/vincent #final fantasy 7 fanfic #cloud strife #vincent valentine #draco writes fanfic #flash fiction fills #unedited #nsfw text

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dracoqueen22 · 19 days

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For @jeegoo : RE8: Village, Lady Dimitrescu/Ethan Winters okay so her mutation involves growth and that can mean bottom growth right? so she fucks Ethan with her massive girlcock and Ethan is less screaming/dying and more moaning/squirming and shockingly durable for a filthy manwhore uwu femdom, noncon plz

The manthing is more durable than Alcina expected.

Certainly he’s more durable than any other manthing that has snuck into her castle. Those greedy creatures with their lustful glances at her daughters, eager to stick their meat into unwilling flesh. All men are pigs, she thinks, but especially human men.

They are quite delicious once Alcina’s had her fun. Once she’s used them to bits, divided their fleshy parts for the beasts, and left the sweet blood nectar for her daughters. It’s their only redeeming quality, she believes. Entertainment and food.

But this one.

This Ethan Winters is nothing like the others. She thinks she’ll use him quickly, and leave him as food for her daughters, but he doesn’t whimper and cry for mercy like the others. His face is a rictus of agony, tears from his eyes, his body is mottled with bruises, but spend spatters his belly, and his cock is yet full again, eager for more pleasure.

Eager for what she gives him.

Ethan won’t come if she calls for him. He won’t undress without the use of force, until Alcina stopped allowing him clothes altogether. She’s had a collar fashioned for him, courtesy of that imbecile Heisenberg, if only because Ethan’s more entertaining alive than dead.

He never parts his legs willingly. He never begs her for release. His cock is too small to offer Alcina any pleasure, though his mouth works well enough with the proper incentive. He chokes and coughs and makes vague noises of protest, but when the fight's gone out, oh, his mouth is useful indeed.

But it’s the way he writhes on her cock that Alcina enjoys the most.

Alcina doesn’t often bother to grow out her flesh into this shape. Her cunt and her clit are far more pleasurable, and she has no envy for manthings and their dangly bits. However, there are times a manthing needs to be taught certain lessons, and so she indulges. Briefly. For entertainment before she distributes their remains to whomever would enjoy it most.

Ethan, however.

It had been curiosity. She’d grown tired of smothering him beneath her cunt, had been bored by the lackluster efforts of his tongue as he grew less energetic. It’s an odd thing, how he survives though she doesn’t feed or water him. Some inner fire keeps him burning, and Alcina is absolutely fascinated by it. How long will he last, she wonders after he’s collapsed post-use, an unconscious heap of beating-heart and raspy breathing, who wakes the next day with renewed demands for freedom and his daughter and blah-blah-blah.

The muzzle was a particularly wonderful investment, but she sometimes has use of Ethan’s mouth, so she usually removes it when it’s time to play.

He’s an irritating, disobedient mess when she’s trying to make use of his mouth. Often not worth the effort. She had every intention of draining his blood and throwing his flesh to the wolves. Let Heisenberg’s mangy things have a treat for once.

On a whim, Alcina threw Ethan on his belly and speared him with her cock. At least then she wouldn’t have to look at his face.

But oh! The way he goes limp, the way he shakes all over, the way he squirms – all thoughts of killing Ethan flew away. He’s so deliciously hot and tight around her cock. He makes beautifully pathetic noises, and his pleasure is of the helpless kind. Begging her to stop while his cock spurts and his hole tightens and he pants, smelling deeply of pained lust.

It’s exquisite.

“Be still,” Alcina tells him, but Ethan helplessly cannot. Whether she takes him on his belly or on his back, whether she sits him astride her and pulls him onto her cock, he writhes and chokes and gasps. She doesn’t even need to touch his flesh for him to spill.

He’s quite contrary about cleaning up after himself, the useless manthing. It takes some convincing to get his mouth to work and clean her of his mess. As if she wants his sticky semen to dry tacky on her skin. Ugh.

Manthings make so much mess. She doesn’t know how Mother Miranda tolerates them, she truly doesn’t. They have so little use. Even Ethan, who should be exhausted and limp most of the time, still tries to escape, still tries to fight back.

It’s a curious willpower.

Alcina breaks him and bruises him and fucks him, and yet he claws back to himself every time. A most durable toy.

