Bad Cop (Final Fantasy VII, Rude/Reno) Title: Bad Cop Author:puella_nerdii Rating: NC-17 Warnings: explicit m/m sex. Against a wall. Also interrogation. And language. And Reno. Wordcount: 1,715 Prompt: teamwork - "let's clock out early" A/N: I definitely took the "paired" approach here. Apologies for the lateness.
Reno likes playing the bad cop.
Of course, by the time ShinRa sends the Turks after you, you know you’re bound for a body bag, so none of them really bother with the good cop routine much; it’s more like a bad cop/worse cop deal.
Rude’s lucky, though. He just has to stand a few feet away from whatever poor bastard’s tied to the chair in the interrogation room and glower down at them, and said poor bastard usually starts shaking like he’s got a bad case of the DTs. The targets just kind of assume that no matter what shit Reno’s doing, when Rude gets called in, he’ll be about ten thousand times worse. Sometimes Reno likes to hype things up a little, though.
“You think this hurts?” he asks the last sucker of the day, some balding guy in his forties with scrubby brown hair and a flabby paunch. They caught him peddling samples of Hojo’s latest concoction in various crap-covered bathrooms around Midgar’s train stations. (Even Reno hasn’t exactly asked just what the drugs were, because there’s freaky and then there’s Hojo’s brand of freaky, which has way too many needles and tentacles involved for anyone’s comfort.) He bends the guy’s pinkie finger back until it almost touches his wrist. The man’s eyes bulge, and his face turns the color of spoiled milk, but he doesn’t scream. Yet.
“See, I just snap fingers,” he continues, suiting the action to the word. There’s the scream he was looking for. “Anyone ever tell you that you squeal like a six-year-old girl? Anyway, I just snap fingers. Rude here snaps wrists. And arms. And eventually necks, but he has to break a lot of other stuff before he works his way up to those. Look at those muscles, huh?” Rude doesn’t say anything, but Reno can tell he’s trying not to snort. He grins and jerks the target’s chin around until he’s looking right at Rude, too. “He could probably punch right through your chest with just his thumb. Rip your heart out of your ribcage. But that would be too fast. So he’ll start with the simple stuff. Maybe he’ll string you up by your arms from that hook on the ceiling until they just sort of—pop. Right out of the joint. Ever dislocated your shoulder? This,” he says with a flourish, “hurts even worse.”
Rude crosses his arms, and Reno stops talking for a second to look at how his muscles shift underneath his jacket. Fuck. He almost hopes this guy holds out a little longer, just so he gets to see Rude in action, gets to see his fists fly and his arms flex and it’s fucking poetry when he moves but not the boring-ass shit, it’s the kind that grabs you by the front of your shirt and shakes you and shouts pay attention!
Reno sees the sweat beading at the back of the guy’s neck. “Oh gods,” he whimpers. “Oh gods. Don’t kill me, I swear I—”
“Look at it this way,” Reno says cheerfully, snapping out his mag rod. As it starts to crack and hum, filling the air with something tangy and sharp, he drives it into the guy’s stomach, continuing: “The guy you got this shit from? Yeah, he might kill you if he finds out you told us. But we’ll definitely kill you if you don’t tell us. So spill. You do want to live, you dumbass quivering sack of lard, don’t you?”
Rude pushes his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose and just stares down at the guy, curling his fingers into a fist. That’s what really does it.
“It’s Rossini!” he gasps. Reno thinks he might have actually pissed himself. “Edmund Rossini gave them to me, told me he needed to get it off his hands…”
“See?” Reno asks, still grinning. He feels like whistling a jaunty tune. He finished with this one earlier than he thought he would. “That wasn’t too bad.” He strolls over to the door. “Our boys’ll come in to take care of you real soon. No, not that kind of ‘take care of,’” he adds when he sees the look on the snitch’s face. “I think. If you’re good. Let’s turn in our time cards for the day, Rude, huh?”
“Sounds good,” Rude says, peering over his sunglasses at the guy.
Reno remembers to lock the door behind him when the two of them leave. “I say we get some booze,” Reno decides, shoving the mag rod through one of his belt loops. “We can go to that place with the bartender you think is cute, yeah?”
Rude yanks the door to the stairwell open.
“You really like her, huh?” He heads down the stairs two at a time. “You wanna see just how real her tits are?”
“Real enough,” Rude says, and there’s a growl in his voice now, something rich and deep that sends heat shooting straight to Reno’s cock.
