FFVII (Rude/Tifa)
Jul. 4th, 2007 11:19 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: No Consequences
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sister_coyote
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex
Word count: 1300
Summary: What this is about, inasmuch as it's about anything, is just feeling good. Tifa's more okay with that each time it happens.
Prompt: Final Fantasy VII, Tifa/Rude: Clandestine meetings: "can't promise you anything"
There's nothing regular about it. Sometimes they see each other twice in the same week; other times they go a month without any kind of contact.
What happens is this: Rude calls Tifa -- or Tifa calls Rude, sometimes -- and they pick a hotel, and a time. They might get drinks, first, in the hotel lobby, or order a pizza up to the room afterward, but that's it. They're not, god forbid, dating. Dating implies a lot of things -- sentiment and romance she knows better than to look for from a Turk, for one, but more importantly dating implies a certain kind of taking-care-of-you, and she's had enough of that for three or four lifetimes.
What this is about, inasmuch as it's about anything, is just feeling good. She's more okay with that each time it happens.
(It happened the first time after a fight, which isn't really a surprise. Most of the time she's spent around Turks, they've been trying to kick the hell out of her or vice versa. But that time she noticed -- for the first time, but not because it was the first time it had happened, as became readily apparent -- that Rude was trying not to have to hit her. So she backed him into a corner, and when he hesitated -- just for a fraction of a second, but still -- she said "Don't you dare pull your punches," and nailed him between the eyes. Broke his sunglasses, too. Before the night was out, they were in the Red Roof Inn in South Edge.)
Her PHS rings, and she checks the ID. Rude. She debates a moment as to whether to answer -- there are chores to do, errands to run -- but thinking about those things is what decides her; they make her feel tired, and if she's going to be tired she might as well be the good kind of tired. "Hello?"
"Busy?" he asks, taciturn as ever.
"Mmm," she says. "Not really."
"Three Lions?" It's one of the mid-level good hotels.
"Sure." She draws on the bar in the moisture left behind by a beer glass. "Seven?"
"Make it eight," he says. "See you then."
And that's it, that's all the discussion they need. She feels giddy.
***
Tifa's almost ashamed of how much she likes the fact that he looks at her like he just wants her -- nothing complicated, nothing distorted by the lens of too much history. It seems shallow. Under the skin she's still a good Nibelheim girl in more ways than she maybe should admit, and that girl doesn't think this is the right way to go about things at all.
But it's still good, and the simplicity makes it even better. She's never been comfortable overthinking things.
He doesn't undress her. She unzips her top and sighs a little as her breasts come free of the leather. She can hear Rude's breathing catch.
His hands settle on her waist from behind, and she sighs and -- and it's just good, the touch of skin on skin. She can feel the scratch of his goatee on the back of her neck, through her hair. "Come on, then," she says.
"Impatient." She can hear the amusement in his voice, and when she turns -- without shaking off his hands, letting them glide around her waist -- she sees that his sunglasses are still on. She hooks a fingertip into the bridge and pulls them down and off, and kisses him.
It's then that his hands skim up from her hips to her ribs, to her breasts. He always waits a little while before feeling her up, like he's got something to prove, but never very long, and she's glad of that, too. She isn't surprised by the relative softness of his hands. They're smoother than one would expect from a bruiser for the same reason hers are: he always wears his gloves. Except now. Now it's skin on skin, and the tips of his fingers rolling her nipples, and his tongue pressing into her mouth.
"Bed," he murmurs in her ear, one hand leaving her breasts to rake through her hair. His nails scratch against her scalp and make her purr. She nods.
She sheds her shorts, and he strips out of his suit, on the way to the bed. She slides onto its scratchy top-blanket on her knees and puts her hands flat to his chest before he can join her, leaving him standing there at the bed's side. The position makes her temporarily taller than him. Her fingers trace the winding pattern of the tattoo that stretches from his navel almost to his heart. It looks a little like a serpent, a little like a knot, a little like a curl of smoke -- she's never asked what it is. Her fingers stop on his chest, and that puts her in just the right position to hook the tips of one forefinger into his nipple ring and tug. He makes a low noise, like she knows he will, and says, "Enough teasing," like she knows he will.
