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#this time it was because i want cidshera content
vinnie2757 · 2 years
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for @scarfloor cidshera pwp bc fun [3.4k, m for grown ups]
suggestive sentence starter: "I don’t like being told what to do unless I’m naked."
Later, Shera will not be able to say, with any degree of certainty, what came over her. But something came over her, because this is not what she usually does. None of what she does in the following few hours is what she usually does.
Like most things, it starts because Cid opens his mouth and has an opinion.
‘Oh, fuck off,’ he’s snorting into his PHS.
Shera is underneath the car, tinkering with some pipe or another his fingers are too broad and man to reach. His description, not hers. She just goes where he tells her, and does what he asks – for the most part, nicely – because that’s how these things are. He asks nicely, and she obeys.
‘I most certainly am not doing that fucking nonsense,’ Cid continues, and she frowns at the angle of the connector for the pipe, because it’s a terrible job, and he should have known better when he did it. ‘I don’t do anything anyone tells me to, and you know it.’
Shera bangs her head on the silencer, the sudden jerk realisation of something he’d said most of a decade ago coming crashing back to her with something not unlike a ringing in her ears.
It had been – she’d been on the build for a year by this point, she thinks, enough time that they’d all grown accustomed to her, and comfortable around her, and used to her ways, and for the most part forgotten that she was a girl. It meant a few lewd jokes would slip through every now and then, and conversations would take the sort of tone that she eventually learnt to not blush over. But it was the Captain, as ever, who took it all to the next level of absolute nonsense.
He'd been arguing with Livas, the other pilot having some opinion or the other, and the Captain had not been interested in listening to it. But instead of making some gesture or another, he’d instead opened his mouth, and Shera had been as frozen by it then as she finds herself frozen now.
‘I don’t like being told what to do unless I’m naked.’
She lies under the car now, staring at the silencer and listening to the sound of his voice, so cocksure and convinced of his victory in the little verbal sparring, ricocheting around her brain.
‘Shera?’ he calls, ‘y’kay? You knock yourself out?’
A hand grabs her ankle and tugs, and she slides out from under the car, still dazzled by the memory.
‘Cid,’ she says, but isn’t sure what to follow it up with, so instead of starting a conversation about it, he laughs.
‘You got that right,’ he chortles, grabbing her hands and hauling her to her feet, ‘you haven’t had your brains rattled too badly then! Come on, I’ll make a brew, it’s time for a break anyway.’
She follows him, and for the rest of the evening, she mulls over the thing he’d said, all those years ago. She has, of course, seen him naked – many times in fact! – and he’s – he’s – she doesn’t have a word for him naked. He’s beautiful, in some unspeakably human way; littered with scars and freckles and hair, tight muscle and the oncoming comfort of square meals and contentment, a little misshapen perhaps, here and there, but he’s – she loves him, she loves him, she loves him. He makes her mouth too dry and her throat too tight and something bubbles in her chest, wanting to burst out of her every time she lays eyes on him.
He thinks she’s odd, but he doesn’t ask what’s on her mind, has learnt that it can be anything from complex equations to a shopping list to a flower she saw four years ago. He’s just content to tinker while she potters and ponders, and after dinner, when the sun has gone down, and he’s gone through the motions of saying goodnight to the moon – which she has learnt is not so much a goodnight to the moon as it is a goodnight to Aerith, because the ritual of it brings him comfort, despite his staunchly anti-theological mindset – he turns to head up the stairs, only to stop when she grabs his hand.
‘Shera?’
She takes a deep breath, swallows, looks at him. He looks bemused in turn, lips curled and eyebrows twisted.
‘I want,’ she says, and then stops, draws herself up. ‘I want you to go to bed.’
‘I’m going,’ he replies, like it’s obvious.
She licks her lips, feels the coil of something she doesn’t recognise in her belly, the unfamiliarity of a demand she’s not used to making.
‘No, I mean – I want you to – I want you to go to bed.’
For a moment, he freezes, eyebrows raised, and then something in his spine curls, and his chin ducks, his grin shifts from politely curious to filth.
‘Oh?’ he asks, for clarification. ‘You want me to go to bed, eh?’