Even now, Alcina has him speared on her cock, pushed as deep as she can, until there’s a little bulge in his belly. He’s pale and shaky, but his little cock is flush and heavy. His thighs stretch wide over hers, trembling from the effort. He would sag backward, if not for her grip on the leash, tethering his throat to her fingers.

“Move your hips,” she tells him, leaning one elbow on the arm of her chair as she watches through slitted eyes. One finger drags up and down his leg, drawing little curls of blood to sweeten the air. “You’re boring me.”

“Fuck you,” Ethan rasps, chin dipping, head hanging. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion. This is their third session today.

He’s most delightful when he doesn’t have the energy to speak or move, when he lolls about like a little rag doll for her to use.

“My,” Alcina purrs, “Such obscene language. You manthings truly have no manners.”

Ethan growls at her, his hands pulling into useless fists where they lay bound above his abdomen. “I’m going to kill you slowly.”

Alcina draws another droplet of blood and touches her fingernail to her tongue, tasting the rich fluid once more. “Empty threats,” she purrs and reels him a little closer with the leash.

Ethan chokes, shifting and tightening on her cock, and a shock of pleasure radiates up her spine. His cock dribbles, his hips moving into tight circles, his protests at odds with the wants of his body.

Oh, yes. Ethan Winters is a delightful toy indeed.

Alcina can’t wait to see how much he’ll endure.

***

#flash fiction fill #draco writes #re8 village fanfic #dimitrescu/ethan winters #tw noncon #tw dark content #dead dove do not eat

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dracoqueen22 · 21 days

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A writing prompt for you:

FFVII, Reno & any number of other Turks, an escaped experiment that's supposed to spew poison but instead spews something else entirely. (Like sex pollen, for example.)

(As NSFW or not as you like!)

This is like... two years late, but at last! I have answered this flash fiction fest from the last one I hosted. Please enjoy! <3

There are many unspoken rules about being a Turk. Truths they’ve acknowledged over the years, that they pass on to new recruits but no one dares write down because the Turks are secretive by nature, and no one wants to admit that they are actually fallible.

Don’t go after an escaped experiment alone is not the number one unspoken rule, but it’s high on the list. Right next to it is: always wear a gas mask. And an addendum to that? Kill first, ask questions later.

You never can be too careful with what escapes from Hojo’s many, many labs. And if sometimes, the experiment growling back at you has the face of someone you used to work beside, well, you just pretend you didn’t see it.

Don’t ask Hojo what he’s doing. That’s a very important unspoken rule. Never ask Hojo what he’s doing behind closed doors. Else it might be your face your partner is seeing the next time something escapes, however accidentally. (Rumor has it that Hojo frequently lets things loose just to see how they fare against ShinRa’s elite, the bastard).

Tseng remembers the rules. He always remembers the rules. So why is he staring at Reno with glazed eyes, no gas mask, and sweat beading on his brow? Why is he launching himself at Reno with attacks harder and faster than Reno can defend or evade? Reno’s never won in a hand to hand spar with Tseng.

He’s under no illusions that he’s going to win now. Even if Tseng’s acting like a puppet without strings, some kind of powder puffing from his suit in lurid highlighter-yellow wisps.

“Fuck,” Reno gasps into his gas mask. He doesn’t want to shoot Tseng. Tseng is not the escaped experiment.

He’s the first responder who somehow didn’t bring his godsdamned gas mask and has now been dosed by whatever freak-of-nature poison Hojo’s newest pet sprayed on him.

“Come on, boss. Snap out of it!” Reno shouts as he twists to avoid another grab and doesn’t make it.

Tseng gets a handful of his suit jacket, so Reno wriggles out of it and cuts it down to a loss. He can get another jacket. He’s pretty sure he can’t get another arm. Unless he subjects himself to Hojo’s mercies, and since this whole situation is Hojo’s fault, no thank you.

His comm crackles. "Reno, do you need assistance?" Elena asks, all new recruit eager and helpful, and ugh, any other time Reno would be happy to let her do the hard work.

"Not right now, rookie. Stay the fuck away and go find whatever caused this mess," Reno snarls as he ducks away from another swipe from Tseng and contemplates his options. Why hadn't he packed stun charges in his baton this time? Why had he gone for lethal only?

