FIC: Inevitability
Sep. 17th, 2010 02:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
etheratiTitle: Inevitability
Fandom: Final Fantasy 7
Characters/Pairings: Reno/random informant.
Date Written: 2010.
Summary: Any process, once set in motion, will inevitably draw to its close. Hostages, interrogation, and phallic symbolism.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for no actual sex, but hooboy are the implications kind of filthy. Also: violence, and what sexual interpretation is there is pretty noncon.
Notes: For Kink Bingo amnesty(prompt: 'guns').
*
Fingers split the blind-slats, would let the light in if there were any light out there at all. There isn’t, really, and that’s the second sign that this game’s gone on too long. First is the stench of piss filling the tenement flat, rotten in the heat.
Center of the room, the man’s tied to a chair, wrists and ankles, ropes too tight and that’s on purpose. Lesnick, A. Corporate spy, they’ve told him, but if so the competition must be on its last legs to be sending in incompetents like this. He’s beyond struggling now, all the fight in him used up in the first hour, and he isn’t gagged but he fucking well knows better than to call for help. Across the alley, Reno can see that the weasel’s neighbors have all pulled their drapes and shut their windows, never mind the summer heat. They saw him go in. They’re not going to get involved.
“So,” he says, treading backwards away from the window, pistol hanging at the end of one long arm like something fixed to a rope, a pendulum. Lazy, careless. “Ever read Kizarke?”
The man swallows tightly, doesn’t answer. His fingers are starting to go blue.
Reno crouches in front of him, light and bouncy on the balls of his feet. “Wrote four hundred-odd years ago, out of Nibelheim. Philosopher. Fuck, what’re they teachin’ in pretentious asshole school these days?”
Outside, a siren. Reno ignores it; Lesnick still doesn’t answer, and hasn’t that been his biggest problem so far? Tight goddamned tongue.
“His big deal,” Reno says, and the gun arm’s stiffening now, coming up to run the barrel carelessly over the man’s brow. He lets his voice roll, hypnotic. “Was that the inevitability of our demise is a gift. It gives us a context to make choices with the certainty that they’re the only choices we can make.” Cheekbone, jawline. Sweat stains the metal, and treacherous eyes are pressed closed. “Or some shit like that. I didn’t actually go to pretentious asshole school, y’understand.”
“You can’t make me tal–”
“Of course I fuckin’ can’t. But you can.” The gun lifts, presses hard into the soft flesh of Lesnick’s cheek, grinding against the teeth underneath. “Only choice you can make. One chance left to make it.”
Again, no response – just the dry heaving of terror through the man’s lungs and nose, hot on Reno’s hand, warming the pistol’s grip.
“Fine,” he says, apathetic, and smashes the muzzle against the informant’s cheek until his jaw pops. Metal slips between teeth and lips, and the man gags. “Should just blow your fuckin’ head off, then. No use to me all clammed up.”
A strained noise, like a scream muffled against flesh.
Three good men are dead, because of this bastard.
“What?” Reno asks, grinning, sliding the muzzle further in. “What’s that? You wanna talk now? Go ahead, man, I’m all ears.”
Garbled nonsense and a sharp pull back as Lesnick tries desperately to get away from the gun. Reno snarls, grabs him by the back of the head, fingers curled into the sweaty hair. Holds him in place and slides the gun back out, admiring the saliva-sheen all along the length.
“I don’t know,” and in it goes again, languid and slow, twisting. “Doesn’t sound much like talking to me.”
A desperate keening from deep in the throat, and Reno can feel the way it vibrates all the way up his arm. He shivers.
Slides out anyway, slides in, muscle resistance dropping off. “You’re good at this, you know? Fuck, man,” he says, all false concern. “If you’d just say something, maybe I wouldn’t have to do this.”
Now the bastard really tries, basic lizard-brain fear of death rising in him right on schedule, thrashing and desperate. Fucking typical, that it always happens too late; his lips and tongue work around the muzzle to form words, but all that emerges is more gibberish.
“But if you’re not gonna talk,” Reno says, sliding the gun in as deep as it’ll go, groaning when Lesnick chokes on it, muscles spasming. “…fuck, that’s good. But if you’re just not gonna say anything here, I guess we both know what happens next.”
The siren’s getting closer. He’s running out of time. “All three of us, I guess, if you count Kizarke, right?”
One last desperate attempt, eyes watering, head straining against the grip Reno has in his hair as the man all but screams around the gun. If it weren’t metal he was choking on, that would feel–
“Bang,” Reno says, too quiet, grinning and grinning.