"Then get over here," she says, stretching out on the bed. It's a funny thing -- there's no guarantees between times, when she'll see him again, if she'll see him again, but when he's here he's here, reliable, not flighty or fussy. He joins her on the bed and rolls her over, because he likes her on top, and she's never fought that particular preference. He guides her fingers to stroke and roll his piercing there, and then lets go of her hand to reach back and part her folds, stroke her wet -- she has nothing pierced but her ears, but he more than makes up for that. She slides her hand down to the base to steady him as she sinks over him, then arches her back and shudders as the metal of his barbell (warmed by his skin, but still cool inside her) presses into her -- arches her back and then bends her head to look down at him.
His eyes, divest of sunglasses, are always lighter than she expects. "Beautiful," he says. Her breath catches again and comes out in a little sob. He lets go of her hips to cup her breasts, and she takes over the rhythm, the building drive of slick warm pleasure. She shivers, moving on him, taking him as she wants him; angling to rub his piercing against just the right spot, then going a little quicker. He tips his head back and moans, a low note that crawls up under her skin. "There," she says, "ah, that's right, almost . . . ."
"Take it," Rude says, "take it for yourself." So she does, riding him hard, keeping him where she wants him until her thighs quake and her back tightens and she comes.
He keeps moving under her for a while longer; she drops forward, her muscles turning to water, and licks his ear, bites at the rings and studs there, drags her fingertips across his scalp and down the back of his neck until he muffles a curse against her throat, thrusts tight and comes.
She won't spend the night, but she doesn't leave right away, either. His fingers comb absently through her hair, and she traces, again, the line of the tattoo on his abdomen. Maybe she'll see him again soon, maybe not. No promises. She smiles.
Author:
sister_coyoteRating: NC-17
Warnings: Sex
Word count: 1300
Summary: What this is about, inasmuch as it's about anything, is just feeling good. Tifa's more okay with that each time it happens.
Prompt: Final Fantasy VII, Tifa/Rude: Clandestine meetings: "can't promise you anything"
There's nothing regular about it. Sometimes they see each other twice in the same week; other times they go a month without any kind of contact.
What happens is this: Rude calls Tifa -- or Tifa calls Rude, sometimes -- and they pick a hotel, and a time. They might get drinks, first, in the hotel lobby, or order a pizza up to the room afterward, but that's it. They're not, god forbid, dating. Dating implies a lot of things -- sentiment and romance she knows better than to look for from a Turk, for one, but more importantly dating implies a certain kind of taking-care-of-you, and she's had enough of that for three or four lifetimes.
What this is about, inasmuch as it's about anything, is just feeling good. She's more okay with that each time it happens.
(It happened the first time after a fight, which isn't really a surprise. Most of the time she's spent around Turks, they've been trying to kick the hell out of her or vice versa. But that time she noticed -- for the first time, but not because it was the first time it had happened, as became readily apparent -- that Rude was trying not to have to hit her. So she backed him into a corner, and when he hesitated -- just for a fraction of a second, but still -- she said "Don't you dare pull your punches," and nailed him between the eyes. Broke his sunglasses, too. Before the night was out, they were in the Red Roof Inn in South Edge.)
Her PHS rings, and she checks the ID. Rude. She debates a moment as to whether to answer -- there are chores to do, errands to run -- but thinking about those things is what decides her; they make her feel tired, and if she's going to be tired she might as well be the good kind of tired. "Hello?"
"Busy?" he asks, taciturn as ever.
"Mmm," she says. "Not really."
"Three Lions?" It's one of the mid-level good hotels.
"Sure." She draws on the bar in the moisture left behind by a beer glass. "Seven?"