She almost never instigates. This isn’t for a lack of desire, because she does desire him, but the concept of instigating doesn’t occur to her, and the process of it is foreign. She doesn’t know how to flirt, not deliberately, and he’s enamoured of it. It makes her such a pushover, because he’s learnt the signs of her gagging for it, knows which buttons to push. She’s easy, in that respect. But for her to instigate?
He'd be an asshole to deny her.
‘Alright,’ he says, ‘I suppose you expect me to be naked by the time you come up?’
She flushes, can’t help it.
‘Yes,’ she says, with a firm little nod. ‘I – I do expect you to be – be – naked. By the time I come up.’
He catches the underside of her chin with a finger, lifts it so he can kiss her, slow, steady, the faintest hint of his tongue against her bottom lip so hot that it almost derails her thoughts before they can form, and then she’s shaking herself out and giving him a shove, gentle, gentle, teasing.
‘Get going,’ she tells him, and he laughs all the way up the stairs.
She takes a minute to rally herself. He’s a pest, knows exactly what buttons to press, knows what to say and do to make her cave, but he’d said he didn’t like being told what to do unless he was naked, so that meant he liked being told what to do, and she – she never tells him what to do. She should give it a go, at least. He’s always telling her to be more assertive about her life, about her wants and needs and sure, he usually means to put her foot down over meal choices and students turning in work late, not sex, but she –
He said it, so she’s going to do it.
The fact he said it a decade ago is neither here nor there.
With a deep breath to steady her racing heart, she follows him upstairs, and finds him –
Not naked. He’s very much not naked, and he knows full well that he is not naked. His eyebrow raises, cocky, challenging, and she licks her lips, swallows, draws a breath. He has his shirt off, at least, that’s something.
‘So,’ she starts, pointing a finger, but she sounds very unsure of herself, so she squeezes her fist, scuffs her toes against the rug, gathers herself.
He waits, patiently, still with that cocky expression, but gentle, in the eyes, because he knows her, and knows she’s trying to achieve something, and he’s willing to play, and she appreciates it. Drawing her shoulders back, she points her finger again, wags it.
‘I told you to be naked,’ she says, and it almost sounds firm. ‘I – I expect my orders to be obeyed, Captain.’
He blinks, seems taken aback. His mouth opens, closes, and he considers this. She watches him, hopes she’s striking an authoritative figure, but knows she looks small in her too-big t-shirt and tight-belted shorts.
‘I’ve never followed an order in my life,’ he says, when he’s gathered himself, ‘what makes you think I’m about to start?’
She hesitates for half a second, and then some advice Ana had given her, years and years ago, when she’d not known why she was getting advice about a part of her life that didn’t exist, comes back to her.
‘If he gives you shit in the bedroom, threaten to sleep in the guest bed. That’ll stop him.’
It had been apropos of nothing, and at the time, Shera hadn’t a clue what she meant; who he was, what circumstance could ever arise that she’d need to threaten sleeping in another bedroom, any of it. Now, she still thinks it’s nonsense, but it would be enough of a threat, even if it would never be followed through.
‘Then I’ll go,’ she says, as though it’s that simple. ‘Yuffie’s bed’s still made up, I’ll sleep there.’
He scrapes a hand over his mouth, rakes his nails against the scruff on his jaw. She licks her lips, swallows, throat too dry. He knows full well what she thinks of that scruff, particularly with his hair outgrown its cut the way it is. She shifts on her feet, clenches her fists by her side.
‘Alright,’ he agrees, as though it pains him greatly. He gets to his feet, reaches for his belt. ‘I suppose you’ve got a good point. And you did ask so nicely.’
‘I didn’t ask,’ she reminds him, because he’s putting the ball in her court, giving her something to work with, and he knows her too well. She imagines he knows what she’s trying to do, and he’s trying to help her. It’s sweet. Almost sweet enough that she caves.
‘No,’ he agrees, shoves cargos and boxers down, kicks them aside.
For several minutes, things are – things are pretty normal, actually. Nothing out of the ordinary. Lots of kissing, and her hands roam his shoulders and chest and curl helplessly against his waist when he kisses behind her ear. He fiddles with her belt, yanks at it to get it open, and he’s never been gentle when getting her undressed. It makes her glad she owns nothing particularly delicate; she’s certainly grateful she doesn’t wear a lot of buttons. She’d spend half her time sewing them back on, and where would she be then?
