Be Bold, But Not Too Bold (Vincent/Tifa, NC-17) 3/3

[memoriamvictus]

Title: Be Bold, But Not Too Bold
Characters/Pairing(s): FF7 post-DoC, Vincent/Tifa
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, antics, sex.
Notes: For bleuwyn. I hope it proves worth the wait!
Summary: “I mostly abandoned the idea once I'd managed to make you cry,” he admitted, “and finding out you think I'm a pedophile nailed the lid on that mostly shut.



His mouth drew down for a brief moment before his expression grew shuttered. “Is that the liquor or the concussion talking?”

She couldn't resist a tired laugh. “Ouch!”

“I don't want your pity, Tifa.” It was barely a whisper. “Anything but that.”

“You're not getting it,” she replied, just as quietly. “Remember... remember earlier, when we decided we were going to pretend we were each telling the truth? Could we keep doing that now?” She extended a finger to carefully trace the path of the big veins in his wrist. “I... could do with a little more... petting, while we talked.” She smiled invitingly.

Vincent lowered his head once more, brooding, perhaps; perhaps merely watching her touch him. He drew breath as if to speak, but made no comment; finally, he shook his head. “No.”

“Vincent--”

“No.” He rose to his feet, finally pulling free of her grasp. She clasped her hands together, stricken at the loss, but couldn't think of what else to do, how else she might convince him of her sincerity.

His hands settled on her shoulders, cool metal and warm flesh. “If I'm going to foul this up,” he said unsteadily, “I'm going to do it in spades.” Tifa looked up, half-smiling, uncertain; his quiet humor in the face of humiliation was the last thing she'd ever expected, but she found it easy to appreciate. He squeezed her left shoulder gently, pressing the steely palm of the other against her.

Vincent kissed her.

She scarcely felt more than the tickle of his hair on her cheeks, so light was the touch of his lips; cautious, unsure, but undeniably there. She'd expected it, almost, but the reality was so different she could scarcely encompass it; so shy, so hesitant, so very, very sweet. She tilted her chin up, strengthening their contact, and delighted at the slight tremble that ran through him.

His knuckles brushed her throat, rising slowly until his fingers wound themselves into her hair. Studiously avoiding the sore spot, he pulled gently, and it was her turn to shiver at the pleasurable tingling of her scalp. His lips parted slightly against hers as he leaned in, just a fraction; she laced her hands together behind his neck to pull him closer.

He pulled back, eliciting a moment's dismay, but he merely raised his head to nuzzle her temple, his breath hot and enticing against her cheek. “You don't do anything by halves, do you?” she murmured.

This close, his answering chuckle was little more than a breathy rumble. “No.” He kissed her lightly, turning to trail his lips along the curve of her ear. He drew back a little further, and the happy, hopeful look on his face was almost too much to bear; she smiled back, winding a strand of his hair around her finger to tug gently.

The next kiss was bold, hungrier, more insistent; she sighed against him as his tongue teased her lips, and she opened for him gladly, burying her fingers in his hair to pull him ever closer. He was eager now, his left arm around her shoulders, his right hand stroking her flank, describing the curve of her breast. Kissing, caressing, seeking, he still did not press her; seemed to take pleasure simply in exploring her responses, and she reveled in the ease of their interactions. No expectations. No demands. Just them.

When he drew back this time, his breathing was hoarse.

“I... think I should still go,” he panted, then darted forward to nibble her earlobe. “But... I could come back.”

Tifa grinned, turning her face to kiss his cheek. “Who says I'm done?”

“Hmm.” Without further warning his left arm encircled her waist, and he lifted her up; she squeaked in surprise as he set her down on the bar. “I'm getting a crick in my neck,” he said with a self-conscious shrug.

“Oh, poor you!” Laughing, Tifa flung her arms around his neck, pulling him close. Most of Vincent's height was in his legs, and this way, they were nearly eye to eye, a largely unique experience for her. She laid her palm against his cheek, and the way his eyes closed as he leaned into the caress was too much to resist.

He braced his hands flat on the bar as their mouths met again, and groaned harshly as her fingers dug into his neck, a delightful, intriguing sound. Her fingers moved downward, working the knobbed ridge of his spine as his mouth sought her neck; she arched against him with a gasp as his teeth found her throat. “You're really,” he growled, pausing to nip her jawline, “not making it... easy,” he gasped against her shoulder, “to do the... right thing here.” He lapped at the delicate flesh beneath her ear, scraping it with his teeth.

