Resurrection Men

Reno/Rude. NC-17. ~2200 words. For Laylah.
Even if the place reeks, the old school charm gets him every time.

The inside of a reactor smells a little like dead rats and a lot like rusty blood. Rude’s never been able to figure out why it’s got that ferrous tang, if it’s the machines or the mako or the sick combination of both. The places always reek and the stench crawls up his nose and nests there for weeks.

The slums are a watered-down version, more piss and shit than mako. Doesn’t make much of a difference, though, because it all stinks.

Reno slumps against a filthy wall that’s more graffiti than stone, hand in his pocket and a cigarette on his lips. Blue-grey smoke winds round his fingers as he slowly exhales. It’s got a kick like a mule, and Rude would tell him to put the damn thing out but it smells better than whatever’s clinging to the bottom of his shoe.

“Where you figure he’s holed up?” Reno asks. He takes another long drag, holds it, and grins as it curls like dragon’s breath out his nostrils. “Kid’s got nobody ‘cept the Don, and that fat fucker’s already rolled on him.”

If he’s smart, the guy’s two days out of Midgar and still running. If he’s stupid – and that’s where Rude’s money would go, because it takes a good bit of stupid to crawl out of the sludge and hook up with the Don straight off – he’s found the deepest, darkest pit in Wall Market to hide in. Someplace nice and quiet to shit himself to death.

The nice thing about the Market is that nobody knows ShinRa owns every miserable stinking inch of it. There’s a vice for every player, every two-bit con, every thrill-seeking paper-pusher. Rufus figured out early on that if legit business pays good, illegitimate pays better.

Shinra Senior would be proud, if the dumb fuck had a clue.

“Man, fuck.” Reno snubs his cig out on a scorched gouge in the wall. “He ain’t that stupid. Nobody’s that fucking stupid.”

“He’s not in 7,” Rude says.

Reno licks his teeth and jingles a few loose gil in his pocket. “The Bee?”

Rude grunts. That’d be even stupider.


The Honey Bee, like the rest of Wall Market, is a con. For a couple hundred gil, you can get your hands on some fake tits for some fake sex, or if you’ve got a different sort of itch you want scratched, you can lay down a couple hundred more. And if you’re somebody important, or you think you are, chances are pretty good you’ll be caught on camera with your pants down.

How nobody’s found out about that one yet, Rude’s just had to chalk up to the quality of Rufus’s blackmail.

Reno trails along behind Rude in that half-saunter, half-skulk stray cat walk of his. He’s got another cig lit and smoked nearly down to the filter.

“It ain’t gonna be this easy,” he says, stepping through the tiny puddle Rude had gone over. There was enough crap on Rude’s clothes now, the last thing he needed was some addict’s toxic puke splashed all over his slacks. “I get you, he’s stupid, dumber than shit, but c’mon.”

“They always go for the girls,” Rude says.

“One a these days, they’re gonna surprise ya,” Reno mumbles around his cig. “Some polesmoker’s gonna be at the gym hiding in Big Bro’s panties.”

Rude stops and raps a knuckle on the bolted steel door. The Back Room of the Bee is one of the half a dozen or so buildings in the Market that won’t cave in with a good sneeze. “You can take that one solo,” he says, as the viewing slot slides open and slams shut again.

Even if the place reeks, the old school charm gets him every time.

Reno steps in before him, slim and oil-slick, slanting Rude an easy grin and a, “Bet your panties are prettier,” rolling off his tongue smooth as the smoke in his lungs.

Unlike the Bee’s front lobby, stuffed to the ceiling with tacky gold-plated dust catchers and cheap plastic plants, the Back Room is sparsely furnished and lit by the flicker of snowy monitors.

One of the screens showcases a pair of tiny, barely-legal girls going down on a little sticker of a cock mostly hidden in bird’s nest of pubes. Foreign suit slumming it for a thrill.

Screen number two is a standard missionary fuck, numbers three through five are more blowjobs, and six is at least slightly less boring, something involving the guy spread-eagled and a curvy ass on his face.