"Make it eight," he says. "See you then."
And that's it, that's all the discussion they need. She feels giddy.
***
Tifa's almost ashamed of how much she likes the fact that he looks at her like he just wants her -- nothing complicated, nothing distorted by the lens of too much history. It seems shallow. Under the skin she's still a good Nibelheim girl in more ways than she maybe should admit, and that girl doesn't think this is the right way to go about things at all.
But it's still good, and the simplicity makes it even better. She's never been comfortable overthinking things.
He doesn't undress her. She unzips her top and sighs a little as her breasts come free of the leather. She can hear Rude's breathing catch.
His hands settle on her waist from behind, and she sighs and -- and it's just good, the touch of skin on skin. She can feel the scratch of his goatee on the back of her neck, through her hair. "Come on, then," she says.
"Impatient." She can hear the amusement in his voice, and when she turns -- without shaking off his hands, letting them glide around her waist -- she sees that his sunglasses are still on. She hooks a fingertip into the bridge and pulls them down and off, and kisses him.
It's then that his hands skim up from her hips to her ribs, to her breasts. He always waits a little while before feeling her up, like he's got something to prove, but never very long, and she's glad of that, too. She isn't surprised by the relative softness of his hands. They're smoother than one would expect from a bruiser for the same reason hers are: he always wears his gloves. Except now. Now it's skin on skin, and the tips of his fingers rolling her nipples, and his tongue pressing into her mouth.
"Bed," he murmurs in her ear, one hand leaving her breasts to rake through her hair. His nails scratch against her scalp and make her purr. She nods.
She sheds her shorts, and he strips out of his suit, on the way to the bed. She slides onto its scratchy top-blanket on her knees and puts her hands flat to his chest before he can join her, leaving him standing there at the bed's side. The position makes her temporarily taller than him. Her fingers trace the winding pattern of the tattoo that stretches from his navel almost to his heart. It looks a little like a serpent, a little like a knot, a little like a curl of smoke -- she's never asked what it is. Her fingers stop on his chest, and that puts her in just the right position to hook the tips of one forefinger into his nipple ring and tug. He makes a low noise, like she knows he will, and says, "Enough teasing," like she knows he will.
"Then get over here," she says, stretching out on the bed. It's a funny thing -- there's no guarantees between times, when she'll see him again, if she'll see him again, but when he's here he's here, reliable, not flighty or fussy. He joins her on the bed and rolls her over, because he likes her on top, and she's never fought that particular preference. He guides her fingers to stroke and roll his piercing there, and then lets go of her hand to reach back and part her folds, stroke her wet -- she has nothing pierced but her ears, but he more than makes up for that. She slides her hand down to the base to steady him as she sinks over him, then arches her back and shudders as the metal of his barbell (warmed by his skin, but still cool inside her) presses into her -- arches her back and then bends her head to look down at him.
His eyes, divest of sunglasses, are always lighter than she expects. "Beautiful," he says. Her breath catches again and comes out in a little sob. He lets go of her hips to cup her breasts, and she takes over the rhythm, the building drive of slick warm pleasure. She shivers, moving on him, taking him as she wants him; angling to rub his piercing against just the right spot, then going a little quicker. He tips his head back and moans, a low note that crawls up under her skin. "There," she says, "ah, that's right, almost . . . ."
"Take it," Rude says, "take it for yourself." So she does, riding him hard, keeping him where she wants him until her thighs quake and her back tightens and she comes.
He keeps moving under her for a while longer; she drops forward, her muscles turning to water, and licks his ear, bites at the rings and studs there, drags her fingertips across his scalp and down the back of his neck until he muffles a curse against her throat, thrusts tight and comes.
She won't spend the night, but she doesn't leave right away, either. His fingers comb absently through her hair, and she traces, again, the line of the tattoo on his abdomen. Maybe she'll see him again soon, maybe not. No promises. She smiles.
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