Sticky

Sticky

(set some time before “Busted”)

X

Down here the river meets the sea
And in the sticky heat I feel ya’ open up to me
Love comes out of nowhere baby, just like a hurricane
And it feels like rain
And it feels like rain-John Hiatt—Feels Like Rain

X

Vincent Valentine was drunk. It didn’t happen often and it took a lot to do it, but he was shitslapped drunk and it felt pretty damn good.

They had been drinking—quite a lot as it happened—in a Costa pub to celebrate a successful joint mission between the Turks and AVALANCHE. Well, less a mission than an accidental cooperation, Vincent thought. Cloud had come in to save Reno’s ass and he had come in to save Cloud’s ass and before anyone knew it, yo ho the gang’s all here. And now both gangs were at the Pink Pony Pub in their bathing suits, drinking as if they had saved the world once again.

Who knows, maybe they had. He was starting to lose track. His last clear memory was that Reno had bought Rude a bottle of whiskey and Rude had enlisted his help drinking it. He remembered the quirk of an eyebrow over sunglasses and the hint of a sensual smile as he shoved the bottle between them, and the warmth that settled in his stomach even before the first shot was poured.

Four months of being lovers had not cooled that fire.

They had left the Pony and slogged down the dark beach. Rude’s mother’s house, where they were staying, was only a ten minute walk from the pub. Correction, Vincent thought. A ten minute walk to the pub. Walking back, inebriated, shoes full of damp sand, it was taking considerably longer. He paused and toed off the damned things, cheap canvas flats from a souvenir shop. He’d buy more in the morning. So caught up was he in his task, undertaken with the persistent dedication of a drunk, that he tripped over Rude’s legs and faceplanted on the beach. Rude caught at the open whiskey bottle in one swipe and saved it. “You looked like you could use a break.” He gathered himself up off the sand, collecting some kind of dignity, and sat next to his lover.

“Thanks. ‘S hot. Sticky.” He took a sip, or tried to. The bottle wouldn’t hold as steady as it had earlier.

“Um, Vin? Are you drunk?” He pulled away the bottle in mid sip, leaving a drop to sit tantalizingly on Vincent’s lower lip. It looked tasty so he leaned it to lick it off.

“Ruuuuuuuuuuuuude,” he moaned, half whining at the absence of his drink and half in growing arousal at the teasing licks and bites. Rude was so nice and steady, so easy to hold on to. Maybe he’d just stay here.

“Gods, you make me so hard when you say my name like that.” Rude took off his glasses and tossed them somewhere in the direction of Vincent’s shoes. He deepened the kiss, grinding the evidence of his statement against his lover’s hip. It began to rain. It wouldn’t last long. It never did; evening showers in Costa del Sol were gone in an hour or so. But in the meantime no one would be out. No one would disturb them. Curtains of water came down on both sides of the bridge, sparkling in the boardwalk lights, giving them all the privacy that they needed. The heat built in their kisses, in the damp air around them as they rocked into each other. Vincent, feeling much more sober all of a sudden, reached into Rude’s swim pants and took him in hand gently. But his lover thrust up demanding more, harder, faster, and he whispered yes into a pierced ear as he gave it with his body. His thrusts grew harder and more erratic until finally Rude stiffened and cried out, coating Vincent’s hand and leaning into him with relief.

Vincent lay back, grinning and licking his fingers, pleased with his handiwork. “Quit that unless you want more work to do,” his sated lover grumbled from the sand. He shrugged. Turning Rude on was fun. He liked it. The thrill of bringing him pleasure made something clench in his chest, made his heart race. The ache in his own groin was a small price to pay. That is, until Rude’s own hand settled there. “And for you?” The heat in his voice and eyes was heavier than the rain in the air. Vincent couldn’t speak at first but was mesmerized by that soft mouth, the damp tongue darting along its bruised lips.

“Suck me.” It wouldn’t take long, that was for sure. He burned, where Rude touched him through is light cotton beach pants. Much longer, and those would be replaced tomorrow along with the shoes.

“Vin…I’ve never gone down on a guy before.” He said it as he was untying the drawstring. Obviously, it didn’t bother him much. And sober, he’d likely have never admitted it.

“Gods, what are they teaching kids in the barracks these days?” Vincent laughed. His pants were around his knees, the surf was yards from his feet, the rain was in his ears, he had a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and he was teaching Rude to give a blow job. If life got much better, he didn’t want to know about it.

“Well, I’ve gotten plenty, I just…”

“Just reverse it. Ok, start like it’s an ice cream cone.” Rude snorted. “No, really. You just lick around the edges and then suck…oh gods, I think you have the right idea. Just don’t bite the cone…” Rude had to stop what he was doing for a moment to laugh. By the time he bent back down, he seemed to have overcome any performance anxiety he might have had. Vincent was moaning now, arching back into the sand and gasping with pleasure.

“Rude!”

“Hmpf?”

“If you don’t swallow, this would be a really good time…” he never finished. Rude pressed down deeper, stroking him until speech was completely beyond him. He felt the sweetness, the pressure building until finally with a groan that pulled from his very soul, he emptied himself into Rude’s mouth. And then, nothing but the rain and the waves around him, and the sound of his own heart.

When he could finally sit up, Vincent made some attempt and brushing the sand off his ass and pulled up his pants. They passed the bottle back and forth in companionable silence until, when the rain stopped, they stood and walked carefully down the beach toward home.