“Ain’t got no imagination,” Reno says, sad like he means it. “Our fuck’s in four. Poor bitch looks bored to hell.”

Snagging the back of a plastic chair, Rude spins it around and settles down. Reno perches on the edge of metal card table a few feet away.

It’s almost depressing watching the guy trying to fuck her mouth while she checks on her manicure behind his back. Two, maybe three minutes pass, and Reno’s on his feet again.

“Be here all fucking day waitin’ for him to blow it,” Reno says, slamming the door to the back hallways shut behind him before he’s done.

Rude stretches his legs out in a comfortable sprawl and folds his hands on his stomach. About twenty seconds later, give or take, Reno bursts into Room Four. The girl gets her mouth off the guy’s dick in record time, up on her feet and to the other side of the room by the time Reno gets ahold of him. With the sound turned off, the brief scuffle is like an old film, fast and jerky and without much of a point.

It takes Reno a little longer on the return trip, the door banging open while the girl helps herself to what’s left of the guy’s gil. Rude glances up as the guy tumbles in a half-naked heap onto the floor with Reno’s boot in the middle his back.

“Rude, Johnny,” Reno says, green eyes glittering. “Johnny, s’Rude.”


Johnny turns out to be a disappointment to more than just whores and his mother.

“I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no AVALANCHE!” he shrills, yet again.

“Nuthin’,” Reno echoes in a drawl. His stick glints in the light as it flips over in his long-fingered hands. “Not a fucking thing.”

“No! No!”

“The Don says different.”

Rude sighs. It takes a certain lack of sanity to talk in circles with somebody when they’re tied to a chair with their still-wet dick hanging out. Reno’s never cornered the market on stable.

“He lied!” Johnny starts tugging on his ropes again, working himself into a desperate enough frenzy that the chair’s bouncing on the floor and his dick’s slapping his thighs. “Lied, don’t know nuthin’!”

Reno tilts his head to the side, gaze sliding from Johnny to Rude. Rude shrugs. It’s what they’re here to find out.

Lighting-quick, Reno jams the e-mag down between Johnny’s fish-belly pale legs. The guy chokes on a scream before he figures out Reno didn’t nail the goods.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, sagging forward. “Oh, god. God.”

“Hey.” Reno taps his cock with the stick. Johnny shudders and moans. “Yo, hey. Ya sure you’re not just forgetting something?”

“Don’t know,” Johnny says. “Don’t know, don’t know, god, oh god, don’t know.”

“He’s rambling,” Rude points out.

“No shit.” Reno gives the guy’s cock another light tap, and a couple more while he talks. Just to hear Johnny verbally shit himself. “Think he’s telling the truth?”

Rude makes a quiet, considering noise. Reno gets bored with the tapping and flicks on the charge.

Johnny, as cliché as it is, squeals like a stuck pig.

“Think so,” Rude says over Johnny’s wheezy breaths.

A grin splits Reno’s face. “Beer?”

“Your treat.”

Grin unwavering, Reno says, “Fuck you,” and drops his e-mag to pull out a short, snubbed handgun all in one smooth as silk move. “Your lucky day, Johnny. Looks like I don’t gotta cut off your balls after all.”

Relief loosens Johnny’s muscles right before realisation loosens his bowels.

Reno lets out an explosive breath. “Man. Johnny, man. You gotta lay off the brew.” Gesturing with the gun, he says, “You untie him.”

Untying him is less painful than arguing with Reno. Johnny quivers like a scared rabbit, staring wide-eyed at Reno as the ropes fall away. Reno grins.

“Whore stole your wallet,” Rude says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the monitors and refolding his hands.

Johnny swallows, hard.

“What, you think I’m gonna shoot you in the back? Go, get out, and fuck, take your shit with you.”

The chair scrapes the floor and the door eases shut on the blur of Johnny’s white ass.


After five rounds of pool and half a dozen more rounds of beer, it’s not surprising when Reno says, “You wanna go fuck in the bathroom?”

Rude sizes up the table. He’s ahead by two.

