Title: One Last Reunion – Chapter 2
Fandom: FF7
Rating: M, NC-17 from this point onwards.
Warnings: AC-DoC timeline. AU-ish given my lack of effort in researching the Ultimanias.
Characters: Cloud, Zack, and other FF7 characters.
Summary: One last reunion to right all that had gone wrong. Most FF7 characters appear.
A/N : I'm feeling a little naughty tonight.
A minor cross-reference to my other fic "A Changing Situation", marked (1). Nothing significant, really :-)
Sections in italics are inner thoughts and voices.
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His silent pleas for the unending thirst to be slaked had gone unheeded. He curses whatever gods in the heavens for this terrifyingly abominable act in his hands, and yet, at the same time, he begs the demons in Hell for more.
More.
That raw primal hunger must be satiated.
He growls and snarls in frustration, hot saliva dripping from teeth-bitten lips, the muscles on his back rippling from physical exertion, and his sweaty body shaking from that sweet rising heat. His fingers dig deeper into the younger man's hips, leaving in their wake cruel bruises and crescent-shaped marks all over the pale skin on the curvaceous flesh.
He is marking this man. Only his, and his alone.
Snapping his pelvis forward in one quick, brutal thrust, he howls in pleasure, intent on drowning any cries from the younger man beneath him. However, there is none; that man lay on his back on the moist grass.
Naked, motionless, silent. Not even a whimper.
The younger man's dull, half-lidded Mako-blue eyes stares into the nightsky, his face neither showing any fear nor terror, his limbs, boneless and limp, spread-eagled on the damp ground like a pathetic ragdoll. There are fingerprints and scratches on them, some of which are covered with dried blood.
It is unnerving. Is his hunger so unbearable that he'd do this?
Briefly, he recalls a half-eaten pot of rabbit stew, and a couple of apple cores lying nearby. That was dinner, his feverish mind thought. This is different. He cannot comprehend the sudden change in his situation (1).
The urge rises up within him. Again. He is still rock hard even after that brief interruption in thought, but he desperately needs release from that scorching sexual heat in his groin. Still sheathed to the hilt in the younger man, his own cock pulses in tandem with his racing heartbeat, throbbing from the built-up pressure, demanding more friction.
He doesn't want to see that face anymore. He wants to tear away that sorrowful image of a helpless blonde boy pinned on the ground, spread wantonly below to sate his appetite. He's disgusted at painful reminders of the innocence that had been taken – whether the angry-red bite marks on the neck and collarbones, or those uncried tears in softly glowing Mako-blue eyes, or, to his dismay, the messed-up, grime and dirt-crusted blond hair that had been meticulously cleaned with river water earlier that evening.
Truly, he's a monster. As all SOLDIERs are.
He quickly pulls out then, his breath coming in feral grunts, and his indigo-blue eyes glints with newfound lust. He does not care if there is blood smeared on his cock, or on the younger man's ass. In a single swipe of strong arms, he turns the other man around violently, nearly twisting the frail body. He stares for a moment at the bloodied back, aghast – even the stones and sand on the grassy ground did not give mercy to his prey – no, his partner.
His friend.
One whose face he wouldn't have to watch when he violates, pummels and drives so hard, so deep inside, ruthlessly.
Tears and sweat mix freely now. He pulls up the younger man's hips and proceeds to mount him from the back. His cock slides in with little resistance, the entrance already lubricated with pre-come and blood. He unconsciously lets out a throaty moan when he feels the much-needed tight warmth encasing him, the spasming muscles pulling him deeper, tugging and milking him. His grip on rational thought is fast fading away.
"I.. I'm sorry.." he murmurs as he struggles one last time to grasp the meaning of his dire situation.
But it didn't matter; the heat had already overwhelmed him by then.
And so, it begins once again.
More.
That raw primal hunger must be satiated.
