InsaneJournal

The only way Tifa could reliably coax Cloud into using his phone, was to leave him sexy voice mail messages. No matter what he was doing or where he was, he was guaranteed to call her back shortly after listening to one of her racy little scenarios.

Usually for an encore.

She’d stumbled on this sure-fire method of communication accidentally on purpose. She’d been feeling just a little bit naughty, a little risque, and a whole lot frustrated. Maybe it was one too many daydreams about the way he moved, or maybe it was the way he watched her sometimes, his blue gaze hot and intent. Maybe it was the fact that their relationship was fraught with unresolved sexual tension. Whatever the reason, something in her just... snapped one day. Abruptly, she decided that she’d had enough denial– both hers and his, and if it took something a little forward to get his attention, to engender a reaction, so be it.

That evening, once Denzel and Marlene were both safely tucked in bed and the bar was closed, she acted on her sudden burst of daring. Fresh out of the shower, she padded into Cloud’s bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. It wasn’t the first time she’d slept in his room while he was away, taking comfort from the lingering scent of man and mako that clung to his pillow and bed linens. It was, however, the first time she’d ventured to do anything more.

Dropping her towel she slipped between the sheets, and then reached for the items she’d left on his bedside table. While cleaning the room earlier in the week, she’d found an old pair of his gloves, the leather intact but too worn to offer any real protection. She’d saved them without knowing why, discovering only later – when, on a whim, she’d tried them on – that Cloud and the feel of leather sliding carefully over her skin were indelibly linked in her mind. The realization had left her feeling both kinky and flushed, but since she only had that one night under the Highwind to fuel her fantasies (and they’d both been too impatient to worry about removing things like shoes or socks or gloves) it made a certain amount of sense. Wriggling to get comfortable, she hit the speed dial on the phone and activated the hands-free feature. As the phone rang and the tinny voice mail message began to play, she donned the overly large gloves.

“Cloud,” she murmured after the prompting beep, “I called to tell you I’m lonely.” She’d rehearsed some of what she planned to say while in the shower, until she felt she could manage exactly the right combination of pouty emphasis and breathless want. “So very lonely,” she continued, shifting lower in the bed, making sure the sheets rustled and the springs creaked faintly in order to paint him a picture, “and it’s all your fault.” She gave a longing but petulant sigh. “My skin is all flushed and tingling after my shower, but you’re not here to touch me. Of course, the water touched me everywhere, sliding warm, liquid fingers all over my body, but even with the spray coming down hard and insistent, it wasn’t enough.” A slow, languorous stretch generated another series of faint squeals from the bed. “I need so much more, Cloud. That’s why I’m in your room now, all tangled up in your sheets.” Another sigh, this one instilled with all the pent-up desire she could. “Naked, Cloud. I’m in your bed, aching and needy and naked.”

Imagining him swallowing convulsively at that tidbit of information, Tifa closed her eyes to better envision his mako-blue gaze following her every move. “Your bed is narrow, but you’d be willing to share with me, wouldn’t you?” Her tone was innocent, with just a hint of tease. “You could be my blanket,” she added, “and I could be your pillow.” Turning her head, she breathed her next suggestion directly into the mouthpiece of the phone: “Or would you rather it be the other way around? I could ride you, directing your motion the way you guide Fenrir.” She was certain the communion between man and machine was a metaphor for sex, and hoped his hips lurched at her suggestion.

Sliding gloved hands down to cup her breasts, Tifa pretended it was his fingers squeezing so gently, and was not surprised when her rosy nipples hardened almost instantly. “Mmmm,” the sound that escaped her throat was both breathy and eager. “No, I think I want to be underneath you,” she decided, “so I can enjoy the way your body presses me into the mattress as you take me.” Stroking her thumbs over her nipples, the sensation slick and teasing, gloves rasping against the sheets, she moaned. “And your mouth, Cloud. I want to feel your mouth, too. Hot and open against my breasts as you thrust deep, making me even more desperate.” As she spoke, the fingers of her left hand tugged lightly at one taut peak, while her right slid lower, between her legs.

“I’m touching myself, Cloud,” she whispered, trusting that enhanced hearing would be able to pick out her words, “I’m in your bed, wrapped in your sheets, touching myself.” She drew a shuddering breath and exhaled slowly, surprised at how her own words affected her. “I wish you were touching me,” she added, gasping a little at the brush of leather over moist, eager flesh. “I need you to touch me.” It was simple truth: she needed deft fingers to search and tease and caress until she couldn’t think. A whimper escaped before she could bite it back. “Please, Cloud...” Briefly, she lost herself in the feel of leather drawing firm circles over her aroused bud, testing the ready moisture pooling between her thighs. Arching into her hand, she pressed her head hard into the pillow, causing the phone to slip until it came to rest against her face, reminding her that she had – or would have – an audience. “If you were here, you’d take care of me, I know you would,” she assured him, voice strained and breathy. “But right now I’m alone, wearing your gloves, and only pretending that it's you touching me.” Another whimper, followed by a groan as she writhed under her own ministrations. “It’s not working, Cloud. Not really. Your fingers are longer and thicker. Stronger. Your cock would be better still. I’m so empty, Cloud.” The mewl that followed was only partially feigned, her body ready and willing, just so long as he was the one doing the taking.

For several moments after that, her message degenerated into heavy breathing and ambient sounds as she touched and stroked and played her body to orgasm. When she came, she gave a gasping sigh, then picked up the phone with trembling fingers. “It’s still not enough, Cloud,” she told him, breathing uneven from her self-pleasuring. “I need you. I need you to take me, fill me, make me lose control.” Her tone was wistful and throaty, shuddering with unsatisfied demand. “I want to scream for you,” she softly confessed, “I want to feel free, and lost, and complete. Satiated and safe. That’s what I want whenever I look at you or talk to you or call to tell you good night.” She hesitated, then decided against admitting anything more. As it was, she was probably going to die of embarrassment as soon as her bravado faded, or whenever she saw him again, whichever came first.

Ending the call, she removed the gloves and snuggled back under the covers, staring into the dark as she waited for sleep to come.

Half an hour later, the phone rang.