“Really?” She pressed him harder, drawing her nails along the ribbed fabric of his shirt. “And here I thought I was making it easier,” she whispered, hooking an ankle around his knee. She was beginning to empathize with his strange jocularity; it was much easier to joke and be coy than it was to consider the realities of the situation too deeply. This was exciting, it was impulsive and new and different... but it was not going to go away if she reconsidered matters in the morning.

His own thoughts seemed to run in the same track. Nuzzling her neck, he gently eased his hips between her thighs, making his erection unmistakably evident. Not pressing or prodding, she noted with approval, simply making her aware of it, but the unspoken question his still form asked was loud and clear: how far was this going to go?

She exhaled shakily, her fingers tracing small circles on his shoulderblades as she thought. This could still stop, with no harm done in either direction. He could come back, as he'd offered, and they could discuss things in a more traditional setting-perhaps even a date! Or this could simply become one of those strange, unexpected things that sometimes happened, a passing madness never to be discussed again-at least, not where anyone else might hear. Not that she'd likely ever get the chance, knowing Vincent; she was fairly certain his unprecedented sociability had been purely for her benefit, and doubted he'd continue if he didn't see a point to it.

But he was here now, and it was good to have a man in her arms again; warm and solid, eager and ardent. No negotiating, no unspoken regrets, no coaxing-not much, anyway, she admitted with an internal smile. And it was Vincent, who'd apparently spent so much of their acquaintanceship worrying what she'd think of him she'd scarcely gotten to know him. There had to be something to that, didn't there? All that care and caution...

Maybe it was the liquor talking. Maybe it was boredom; loneliness; feeling nobody cared; but Tifa liked to think she was better than that... and sometimes, you needed to opt in.

She slid her palms up his back and fisted her hands in his hair, pressing his face against her neck, and hissed as his teeth sank into her shoulder. He clutched her tightly with his left arm, cupping her breast with his free hand, and after that, she wasn't entirely sure; just bodies pressed close, sliding against one another, and the increasingly urgent need to keep going, hands, fingers, mouths, touching, tasting, learning...

The next thing she knew she was nearly supine, her legs wrapped around his waist, his arm supporting her, and he had broken off kissing her clavicle to unzip her top. His tongue followed the zipper's trail a few tantalizing inches before he stopped to look up at her, and she didn't like the sudden concern in his eyes. She laid a finger against his lips as he opened his mouth to speak. “Do you really want to find out if the third time's the charm?” she murmured.

He laughed breathlessly, and she felt a perverse thrill as he slowly licked her finger, drawing the digit into the warmth of his mouth for a too-brief moment. “Upstairs, you said?”

She was surprised at the twinge of disappointment she felt at the question; she'd never actually managed it down here, and as it seemed all bets were off tonight... but that was probably a little much. “Yep!”

She sat up as he stepped back, and squealed as he slipped an arm beneath her knees and hoisted her into his arms. “You complained about the lack of romance,” he said reproachfully, and she could only giggle as she nestled her head against his temple.

She kissed him lightly, and slipped an arm around his neck. “Over there.” She pointed. Vincent obediently carried her to what must have seemed a perfectly nondescript corner of the barroom, for he made a noise of approval as she reached out to slip her nails into a crack in the paneling and pried open the carefully disguised door.

“Tricky.”

“A locked door is a back-handed invitation,” she said, pleased at his surprise; Cloud had thought she was nuts, though it had thus far escaped detection by any inquisitive patrons.

He had to turn sideways to get them through, and there was a brief moment of awkwardness as he tried to work out how to allow one of them space to close the door before she nudged him. “It'll keep.” Wordlessly, he began to climb the stairs in silence, despite their combined weight. The landing gave out on a long hallway lined with doors, and she pointed once more to the one that led to the bedroom.

As he shoulder open the door, she was surprised at how much time had passed; the indistinct gray light of a new morning filtered through the blinds, lending the familiar scene a hazy unreality-though not enough to ward off the stab of regret at not having made the bed. Vincent shut the door with his foot and stood, hesitating; she hid a smile in his hair as she imagined the internal debate he must be having, but was disappointed when he carefully set her down.

“Not going to throw me down on the bed and ravish me?”

The sudden force with which he pulled her against him took her breath away. “I could,” he bent down to growl in her ear, and there was no denying the shiver of anticipation that raced through her at the deep rumble in his chest. “But I... didn't think to... bring anything...”

Tifa rested her forehead against his chest, biting her cheeks to keep from laughing at the sudden change in tone. “Didn't you?”

He eased away, and the backs of his knuckles brushed the rise of her pubis, the touch luxuriant even through the leather of her shorts. “There are options,” he purred, so enticingly that she was half-tempted to leave him hanging simply to find out what he might come up with; but she couldn't be that cruel.