*
Fandom: Final Fantasy 7
Characters/Pairings: Reno/random informant.
Date Written: 2010.
Summary: Any process, once set in motion, will inevitably draw to its close. Hostages, interrogation, and phallic symbolism.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 for no actual sex, but hooboy are the implications kind of filthy. Also: violence, and what sexual interpretation is there is pretty noncon.
Notes: For Kink Bingo amnesty(prompt: 'guns').
*
Fingers split the blind-slats, would let the light in if there were any light out there at all. There isn’t, really, and that’s the second sign that this game’s gone on too long. First is the stench of piss filling the tenement flat, rotten in the heat.
Center of the room, the man’s tied to a chair, wrists and ankles, ropes too tight and that’s on purpose. Lesnick, A. Corporate spy, they’ve told him, but if so the competition must be on its last legs to be sending in incompetents like this. He’s beyond struggling now, all the fight in him used up in the first hour, and he isn’t gagged but he fucking well knows better than to call for help. Across the alley, Reno can see that the weasel’s neighbors have all pulled their drapes and shut their windows, never mind the summer heat. They saw him go in. They’re not going to get involved.
“So,” he says, treading backwards away from the window, pistol hanging at the end of one long arm like something fixed to a rope, a pendulum. Lazy, careless. “Ever read Kizarke?”
The man swallows tightly, doesn’t answer. His fingers are starting to go blue.
Reno crouches in front of him, light and bouncy on the balls of his feet. “Wrote four hundred-odd years ago, out of Nibelheim. Philosopher. Fuck, what’re they teachin’ in pretentious asshole school these days?”
Outside, a siren. Reno ignores it; Lesnick still doesn’t answer, and hasn’t that been his biggest problem so far? Tight goddamned tongue.
“His big deal,” Reno says, and the gun arm’s stiffening now, coming up to run the barrel carelessly over the man’s brow. He lets his voice roll, hypnotic. “Was that the inevitability of our demise is a gift. It gives us a context to make choices with the certainty that they’re the only choices we can make.” Cheekbone, jawline. Sweat stains the metal, and treacherous eyes are pressed closed. “Or some shit like that. I didn’t actually go to pretentious asshole school, y’understand.”
“You can’t make me tal–”
“Of course I fuckin’ can’t. But you can.” The gun lifts, presses hard into the soft flesh of Lesnick’s cheek, grinding against the teeth underneath. “Only choice you can make. One chance left to make it.”
Again, no response – just the dry heaving of terror through the man’s lungs and nose, hot on Reno’s hand, warming the pistol’s grip.
“Fine,” he says, apathetic, and smashes the muzzle against the informant’s cheek until his jaw pops. Metal slips between teeth and lips, and the man gags. “Should just blow your fuckin’ head off, then. No use to me all clammed up.”
A strained noise, like a scream muffled against flesh.
Three good men are dead, because of this bastard.
“What?” Reno asks, grinning, sliding the muzzle further in. “What’s that? You wanna talk now? Go ahead, man, I’m all ears.”
Garbled nonsense and a sharp pull back as Lesnick tries desperately to get away from the gun. Reno snarls, grabs him by the back of the head, fingers curled into the sweaty hair. Holds him in place and slides the gun back out, admiring the saliva-sheen all along the length.
“I don’t know,” and in it goes again, languid and slow, twisting. “Doesn’t sound much like talking to me.”
A desperate keening from deep in the throat, and Reno can feel the way it vibrates all the way up his arm. He shivers.
Slides out anyway, slides in, muscle resistance dropping off. “You’re good at this, you know? Fuck, man,” he says, all false concern. “If you’d just say something, maybe I wouldn’t have to do this.”
Now the bastard really tries, basic lizard-brain fear of death rising in him right on schedule, thrashing and desperate. Fucking typical, that it always happens too late; his lips and tongue work around the muzzle to form words, but all that emerges is more gibberish.
“But if you’re not gonna talk,” Reno says, sliding the gun in as deep as it’ll go, groaning when Lesnick chokes on it, muscles spasming. “…fuck, that’s good. But if you’re just not gonna say anything here, I guess we both know what happens next.”
The siren’s getting closer. He’s running out of time. “All three of us, I guess, if you count Kizarke, right?”
One last desperate attempt, eyes watering, head straining against the grip Reno has in his hair as the man all but screams around the gun. If it weren’t metal he was choking on, that would feel–
“Bang,” Reno says, too quiet, grinning and grinning.
*