Because it's a Hojo experiment, that's why. Kill first, ask questions later. That's the rule. Along with "always wear a gas mask" which Tseng apparently forgot. Which means Reno’s going to have to somehow take Tseng down, and hope Tseng doesn’t decide punishment is in order later.

Or hope that he chooses punishment, but it’s the kind Reno likes. Mmm. That would be nice. Bent over the knee, a little spanking, some fingers slicked up with lube and –

Tseng slams into Reno, and he curses – caught by the horny haze, damn it – as they both go down and Tseng winds around him like a python. He’s all long limbs and strong hands and those legs circle around Reno’s waist like a vise.

Fuck.

Tseng’s hard. Like hard enough Reno can feel the heat of his dick through his slacks, grinding against Reno’s pelvis as Tseng squeezes and squeezes with those powerful thighs of his, spreading that yellow powder everywhere.

“Come on, boss!” Reno yelps, twisting his head left and right, but it’s useless, because Tseng grabs hold of his mask, yanks, and tosses.

Reno drags in a gulp of air without thinking, and something powdery lands on his tongue. It’s bitter and sour, chalky as it goes up his nose and into his mouth. He coughs, eyes watering, as Tseng’s legs tighten and he– uh, yup. That sure is Reno’s boss grinding against him like a harlot.

“I’m never gonna let you live this down,” Reno wheezes.

Tseng looks at him with hazy eyes, face flushed, hair wild around his face. Wait, no. He’s looking at Reno, yeah, but specifically, at Reno’s lips. Tseng licks his own and then his mouth crashes down on Reno’s, and wow. Tseng can kiss. His tongue’s an unrelenting force that pushes a moan out of Reno. He turns to liquid want, spine tingling and brain going mush.

Reno gets a fistful of Tseng’s suit, grinding that yellow dust into his own skin, into the dark of Tseng’s suit. And he thinks he ought to push Tseng away. He ought to try and fight back, but his limbs are noodles, and Tseng’s burning up, and something’s boiling in his own gut, too. Lust pours through his veins, throbs through his dick, and Tseng rolls up against him, and Reno, he knows this dance.

He rolls down, and they both groan. Tseng’s biting at his mouth and lips, leaving them bruised and hot, his skin glittering from the powder, with a throat that’s made for marking. Reno’s had more than a few choice fantasies of pinning his boss down and seeing if he can dissolve Tseng’s elegant poise.

Well.

Tseng’s got no poise now. He’s making hungry noises, his thighs wrapped around Reno like a vise, his hands restless as they pull and tug at clothes like he’s forgotten how buttons work.

Reno has about five seconds to realize that this isn’t normal, and it’s probably all Hojo’s fucking fault, but then he’s drowning in sensation, and Tseng smells so fucking good. Every bit of restraint he has turns to shreds, and he kisses Tseng back. His comm crackles, but he flicks it off and lets himself enjoy this.

It isn’t how he imagined seducing his boss, but fuck, he’ll take it. Let Rude and Elena handle the escaping monster.

Reno’s got Tseng well in hand.

***

#draco writes fanfic #flash fiction fills #reno/tseng #reno of the turks #tseng of the turks #final fantasy 7 fanfic

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dracoqueen22 · 22 days

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For @fuzipenguin who prompted: 'Rude/Cloud/Reno, the exception, not the rule'

They always share.

That’s the rule. Rude always shares with Reno, and Reno always shares with Rude, and they never share more than once because no one else actually matters. They’re toys or distractions or brief surges of lust.

But it figures pretty boy Cloud would be the one exception. This is… what? The fifth time they’ve had that blond bastard between them? Rude would know; Reno’s lost count. There’s something about him that they just can’t quit.

Like right now.

Cloud’s naked, bouncing up and down on Rude’s cock like it’s his job, his wrists cuffed behind his back and sweat sheening all over that pale skin of his. Pale, unmarked skin because fuck Soldiers and their super-fast healing. Bastard doesn’t have a single scar on him.

Rude’s leaned back in the chair, all comfortable, but still wearing his suit. Took off the jacket because cumstains are a bitch to get out, and he’s rolled up his sleeves the way he knows Reno likes, but he’d only opened his pants enough to get his cock out and into Cloud.