“Taken care of,” she assured him, pressing her palms against his chest. She wasn't sure if she was more pleased or annoyed, but it was sweet of him to be concerned.

“Mmm.” His hand withdrew, and a moment later there came a soft metallic thump. She looked up at the sound; he had unstrapped his gun and set it on the dresser. He followed her gaze and smiled. “If you say one word about being happy to see you--”

She cut him off with a quick squeeze of his package, delighted by the high, startled grunt it elicited. “Seems pretty obvious,” she said teasingly, running her fingers along the bulge. He shuddered, and she heard the clicking of his left hand clenching; she was finding a puckish joy in seeing him lose his composure. She stroked him as best she could, slipping a finger down his fly to ascertain how it fastened, but his hand lightly circled her wrist and drew her gently away.

“I'd hate to disappoint,” he said unsteadily, his smile winsome enough to make her knees weak. He held her wrist poised for a moment, almost considering; then he very carefully slipped it beneath the tail of his shirt. “You might find it... startling,” he whispered.

She puzzled at that, as her fingers slid along the taut flesh of his abdomen, until she brushed against the smooth, thick skin on the left side. She explored it delicately, surprised at its width, until she recalled just what a gunshot wound looked like, and knew what it must be. A dismissal rose to her lips, but something held her back; as her hands sought upward and encountered the heavy ridge following his sternum, she was glad she'd refrained.

Tugging his shirt free of his waistband, she continued to raise it; Vincent caught on, and leaned back to shrug out of his sleeves. His claw, though fisted, still managed to snag, and he looked sheepish as he worked it free. “You should see me with cufflinks,” he muttered, then pulled it over his head.

Tifa was glad she had a moment to school her expression as he shook his hair out of his eyes. It was not so much the scars themselves, though they were terrible, as it was what they represented. She did not know what made him different, but she knew that he healed faster than any SOLDIER. She had seen him stand up after blows that should have crushed his spine; she had watched as he'd held savaged flesh together, waiting for it to knit if it were a mild inconvenience. She understood it must have happened before-during-whatever had been done to him; but the still-livid marks of such obvious, evident agony were shocking.

Vincent had, quite literally, been taken to pieces.

She knew he was nervous, knew she was staring, and so she embraced him, pressing her cheek against one arm of the gruesome Y-shaped scar that dominated his torso. He laid a hand on the small of her back so tentatively she squeezed her eyes shut. Seeking to reassure him, she trailed her fingers up his spine and realized that it, too, was a relic of torment; though the skin was soft and flexible beneath her touch, no vertebrae were that hard, that sharply defined. “Oh, Vincent.”

She didn't know what to say, couldn't think of how to joke her way out of this, and settled for hugging him tightly. “I don't mind” seemed a bit inadequate, “You're gorgeous anyway” disingenuous, and he did not want her pity. But the touch on her back was still barely there, and she could sense him tensing, preparing to draw away, perhaps even to flee. She had to do something.

Stepping back, she reached down to let her apron slither to the floor. His guarded expression narrowed into something even less readable as she unzipped her top the rest of the way. She let it drop, holding her arms crossed modestly before her torso for a moment, then slowly reached up to unclasp her bra. The cups parted, releasing her, but she did not bother to shrug out of it; she merely straightened her shoulders, letting him see. “You're not the only one who can't wear bikinis.”

His fingers mapped the course of the white weal that rose from her hipbone, running in an almost geometric diagonal across her belly, culminating in a less distinct rip on the curve of her left breast: the legacy of Zangan's frantic response to the Masamune's bite. She waited patiently, and when he finally looked up, there was something like wonder in his hooded red eyes. “This is nothing.”

“Says you.” She scuffed the floor with a toe. “I used to look really cute in crop tops.”

His thumb stroked her breast, and she felt the nipple tighten in anticipation; his expression softened at the sight. “You're not ruined.” He shook his head. “You just... survived.”

“Yeah.” She smiled up at him. “So did you.”

His arm slid around her waist once more, the metal a cool shock against her bare skin, and she nearly sagged with relief; she was already reaching up to encircle his neck when he bent down to kiss her.

That changed things, surmounted some barrier, and she let herself fall into the moment with abandon. Gone was the awkward, teasing uncertainty; this was slower, more deliberate, but so consuming she could scarcely breathe. She let the bra slip from her shoulders at his prompting, carefully walked backwards as he urged her towards the bed. He sat beside her, following her movements carefully, not breaking their kiss until he gently pressed her backwards.

