Standard Disclaimers apply! I own nothing. Not even this idea, because it wasn't mine, I just had to write it. Eeek. Erm ... could be considered DubCon, just so everybody knoooows.
Sora is giggling helplessly, leaning on Leon's arm with knuckles pressed white to tiny teeth in an attempt to smother uncontrollable titters, cheeks flushed red with joy and alcohol. Leon—trying not to remember laughter of another sort—shakes his head and wonders why they let Yuffie throw a "party"; he knew something bad would happen. But Sora—?
Sora, for all pretenses, appears to now even know he's intoxicated. Leon supposes this is not a good for the better (he remembers distant times and distant parties and distant migraines from too much "punch").
When Yuffie found him—also giggling like a march hare—and said Sora was getting a little "friendly" with the other party-goers, Leon had all but run to the square where the festivities were being held. Now, as they entered Leon's front door, he assures, "You just need some rest."
But Sora retorts, in that chipper, buttery-yellow voice of his, "I'm not tired!" He leans from Leon, grins in what might be a sexy manner—it looks goofy—and begins to "jive" as he says, "I feel like da-ancing!"
"Sora," Leon grumbles, grabbing for the little brunette. But Sora laughs (bubbles up from the chest, over red lips, full smile and he doesn't look like Her, but he looks a little like—) and gets away. So Leon grabs again, gets Sora's hood as he spins away and—.
They fall, Leon with a very undignified yelp, and Sora with a squeak and then more giggles. His arms loop, high and wide on Leon's shoulders, and Leon lifts his torso away, ready to run.
But Sora's lips are hot and chapped, sloppy and virginal but not at all unsure with what he's doing. Leon freezes (the wrong reaction, nono, you have to kiss back like you mean it, and mean it when you do but everything is spinning, spinning, downward and in and They were never like this—) for all of half a moment.
Then Sora is tilting, grabbing his hair, tugging him back. for such a waif, he is strong—or Leon is not adverse to the whole idea, falling willing pray to juvenile kisses full of hot breath and wandering tongue.
When the kisses fall away, Sora is strewn on the floor, panting and flushed and giggling again (fluttering lashes and heaving breasts but She and They aren't him). He smiles that sunshine smile (never hurt, She's never hurt, She just keeps smiling, smiling, smiling for him), arms still looped on Leon's shoulders, hips rising and falling in a particular fashion. For a moment, all he can do is stare at Sora's kiss-bruised mouth and feel the insistent press of young cock on his stomach through his clothes.
Then, in a flurry of movement, Leon is kissing Sora again, pulling him up and pushing him toward the couch because the bed is too far away. Sora is gasping and gripping at Leon's clothes, and Leon knows that he doesn't know what's going on (he wonders, wonders, where are all the virgins coming from and why are they all here and now and maybe he and She aren't that different now, but still, he's not Her). He sits on the couch and pulls Sora on top of him and they just kiss for a while, until Sora starts moving and Leon groans and has to stop him.
(He can't do it, can't do it, but She smiles and hugs him and tells him, It's okay. Okay. Go slow, it's my first time. I love you.)
"Leo-on," Sora whines, but it's not really a whine. Leon blushes, just because he can, and can barely think why he's doing this. He just is. He's taking off his jacket as Sora tries to be coy and does what might be a strip tease—it looks goofy—on his lap. He's impatient, and kisses Sora because Sora keeps make sounds. He's tugging at Sora's shorts because there's nothing left to tug at, and they're in the way. Sora whimpers like a kicked puppy or something, but his neck arches, and Leon actually bites him and knows that Yuffie's going to know something happened. She'll never let him live it down.
"Leo-on," Sora whispers, right on his ear, and Leon is fumbling at the side table. There has to be something, anything, because he won't—he can't—(he remembers, remembers, it hurt, it hurt, but that was okay, because it was with Him, but he won't do that to Sora, not to him, not like it—) and there's something, just under his fingers. Sora is rubbing against him, panting—his breath smells like fruit punch and alcohol, and Leon wishes it didn't. It would make it easier.
Make it not seem like he was doing a bad thing . . .