Fuck, it just don’t get better than this.

Reno finally stands from where he’s been watching the show. He takes the last swig of his beer and sets it aside. Rude looks at him – not Cloud, despite all that muscle twitching, soft whimpering he’s making – and Rude’s eyes are an invitation. So Reno strolls on over and leans on Rude’s shoulder, whispers in his partner’s ear all seductive-like.

“How’s he feel?” he asks with a friendly nip to Rude’s ear.

Those big hands tighten on Cloud’s waist. Pull him back and into stillness so Rude can push up for a nice and deep grind.

“Tight,” Rude grunts, his thumbs pressing dimples to the left and right of Cloud’s spine.

“Better than me?” Reno asks, not because he’s suddenly feeling replaced, but because it makes Cloud tighten up when they talk about him like he isn’t there.

Rude chuffs. “Don’t be stupid.” He plants his feet and thrusts up, jolting a cry out of Cloud from behind clenched teeth. “You want him next?”

“Nope.” Reno pops the word and nips Rude’s ear. “I want him now.”

Rude’s breathing hitches. There’s a bead of sweat on his forehead that Reno tastes with his lips. “I’m not done.”

Yeah, but sharing is caring, right?

“His mouth’s free, ain’t it?” Reno asks, and both of them shudder at that – Rude all over as he drags Cloud down for another one of those deep grinds he likes, and Cloud visibly tensing, his fingers curling into tight fists as he fights off a moan.

Reno doesn’t wait for an answer. He strides around so he can see Cloud’s face, and his dick, already frustrated at not getting wet inside a squirming blond, gives a hard twitch and blurt of pre.

Cloud looks wrecked. The kind of wrecked Reno feels after a good dicking from Rude, face all flushed, hair limp, cock purple and dripping, nipples tight and red from Rude playing with ‘em earlier, eyes all bright but hazy. He’s trying to glare at Reno, and it’s a pretty cute attempt. Cloud always acts like this, like he didn’t show up on their doorstep specifically to get fucked unconscious. Like he’s their dirty little secret and it’s not the other way around.

“How about it, soldier boy?” Reno asks as he gets a grip of Cloud’s chin and runs the pad of his thumb over Cloud’s lower lip. “Your mouth good for more than bullshit?”

Cloud’s tongue flicks over the tip of Reno's thumb. He’s trying to glare again, but his breathing is all quick and hot. “Is yours?”

Reno barks a laugh. “My mouth is the best in this room,” he declares, which Rude agrees with a hum. “But you haven’t earned that yet.”

He keeps hold of Cloud’s jaw, tilts his head down to watch as Reno thumbs open his belt, his button, his zipper, lets his pants sag down and his dick pop free. He gives himself a stroke and squeeze, pre spilling out around the ring in his slit.

“Come on,” Reno purrs as he pulls Cloud’s head down and Rude helps out, the way a best partner does, until Cloud’s right where he needs to be, staring right at Reno’s dick. “Give him a lick like a good boy.”

Reno says ‘lick’. He expects the bright-eyed glare that flicks up at him. He waits for the muttered sarcastic comment. He is not ready for the way Cloud attacks his dick like a starving man at a buffet. Cloud gobbles him down like he’s not happy without a dick in his mouth, no finesse, no style, just straight up tongue and throat, and Reno’s knees go weak.

“Fuck,” he breathes and buries his hands in silky blond hair. He’s got Cloud’s nose in his pubes, and Cloud’s throat tight around his dick, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to last.

Especially not when Rude fucks Cloud forward, like he’s fucking Cloud onto Reno’s dick, and it’s just like that. Because Reno rocks his hips, matches Rude’s rhythm like the partners they are, and there Cloud is, spitroasted between them like he belongs there.

Never more than once, they told each other. Never more than once, but here Cloud is for the sixth or seventh time, and Reno already knows there’s gonna be an eighth. Cloud’s gonna show up again, looking all wet and pathetic and greedy, and Reno’s gonna haul him inside, shove his tongue down Cloud’s throat right before Rude drags them both off to bed.

It’s inevitable.

***

#draco writes #unedited fic #flash fiction fest fill #cloud/reno/rude #ff7 fanfic

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