His attentions were thorough, almost contemplative, and she was thrilled to be the recipient of such all-inclusive regard. His teeth, his tongue, his hand, even the cold, careful touch of his prosthesis were a revelation; he followed the causes of her gasps and cries to their sources, exploring and practicing. She was urgent, now, wet and ready, but she could not bring herself to distract him from his ministrations, just as eager to revel in whatever he would do next. It was such a relief, such a release to simply lie back and let him please her. She tried to stroke him, caress him, show him as much consideration as he did her, but it was almost too much effort beneath the overwhelming stimulus of his touch.

He was nibbling her navel when his hand finally slipped beneath the waistband of her shorts, and the muscles of her stomach clenched with longing as he began to undo them. She raised her hips to let him slide them down, shamefully piqued when he drew her panties with them. She shifted her weight and raised her legs, exulting at the sensation of his fingers trailing along her thighs-and then sputtered in embarrassment as they got tangled in her shoes. “It's always something,” she laughed as she sat up and bent down to untie them.

“Often.” He ran his palm down her back, nuzzling her hair as she struggled with the laces, and she was struck by a pang of unexpected intimacy. It seemed silly, considering what they were in the middle of, but she was touched by the calm, warm ease with which he reacted.

He kicked off his own boots and rose to his feet, unbuckling his belt and sliding it free of the loops. He shot her a sidelong glance as he began to unfasten his fly. “It's not worse.”

Tifa finished pulling off her socks before running her nails delicately up his inner thigh, enjoying the eye-shutting tremor that elicited. Lying back, she propped herself on one elbow and drew her legs up, trying to give every evidence of enjoying the show.

She was rewarded with an abashed dip of his head as he eased his trousers past his hips. She wasn't sure she agreed with his definition of 'worse,' but she was prepared for it this time, and the rings of proud flesh banding his joints seemed almost-in a good light--decorative. As for the rest of it... she couldn't resist a pleased grin as she reached out to take his hand.

He joined her on the bed, stretched out on his side; she thought for a moment, then grabbed a pillow and laid it on his left arm before settling down herself. He chuckled. “Where were we?”

“Not quite like this...”

“No, but...”

She gasped as his fingers dug into her hip, as his teeth caught her lower lip; just that easily, the moment was recaptured, with the added bonus of the whole of him to explore. They weren't scars beneath her hands, they were merely texture; slick, ridged places for her nails to catch, trails to follow in pursuit of pleasure. He was so tall, long and lean; she'd never realized just how whipcord thin he was, how narrow and precise his musculature. It was so easy to wrap an arm around him, to pull him close, to stroke him...

She clutched him tightly as he pressed her onto her back, half-whining a protest at the loss of contact; but her grip tightened and the timbre of her cry changed when his fingers sought access to the slippery warmth behind her labia. She bit her lip, rocking her hips gently against his deft caresses, and linked her hands behind his neck as she squeezed her eyes shut. This was good, this was rapturous, this was--

He drew away slowly, fingers trailing along her folds with a tantalizing insufficiency. She reached out for him, but he raised himself on his elbow, and met her longing gaze with avid, wanton scarlet eyes as he began to stroke himself. She watched, torn between the desire to spectate and the urge to grasp him herself as his fingers circled his glans, leaving him glistening with her own fluids. He arched an amused eyebrow at her, and she had a stunned moment to recollect that this was Vincent before he was kissing her deeply; before he was easing her thighs apart; before he was on top of her.

His lips were soft on her temple as he held himself poised above her, an endless, aching moment of hesitancy, and she forced the sudden trepidation from her mind, made herself surrender fully to the inevitable pull of her own desire.

They both moaned as he entered her.

He sagged against her, his weight on her body inescapably real, warm and human, almost more so than the depth to which he penetrated her. She dug her fingers into his shoulder blades, kneading the base of his neck, and nuzzled his chest as she drew her legs back further to grant him better access. He sighed, such a quiet, contented sound her muscles clenched with bliss; this was good, this was right, this was comfort and warmth and ease...

She bit off a whimper as he began to thrust.

So very, very strange; she felt stretched, pinned, impaled, but his movements were so cautious and gentle they were barely enough. He raised himself on his elbows, his hair spilling over his shoulders to tickle her face, and she thrilled at the change of angle, bracing her palms against his hips so that she could arch against him. Burgeoning heat slowly began to uncoil itself within her, but his tender efforts fanned the flames so slowly she could barely stand it. Thighs trembling, she wrapped her legs around his waist, digging her nails into his sides in an attempt to urge him on.