“Want me to help you find out for sure?” He waggles his eyebrows.
Rude grabs his tie, wraps the fabric around his fist, and spins Reno around until his back’s pressed right into the wall and Rude’s inches away from him, his breath hot on Reno’s neck. It’s all he can do not to groan out loud. Not yet. “I want you to find something more useful to do with your mouth.”
“Got any ideas?” Reno asks before Rude jams two gloved fingers past his lips. The leather’s hot on his tongue, hot and heavy, and he sucks on the fabric, bites his way around Rude’s thick knuckles until the tips of his gloves are soaked clean through.
“Mmph,” he says, trailing his tongue along the seams, nipping at the loose threads with his teeth. Rude pops his fingers out of Reno’s mouth and wraps his hand around Reno’s ponytail, jerking his head back. Perfect position for cutting someone’s throat—or for biting it, sucking hard on the skin right under Reno’s jaw and tracing a line all the way to the hollow of Reno’s throat with his lips and tongue.
“Fuck,” Reno breathes.
Rude does a Rude grin. Which is sort of a grin. Close enough. For Rude.
“Well,” he reasons, hooking his fingers under Rude’s belt, “who the hell ever uses this stairway, anyway?”
“Security cameras,” Rude says.
“Fuck ‘em. The guards live for this kind of show. They don’t get to see this ass every day.” He grabs it for good measure.
Their belts clatter to the floor, and Rude drives Reno even further into the wall until his shoulderblades are mashed into the concrete. He hooks his legs around Rude’s waist and grips tight, because here’s where it gets fucking good. “You want me that bad?” he purrs, even though he already knows the answer; Rude’s cock is pressing hard into his thigh.
“Yeah,” Rude says, squeezing Reno’s ass.
“Even though I’m a mouthy little bitch?”
“Especially because you’re a mouthy little bitch.”
It’s a good thing Reno’s taken to carrying lube in his back pocket, because Rude’s barely jerked Reno’s pants down just far enough to leave his ass exposed before he slicks up his fingers and pushes two of them in, and because it’s Rude, he’s just enough of a bastard to wait before he crooks his fingers so he’s hitting Reno in just the right spot. “Bastard,” he gasps, because even without Rude giving it to him just right, it’s still Rude inside him, Rude stretching him out and filling him up, and that makes it just about godsdamned perfect.
“You want more?” Rude asks.
“Fuck,” he moans, “you know I do, want your cock, what the hell are you waiting for…” He wriggles around a little to make it look even better. “You gonna say no?”
“Hell no,” Rude says, gripping Reno’s hips tight enough to bruise and pushing all the way in, just like that. And yeah, he’s all lubed up, but it’s still fast and it’s raw and it’s making his head go white and it’s just the way he likes it.
He waits just long enough to get used to Rude’s cock, Rude’s cock pressed up against all the best places inside him and making him ache, before he says, “Faster, start moving, dammit, give me more—”
And Rude, because he’s Rude, doesn’t say anything, but he sure as hell listens; Reno slips down the wall a little every time Rude pulls back, but that’s okay because Rude slams him right back up there again with every thrust. “Yeah,” he groans, tipping his head back, “gods, just like—fuck, hit me right there, that’s it, love it when your cock’s filling me up like this…”
Rude wraps his hand around Reno’s shaft and pumps up and down in time with his strokes until Reno’s godsdamned heart is beating along to the rhythm Rude’s setting. “Could, ah, I could stay like this all day, damn, just having you fuck me, oh, fuck me senseless—you like it, yeah?” It’s getting harder for him to breathe, to think; every inch of him is throbbing, begging for more, for that last bit he needs to go over the edge. “Tell me how I feel.”
“Hot,” Rude growls, thrusting in deeper. “Tight. Sweetest little ass—”
He can’t tell if he comes first or if Rude does. All he knows is that there are colors exploding behind his eyes and all over inside his head, colors he doesn’t even see when he’s blind stinking drunk, and he’s shouting, babbling shit that makes even less sense than the shit he usually says, and he rides the wave of it until he finally crashes to a stop, comes back into his body. Pinned between Rude and a wall. There are worse places to be. Way worse places.
He hears Rude breathing heavy in his ear before he slips out of him. “So,” Reno says when he’s got his own breath back. “Seventh Heaven tonight? I promise not to pass out on the counter. Or the table. Or the floor.”
“What about in the alley behind the bar?” Rude asks.
Reno grins and hitches his pants up. “No promises there.”