Not in bed with the love of her life, that’s almost certain.
He’s backing himself towards the bed, tugging her by her hips, and she almost lets him get away with it. She’s very comfortable in his lap, and he’s very comfortable with her there, judging by the – the, you know. She’s an adult, she can say cock. She can. Honest.
Either way, he’s obviously very happy to have her there, and she’s quite content with proceedings, but then his grip on her shifts, a hand on the back of her neck, a hand on the back of a hip, and he’s going to roll her over, and she can’t let that happen. He’ll be in control again, and she’s got no issue with that, not really. She has equal say in what happens between the sheets, as it were. But she remembers what he said, and so she finds his chest, and shoves, sends him sprawling, unprepared for it as he was, across the sheets.
The shock is palpable, his eyes wide, jaw slack, fingertips loose on her thighs.
‘Shera?’ he chokes, and he’s not winded, not really, there wasn’t enough force in the shove to do anything to him.
‘Stay,’ she tells him.
He freezes for a moment, and then his eyebrows crease, his lip curls, incredulous.
‘I beg your pardon?’ And that, there, is the sign she’s pulled the rug out from under him. Manners are something he falls back on when he can’t remember anything else.
‘I said stay,’ she tells him, licks her lips. He looks – very nice – lay there in utter confusion.
‘Stay,’ he echoes, still incredulous.
‘Yes. You said once – you said once that you don’t like being told what to do unless you’re naked. Since you’re naked, I’m telling you what to do.’
He’s still for a second too long. Oh planet, she’s misremembered. She’s not – he didn’t actually say that, all those years ago. She’s made it up, heard something else and mismatched them into some nonsense of a sentence that he never said. He’s going to laugh at her, and he’s going to – she’s going to be –
‘When did I – I haven’t said shit like that for years,’ he says, with a note of disbelief in his voice.
‘Livas,’ she tells him with a thick swallow, ‘you were talking to Livas. During the build of rocket nineteen. He was bossing you about, and you said that to him. You said that you don’t like being told what to do unless you’re naked.’
‘And he told me that that’s why I never wore my uniform,’ Cid replies, his fingertips pressing into her thighs. ‘Because that was the – fuck sake, Shera, you could have – I didn’t.’
She feels his cock jump against the crease of her thigh, caught there as it is. She fidgets, presses against it, and his breath shudders, his shoulders rolling for a half-turn.
‘Stop that,’ he tells her.
‘No,’ she replies, ‘you’re going to like it.’
Something flickers in his eyes, a challenge she’s recognised in him from the beginning.
Prove it.
She doesn’t really know how to take charge; any time she’s tried, he’s resisted, because he’s a stubborn arse who thinks it’s funny that she hasn’t got the arm strength to push him over, but now she – she knows he’s going to behave, at least a little.
Taking a breath, two, she settles herself in his lap, and truth be told, she’s lost count of the number of times they’ve had sex, made love, fucked. She lost tracks weeks, months ago. You don’t count these kinds of things. They’ve done it enough times that it’s natural, that it’s muscle memory; there have been a dozen occasions he’s woken hard, or she’s woken wet, and half-asleep they’ve found the other and sorted it out and been asleep again before they’ve shared a word not an encouragement. There’s no need to be nervous about it; the heat in his expression tells her that she can do near enough anything she likes here, and he’ll still be solid beneath her.
His fingers trace up her thighs; she grabs his hands, slaps them down onto the bed either side of his head.
‘Stay,’ she tells him, but he just crinkles an eye with half a smile, and his hands come up again.
She grabs them again, and for a minute, they’re children, slapping at each other’s hands, him trying to get a grip on her legs, her trying to pin him to the bed. If he, for a second, wanted to touch her, she wouldn’t be able to stop him, but he’s letting her win, letting her control him.
‘Stay,’ she repeats. ‘Else I’ll go.’
It’s an empty threat; they both know it. He settles his shoulders, gives her a low-lidded look, all heat and want, and she shivers, fidgets.
‘I’m all yours, you know,’ he tells her, fingers curling in towards his palm and then stretching out again, one at a time. ‘And I’ve told you before,’ he adds with a buck of his hips, ‘if you do anything I don’t like, you’ll know.’