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Cloud Strife woke up the next morning to bright sunlight on his face, a warm breeze picking up… and a loud, keening scream. It wasn't a few heartbeats later that he realized he was the one screaming, and he abruptly gasped for breath, effectively silencing that deafening noise echoing off the canyon walls far below.
He groaned when the first jolts of pain pounded inside his head. Damn, a hangover, he muttered to himself while his leather-clad fingers clutched at his forehead. A few empty bottles clinked noisily against some rocks and rolled off in the direction of the wind.
Cloud slowly rose from where he sat, and with much effort and a few shuffling steps, he steadied himself against the rusty Buster Sword. His mind felt like as though it was covered in cotton – fuzzy and blurred, and he felt off-balanced as wobbly knees tried to hold his weight. His back was stiff from leaning against the broadsword for the whole night, and he didn't feel rested at all.
Cloud blinked rapidly, willing the sleepiness and bleary eyesight to go away. Small, tiny wisps of a nightmare from the night before started forming inside his head.
However, before he could put his thoughts together, he realized that he was hard. No, not just hard; he was very aroused.
More.
That raw primal hunger must be satiated.
Cloud stiffened at that unexpected thought. He stared at the tent in his pants, his cheeks began to flush, and he wondered if that nightmare… was in fact, a pleasant dream? He couldn't recall the details, but it definitely shouldn't feel erotic if it had him screaming for his life.
Ifrit's horns, how long had it been since the last time?
His cock throbbed for release. The rough denim of his pants rubbed the cloth-covered hot flesh with each twitch, forcing him to gnaw on his lips to stifle a moan.
A cold shower wouldn't be enough, he thought.
Mako-blue gaze strayed and settled onto the few stalks of Midgar Blooms that remained where they were planted the night before, defiant against the harsh elements in the arid climate.
Flowers usually brought him back to reminiscence the past, no matter what the circumstances were.
And usually the dreams of his past involved observing himself from a third-person point of view; whether as the little blonde boy running away from the other neighbourhood kids by climbing up the highest cliffs around Mount Nibel, or the depressed teenager forced into the dreaded cobalt-blue Shinra MP uniform. Back then, his days were filled with back-breaking drilling, bone-crushing training with the bigger nastier boys, tiring night-long patrols, or getting the misfortune of being assigned to the frontlines of SOLDIERs marching to war…
…and usually, on Fridays, especially after the last daytime guard duty, he'd find himself facing brick-red mortar and his chest pressed hard against the ice-cooled brick walls. Through the alcoholic haze from being forced to down more booze than his scrawny 14-year old body could handle, he often wondered dazedly why his hair was thoroughly messed up, when his uniform became wrinkled and dirtied with mud patches, how scrapes and bruises appeared on his elbows and knees – and why, he often wondered last, why were his pants pushed down to theankles.
…and usually, there would be least half of dozen of Third Classes crowding around him in some quiet, dimly-lit, dank-smelling alley. Glowing Mako eyes would leer at him in the dark, the stench of beer and whiskey overpowering his senses, followed by hushed whispers of "Hurry, hurry, it's my turn", and then unclipped fingernails would rake his smooth pale thighs, someone's teeth grazing soft pink nipples, a huge, thick, slickened cock rubbing his ass-cheeks, deliberately missing the target in-between, and sliding down, down and against his own stiff arousal. He'd scream and bite between sobs and drunken curses, throw wild punches and short stabbing kicks at his assailants, but alcohol left him weakened and flailing uselessly against the brick wall.
But Zack would show up. Cloud always held on to that thin, but bright ray of hope. His lifeline.
First Class SOLDIER Zack Fair, would show up with blazing violet-blue eyes, yelling angrily and waving the Buster Sword menacingly with his hands, sending the Third Classes scurrying into the darkness with tails between their legs. And then, Zack would tenderly gather the shaking blonde boy in his arms. All Cloud cared was that he was safely tucked against Zack, blanketed by the familiar body scent mixed with sweat, the soothing rise and fall of a broad chest against his cheeks, and a strong heartbeat lulling him into an exhausted sleep.