She could hear him now, soft, hurt sounds that seemed to escape despite his best efforts, and she writhed against him, glorying in the simple gift of his voice. She had never imagined him so unbound, so free, and the knowledge that he found such release in her arms was almost as euphoric as the feel of him within her, moving, sliding, rubbing, so good, so full, so close.

Riding the cusp was almost agonizing; she strained against him, eyes squeezed shut, searching for the release that hung so enticingly out of reach. She was moaning now, too, high needful cries that she did not bother to restrain, could not bring herself to try to. She tried to let go, to divorce herself from her urgency in the hopes of soothing the tension that built so inexorably within her, but there was no surcease to be found; just sensation, stimulus, tactile overload driving her toward... toward...

“Please...”

Vincent's breathing hitched, and he buried his face in her hair as he drove into her roughly with a long, ragged gasp. She clasped him tightly, arching up to meet his thrust and preparing to abandon herself to the cessation of need... but he did not thrust again.

She lay beneath him, heart hammering, scarcely able to comprehend what that meant; finally he raised his head, lips brushing her cheek, and could barely contain her startled disappointment as he carefully raised himself up on his elbows. She unwound her legs with a sigh; felt, as she always did, that curious sense of loss and emptiness as he withdrew.

But he curled up beside her, gently tugging the pillow from beneath her head to once more shield her from his prosthesis, and she was pleased to be gathered into his arms. She reached up to stroke his temple, lightly sheened with sweat; he smelled tantalizingly of musk and sex, and was large enough to easily enfold her when she snuggled against him. It was good simply to lie with him; to feel the slack, languid ease of his body upon hers, to enjoy the simple, secure pleasure of human warmth, as heartbeats slowed and breathing eased.

They lay in silence for a time, too stunned, or perhaps too exhausted, to speak. Tifa stretched luxuriously, her toes curling; his hand slipped down her flank to knead the small of her back, and she rested her forehead against his chest, grateful for the soothing touch. Of all the things she might have imagined inviting him into her bed would lead to, this had not been one of them, but the physical dissatisfaction was surmountable; these things generally took time, after all. She blushed, though she could not have said whether it was chagrin, or the realization that she was already planning for the next time.

His hand slid higher, tracing the curve of her spine until it came to rest on the nape of her neck, once more resuming the simple touch that had led to so much more. “Incomparable,” he breathed into her ear.

Tifa smiled, unaccountably pleased at the simple, brusque honesty in his voice. She propped herself up on an elbow, and her smile widened as she met his gaze; the look of lazy, indulgent satiation, the droop of his heavy lashes... he'd probably be out like a light. “When do you need to catch your transport?” She only realized how awful that probably sounded when his expression transformed into one of mute horror; laughing, she kissed him thoroughly enough to dispel any wrong ideas he might be entertaining. “So I can set the alarm, silly!” She paused. “You... are staying, right?”

“If you... yes. Yes. Three, please.” She leaned across him to fumble with the clock, the programming of which she found a little difficult due to his languorous nuzzling of her breasts. The banked heat of her arousal fanned anew at that, but she made herself cuddle against him as chastely as she could, given the circumstances; there would be time for that in the days to come, and there was no point in spoiling the moment.

Vincent pulled her close, then reached down to shake out the tangled sheet and draw it over their forms; she slid an arm around his waist and relaxed against him. The rise of his chest was slow and even and she thought for a time that her guess had been correct, until she heard him draw breath to speak.

“Tifa,” he said quietly. “I've... wanted this for a long time.” She felt a pang of tenderness at the uncertain softness of his tone, but he continued before she could respond. “If this is all there ever is...”

“Hey.” She cut him off with a kiss, running her fingers gently through his tangled hair. She drew back to regard him, struck again by the earnest entreaty writ large upon his face. “We've got... all sorts of stuff to talk about.” She kissed him again, simply for the taste of his mouth. “But right now... right now, I just want to be here with you.”

His lips quirked ruefully, but he stroked the length of her body as they did. “I suppose I can accept that.” He lingered over the curve of her hip. “No discussion at all?”

“Well, you can tell me when you're going to come and see me next,” she said with a smile, easing her hips forward in encouragement. “Or...”

“Or?”

She bit her lip, ducking her head as she met his amused eyes; there was no harm in asking. “Well... earlier... you said something about options...”

“Mmm.” His hand slipped over the swell of her buttocks, his fingers teasing the sensitive juncture of her thighs. “You didn't think I was going to use all of them at once, did you?”

Tifa grinned mischievously. “Do you think you could?”