He can't see what's on his fingers, and doesn't even think that he can smell it until after Sora is writhing and moaning and arching his back (just like Her, just like Her). The smell is sharp, and Leon frowns, wondering why he left the gun oil out, but not really caring—but he wonders if it will hurt Sora. He doesn't want to hurt him.
It's not going to work.
"Sora—uh—."
And saying it isn't going to work either, because Sora's drunk, and apparently getting a little sleepy, because he's leaning against Leon and his breath has evened out a bit. Leon frowns, nudging at him a little. Sora starts up, and giggles again, maybe shyly this time. Without anything to say, Leon just turns Sora around and has him sit with his back toward him, on his knees, while Leon gets his pants undone.
He can't stop now. Sora sighs, smiles that sunshine smile over his shoulder and Leon kisses his shoulder. He can be tender. He can be sweet.
Sora gasps and squeaks and makes annoyed little noises when Leon grabs him hips with one hand and his own cock in the other, and than manages to get the two better acquainted. His back arches, and Leon can't be gentle for too much longer. Both hands now, one smearing gun oil all over Sora's pale-pale skin (so pale, like lily-milk or what have you. Like white flowers. Like wings), grab Sora's hips, and with a little bit of strength they lift the little waif, and then help him back down. Sora squeaks and breaths and pushes back. It's nice like that.
They go on for a while. Sora's legs aren't long enough to hit the floor when he's on Leon like this. It's easier to hold Sora under his arms and lift him than move his hips, because moving his hips means Leon can't move his.
Sora looks over his shoulder, and Leon kisses him, just a little. Just bruising. Just on the side of his mouth, and Sora bites his lip a little and (She moaned, when he did that, but he only did it once and She never asked for it again) Leon can't help but smile.
The door opens, but Sora doesn't open. Neither does Leon, for a moment.
"WHOA there! Tha fuck—!?"
Leon stops, and Sora makes a sad little noise. But Leon doesn't listen, because he can't hear him—just the blood rushing in his ears. All he can see is the light from outside and Cid's surprised and disgusted face, and Yuffie behind him with sleepy eyes, and Aerith covering her mouth and looking away.
Cid hurries them outside, saying, "We didn' see fuckin' nothin'!" just as Sora shifts his hips back, and moans and says Leon's name in this quiet, really drunk murmur. Leon wonders how much he drunk, and how much trouble he'll be in for just thinking about this when Sora doesn't remember in the morning—
"Leo-on!"
He swears, feeling shaking muscles against him—around him—and then Sora's leaning back against him and panting and making little moany noises because he's done, he's spent, he's sleepy and drunk and warm.
"I luff yoo," he murmurs in this sing-song little voice, and giggles a little, and murmurs a name that is not "Leon" (it's not even his name, but then again, She didn't either, that first time—any time—) but that's okay, he supposes. No it's not, but he won't say a thing.
He's still fucking hard.
After he gets Sora off of him, and bundled up in the blankets on the couch—wiping off the gun oil on his hip, but there are a couple of bruises that he hopes Sora's clothing will cover—he gets dressed and he leaves, because he needs to shower and swear and hate himself, just for a little while, just for what he did.
Cid's outside, smoking and smoldering and glaring a little bit. Aerith and Yuffie are gone.
"Yer fucked," Cid tells him. "The fuck, Leon—." But Leon's walking away (walk it off, walk it off, and all the stress and the anger and the sadness will go with it), telling Cid to drop it, telling Cid it's not his business, wanting to tell Cid to go fuck himself. Cid keeps talking, follows him a little, wants to confront him about his "little fucking problem"—.
"Just drop it," Leon tells him, and he thinks he might be tearing up just a little (but he can't cry, because She won't stop smiling) but at least Cid drops it and walks off swearing and glaring over his shoulder a bit.
Leon swears—loudly, startling a couple of late-night passersby—and goes to the Bailey.
AN: I apologize for that. It was for Miiko Ashida, and I've been working on it since August. I just now got it all out. I apologize emensely. Please don't flame me though. It really is her fault. Eeeeeek.