Cloud let his finger run lightly along the hardened length when his mind focused on the memories with Zack, which involuntarily sent tiny shudders of pleasure coursing up his spine.
He never really knew what happened after Zack saved him. Numerous times. Did Zack cuddle up with Cloud in the First Class' bedroom? Or did Zack act as the good friend and dutifully carry him back to the trooper barracks… after the cuddling?
Did they even have sex?
Were they even lovers?
Cloud flinched at that question. Another gap in his memories.
He allowed his palm to cover his erection, engulfing and shaping that hard, pulsating flesh underneath. He imagined Zack's hand was on his own, the strong, tanned, calloused fingers guiding the movements in pleasurable ways which Cloud intimately knew best. Zack's hot breath on the nape of his neck. Zack's lips suckling at that sensitive spot under the earlobes. Zack's rising body heat warming his own in one way or another.
It's been a while, hasn't it? With Zack.
Cloud wasn't sure if he actually voiced out that statement, or if his still-Mako-Jenova-muddled mind was talking to him. Again. These crazy – no, psychotic – episodes were appearing more frequently in the past few months.
His cellphone went off with a loud "Victory Fanfare" ringtone at that moment, breaking him away from his daydreaming state.
"Damn," he cursed softly, as he clumsily rummaged his pockets for the noisy contraption, ignoring that desire that had nearly peaked. Finally, those thick-gloved fingers managed to pull it out. When he saw that it wasn't Tifa or anyone from the Seventh Heaven, he shoved away all thoughts about his lingering predicament and flipped the cell open.
"Yeah, Reeve?" he rasped over the phone.
"C-Cloud? Thank goodness you— hey, are you alright? You don't sound too good." There was static obscuring the voice; the sign of thunderstorms looming ahead.
Cloud gave an audible cough, hoping that the man on the other end of the line wouldn't suspect that anything was amiss. "It's nothing, just the dust.. and sand…" and the fact that you woke up screaming from a nightmare that got you so bloody hard and you're just thinking to reach inside there and jack yourself off, trying to remember what that nightmare – no, correction, dream – was all about as you try to visualize what you did as you grabbed that sweet ass and raped that boy again and again, and —
Cloud jerked violently at the sudden onslaught of very dark, violent thoughts.
"Fuck…" Cloud pinched the spot between his eyebrows as the pounding headache returned with vengeance, reminding him that he was going to have a rough morning.
"Cloud?" More static. The storm was near.
"I'm.. it's nothing." He cleared his throat. "What's up, Reeve?"
"There was an attack on Kalm yesterday during the festival," Reeve replied in a tone that barely disguised a hint of alarm.
"Anti-WRO insurgents?"
"It's worse, Cloud. We've never seen those.. things before. It… It was a fucking massacre down there last night! Two-thirds of the town had been burnt to the ground, the last body count up at oh-seven-hundred hour was fi-- and at least two hun-- missing or abducted-- 'incent was there and--" the voice was distorted by hisses and crackles.
Cloud thought of Nibelheim. A town gone up in flames, leaving only bitter, painful memories of losing everything that he'd known in his childhood, and the fate of a couple of survivors gone horribly, horribly wrong.
He shook his head, trying not to drown himself in that long-forgotten sorrow, which he'd hope had gone together with last night's alcohol. Climbing up Fenrir unsteadily due to his hangover, Cloud's grip on his cellphone tightened and he set himself for a long journey ahead.
"The signal's breaking up. Keep talking, Reeve. I'm on my way."
Up ahead, the morning sky had already darkened tremendously from massive lightning-streaked rainclouds gathering to the north.
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A/N : Damn. That was painful. It was unintended, I swear! (slaps the naughty muse)
Please feed the muse more mocha cake. Extra hazelnuts and almonds with a generous dollop of icing will be wonderful! If you put more sugar, I'm sure there'll be something nicer, sweeter and fluffier in the next chapters…