“C’mon,” Reno says, weight slung on one hip and hand on his cue like it’s a cock instead. “You sayin’ you don’t want your dick sucked?”


Reno’s mouth quirks. “What’cha got for me?”

“You clear, we fuck. I clear, you pay the tab.”

“You got it,” Reno says, and licks the rim of his bottle as the second half of Rude’s shot goes short.

Twenty minutes and one beer later, Reno’s bent over the cracked sink with his pants in a puddle at his feet and Rude’s fingers up his ass.

“Fuck,” he moans, his knees buckling. His grip goes white-knuckled and he hauls himself back up. “C’mon, fuck, whip your dick out already, would ya?”

“Cock’s out,” Rude says, Reno’s groan humming under his skin. He grabs it and drags it over the cheek of Reno’s ass just to prove it and gets another deep, throaty sound for his trouble.

“Loose as I’m gonna fucking get,” Reno says, and it’s not true. Once he’s on Rude’s cock it will be. “Just- fuck.”

Rude’s fingers slip free and Reno’s spine bows. Spreading his ass wide, Rude spits on his asshole and watches it tighten up. Before Reno can grind out anything more than a few goading curses, Rude shoves his fingers back in right to the knuckle. A little twist to rub against just the right spot and Reno’s cock jerks, the thick string of precome drooling from the tip snapping off.

“Now?” Rude asks, just to drive Reno that few more inches off the edge.

“Fuck, yes, now,” Reno says, words trailing off into senseless noise as Rude settles his cock right at Reno’s hole. He holds there for a long, torturous moment, warm, wet muscle twitching against his slit spiking the fire burning in his gut.

One slow push sends Reno up on his toes, moaning curses and promises melting sweet as spun sugar on the tip of his tongue. Rude pulls all the way out, waiting half a heartbeat to do it again and see Reno’s body opening up to swallow him whole.

Reno rocks into the peak of each thrust after that, moaning louder every time Rude’s balls slap his ass. Fucked up the ass in the men’s washroom isn’t the place for slow and sweet, and Rude picks up the pace, driving Reno forward until his palm slams up on the mirror and the edge of the sink digs into his stomach.

Rude’s phone goes off. He’s already planning on ignoring it when Reno groans, “Don’t fucking stop.” It rings a couple more times before it shuts the hell up.

Moaning a steady stream of the filthiest shit he can probably come up with, Reno snakes a hand down to grab his dick and start jerking off. His ass clenches tighter around Rude’s cock, sparks flaring white in front of Rude’s eyes when he starts thrusting back again, friction and pressure building and rebuilding until the need to come is one giant, blissful ache.

Reno’s warbling ringtone pierces through the haze in Rude’s brain like AP ammo.

Fuck,” Reno snarls, “forget it, fuck off, fuck off.” His hips buck, his breath stutters and stops, and Rude doesn’t hear a thing but the roar of his own blood as Reno’s muscles clamp down on his cock. Under his hands, Reno shudders, echoes of his orgasm bringing Rude close enough to the edge that a few more hard, brutal thrusts is all it takes. The inside of Reno’s ass goes slick, wet, fucking beautiful.

“…fuck you, fuck you, you son of a bitch,” Reno mutters, slumping to the side and snagging his pants. Getting ahold of his hips, Rude drags Reno back up and slams his cock back in nice and deep where it belongs. “Fuck, what.”

In the mirror, Reno snarls several choice curses into the phone. Rude glances down. Reno’s still on his cock, a little bit of come seeping out of his fucked-red hole. There’s no mistaking the subtle rhythmic clench as Reno’s voice mellows out.

Reno drops his phone into the sink and stretches, straightening up slowly and letting out a contented, satisfied purr of a sigh as Rude’s cock slips free.

“Ready to move on the pillar,” he says, which explains quite a bit, and slants his mouth over Rude’s for a lazy kiss. “You’re on ground. Tseng’s gonna get the chick.”

Fishing Reno’s phone out of the sink, Rude dries it off on Reno’s shirt and hands it over. “Don’t forget the tab.”


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