Her nails curl against the flat plane of his belly, and she doesn’t know what to do. She hadn’t expected him to capitulate, to give in, to let her boss him around. Now that she’s here, she realises she hadn’t thought the plan through.
He waits her out for a moment longer, and then, ‘do you want me to help?’
‘No,’ she tells him, ‘I want you to – to – I want you to – I want you to stay put!’
It comes out a little louder than she expected it to, and it makes him laugh.
‘Alright,’ he says, ‘yes, boss.’
It’s with only a little reluctance that she shifts her weight up onto her knees, rearranges her legs so that she can get between his. Gentle fingers on his cock, thumb on the head, and his knees bend, toes curling. She doesn’t often go down on him – not for lack of want! But these things just, don’t go that way. He seems more content with it put, ahem, elsewhere, rather than her mouth.
A kiss to the ridge has him shifting his hips, almost as if to draw away, but then she’s got him in her mouth and he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, a sing-song little moan that accompanies the jerk of his heel.
‘Shera,’ he breathes, and she watches him lift a hand, hesitate, lay it back down.
The realisation that he’s staying put sends something hot down her spine. She’s never been able to get him into the back of her throat, but that’s why she’s got hands, and between them, she gets something good going, the salt of him thick on her tongue after what feels like no time. She watches him as much as she can, the way his fists clench for want of moving, the way his head tilts back, his very soul shuddering when she focuses on the most sensitive spots, the way he rakes his hands over his face and huffs breaths into his palms. He writhes without moving, and she massages one of his hips, a gentle assurance. She forgets, every time she gets down here, that he’s so – sensitive? She doesn’t know if this is just how men are, if they’re all weak to a mouth on their cock, or if it’s him and her and the planet aligning them. But she wants him to be comfortable.
‘Good boy,’ she tells him, lets go with one hand to pin his leg down, knows before it’s moved that it’s going to jerk. It’s an odd little thing of his; on a very rare occasion, usually when he’s massively overstimulated and about to come, those two words will evoke such a strong reaction in him that it’s almost – sweet.
He moans, a low rumbling noise low in his throat, and she watches his abs flex, tighten as he back tries to arch.
‘Shera,’ he chokes out, and she massages his hip, returns her hand to its fellow in working him over.
‘I know,’ she promises, and nearly gags swallowing him as deep as she can.
His back arches a little, and a hand flies to the back of her head, despite her instruction to the contrary. It doesn’t do anything other than rest there, but he’s kneading his fingertips, and she’s pressing her tongue and hollowing her cheeks and trying not to focus on how she can feel the spit welling, because that will take her out of the moment, and there’s no reason to come out of the moment.
‘Fuck,’ he gasps, ‘fuck, fuck, ah – ‘ Words fail him then, descending into soft noises sitting heavy on his tongue, and she knows the cadence, knows that he’s close, close, close and –
She swallows, because that’s the polite thing to do, wipes the spit from her mouth, and straightens onto her haunches, watches him rub his face and lie there, sweat pinpricked across his brow.
‘You’re a fucking nuisance,’ he tells her.
She shrugs, braces herself on one hand to press a kiss to his chin, his nose, his lips. He laughs into it, so it isn’t much of a kiss.
‘I try my best,’ she promises, because she’s trying not to apologise.
‘I should,’ he starts, but he can’t find the words, sinks back into the mattress, rubs his face again. ‘Fuck me. Telling me what to do!’
‘You listened,’ she tells him, folds her arms across his chest and rests her chin on them to watch him gather himself.
‘Of course I fucking listened, you were sucking my dick.’
‘Oh, is that all it takes?’ she asks, arch, and he snorts, tugs a lock of her hair, gentle, gentle.
‘Behave,’ he tells her, and abruptly grabs the back of her neck and her hip to flip them.
Her arms are wedged between them, and he braces himself in such a way that she can’t free them, so all she can do is squint at him.
‘I rather think it’s your turn,’ he tells her, and shuffles his weight back, lets her arms free for only a moment, before he’s taking her hands and pinning them either side of her head. ‘Are you going to listen?’
She watches him, feels the beat of her heart in her wrists, his weight warm and familiar.
‘No,’ she tells him, even though they both know she’s already listening, wet and hot and compliant.
He snorts, kisses her sternum, her navel, lets go of her hands to hook a leg over his shoulder, kiss her knee.
‘I’ve been a bad influence on you,’ he assures her, and she knows this.
‘I’ll be sure to let someone who cares know,’ she replies, and it makes him laugh.
She’s happy enough to cede control, whatever of it he has, back to him. He’s much better at directing these sorts of things. She’s quite content to let him draw sighs from her, make her shiver and tremble and when he’s recovered, because he’s not a teenager anymore, so he says, he bends her legs back, hooks them over his elbows to duck down and knock their brows together as he makes himself at home, and she clutches the back of his neck.
‘Yes,’ she sighs, because she knows he likes to know he’s doing a good job. ‘You can – can – harder,’ she tells him, and he chokes.
‘Harder?’ he repeats.
‘I didn’t stutter,’ she stutters, because she’s not that good at this.
He digs his fingers into her thigh, the only real sign he’s not as unaffected as he likes to pretend.
‘Harder,’ he repeats again, just to be sure.
She would roll her eyes, but he’s bottomed out, a hard, sharp thrust, and she gasps, digs her nails into his neck. They’ll be back on site tomorrow, and everyone will see the pockmarks not hidden by his jacket. He won’t care, she’s sure, but she’ll feel the heat in her ears every time she sees them.
They – she’d like to say they make love, that feels right. There’s a lot of emotion, a lot of care, a lot of – a lot of love. But this is a fuck. She asked for harder, and he’s doing his best to provide, to listen, to do as he’s told. The realisation sends a shockwave down the length of her spine, and she gasps, clutches him close, close, close, heels digging into the back of his thighs, and his weight shifts to accommodate, goes onto one forearm, his face burying itself into her neck, and she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.
He helps her to her feet, to the bathroom, brushes some of her hair from her face as she lowers herself onto the toilet. It’s not the most romantic thing, but she’s fastidious about this sort of thing. Routine and all that. You have sex, you go to the toilet afterwards, it’s just how it’s done. He gives his face a cursory scrub with soap and water, for no more reason than it makes him feel better about nothing much at all, and then he sits on the edge of the bath to wait for her to decide to fill him in on what the fuck that was all about.
She shrugs helplessly at him, scrapes her tangles out of her face.
‘It’s,’ she says, and he snorts.
‘Don’t push your fucking luck,’ he tells her, wags a finger, ‘I don’t listen to just anyone’s instructions, you know.’
She grins at him, and he grins back, hauls himself upright again, makes some quip about brushing his teeth, since she’s so adamant he’s going to bed.
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vinnie2757 · 4 years
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Paul: you see this thing on facebook
Me: [goes on Facebook one a year to yell about the disgrace that is some poor character development or design in geek media and logs off again]
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vinnie2757 · 3 years
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so can i add 4, 11, 20 and 25 to the meta ask from yesterday?😄
25. lmao it wasn’t yesterday any more it was like a million years ago but i’m finally back on desktop tumblr so!!!!! this ask meme
4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)
‘I love you,’ she says, gentle, her eyes bright in the light of Meteor.
He stares at her, and she watches him back. It takes him a second, but he realises that she’s nervous. As though declaring his sentiment returned is somehow something to be nervous about. What is he going to do? Reject her? He already said he’s in love with her, didn’t he? What has she got to be nervous about?
She’s still holding his hands.
He curls his fingers, and she lets go like she’s been burnt. The loss of her skin against his, the warmth, the softness, it sends the universe crashing back into him, a hard landing in a churning ocean.
‘I love you,’ he tells her, again, because he can’t seem to keep it in his mouth.
for obvious reasons, i love this, but honestly all of this chapter
11. What do you envy in other writers?
the way they handle emotions, im very envious of that, and the very distinct voices of characters, which i dont think i really capture
20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)
bold of you to assume i’ve thought about the meta lmao. i try to include a lot of space imagery with the space kids, like theres a lot of talk about universes and black holes and galaxies in eyes. i dont really hint about future scenes because i write on my ass not to any plan lmao. i adore cid and yuffies relationship development, because accidentally dad is my favourite part of the avalanche found family. i’d have liked to do more of cid and aerith, because she would hand his ass to him
25. What part of writing is the most fun?
honestly any time cid interacts with the girls is always a riot i love writing him talking to the girls. but also the soft moments because of course i love writing cidshera content
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