Valenwind(ish) ~ Crystalline
Pairing: Valenwind (Vincent Valentine&Cid Highwind) (but it's better if you think of it as just a romance, and not put specific known characters in it. Please.)
Fandom: FFVII
Rating: NC-17 (if you have a large vocaulary and turn your head and squint)
Comments: Okay. This sucks. Ima say it right up front. This is one of the best pieces I've ever written, as far as writing style, characterisation...it's fucking beautiful. And then I went and put a lemon in the bastard, and ended it early. I could shoot myself. But I owed a friend a commish with Valenwind smut, so it had to happen.
I WILL rewrite this. It will happen. Expect it. Near future. Ima force it.
That said, HAY GUYS~ I'M BA~CK!! 8D
P.S. I NEVER write Cid as seme. This is just wrong in so many ways...
I knew I was going to lose to him from the moment I first saw those cobalt eyes. My fingers almost wrote out the word "sapphire" there, but I could only wish I had been so lucky. If they were dark enough to be sapphire, I wouldn't have even spared him a glance. But no, they were cobalt. The exact same shade as...
" 'Lo." It was the first human thing I'd heard in...what had it been? Thirty years, I suppose. The last person to stumble across me had let me lie. Made a small comment, brushed my cheek, started when I'd stirred, and closed the lid back on me. I very much wish he hadn't made such a trained decision that day. Egotistical as it may be, it seems to me that things would have been very different had I been around. But perhaps it really is all timing. We will never know.
By the by, there I lay, vision blurred slightly from deep respite disturbed so abruptly, gazing into the glowing half-light of a bit of materia. It backlit his head, making it a shadowy form of light-coloured mess on one side and unclean skin on the other. Something smelled very burnt at first, and I wondered for a moment if it was the man. My new senses weren't used to the smell of cigarettes, and my nose wrinkled up. It made the man leaning over me blink a little faster, and as I grew accustomed to the dim lighting I made out the blush across his cheeks. Damn, even in death they did that. I really wished they would stop.
The only reply I could manage was a very soft grumble, which I'm sure he didn't hear. As I stirred and began to sit up, knowing this time I wouldn't be left so easily alone to rot, he stepped back, as if he were truly afraid of me. It was then I saw the others around him, weapons raised, and the long spear in his hand. They glowed like ghosts in the bluish-green light, and I felt my stomach turn over at that colour. The green-hued lab-coated people, the ones in suits and the ones with syringes. A flash of memory, which passed over my visage as merely a blink, and they were solid, living people once more. My eyes passed over each of them, slowly, measuring them bit by bit as I fingered the weapon still beside me. It had slipped a little from its holster against my leg, but the fact that it was still close enough to be slightly warm to the touch made my whole body tingle with the want for blood. I could smell them like no human ever should, taste their raw energy and flesh against the back of my tongue, hear their quivering heartbeats and twitching fingers. If I had been a killer before, I was a monster now.
These tales are all in the past, however, and I meant to be narrating that which has come after everything. My tale is greatly a death sentence, and this one even more so. A number of years, fleeting years, of avoiding those eyes. Years of wondering every time he takes me to that cave if he knows, how he couldn't know. The crystals that encase the love of my past - the obsession of my past - are the same deadly blue as his eyes. I tell her about him now, as if she could care. As if she could do anything but feel guilt, say anything but "I'm so sorry..." What good will apologies do? When all that is left is suffering and hate, and everything around me is dying, what good are apologies? I don't care anymore. I can't, and I won't.
Four years of avoiding his gaze. Four years of hiding in ventilation shafts and mechanical equipment. Four years of never sitting at the same table as him to eat. Four years of hiding behind books and fabric. Four years of less than a paragraph in spoken word. Four years of pretending airship golf is a hobby born of boredom. Four years of stifling laughter. Four years of lies. Four years of fear. Four years of anger. Four years of begging silently for forgiveness. Four years of angst. Are you through with me yet? Because I am more than sick of avoiding you.
I thought it would hurt to tell you I found humour in the way you troubled your chin when you thought. Even worse to say that every time you spoke, you were speaking for me. It would, then, mean death to admit aloud that I regretted wearing leather pants for their tightness when you were covered in blood and sweat from a battle, torn fabric flying around rippling muscles as you chewed on a broken, unlit cigarette and screamed that you would never, ever give up. When you made those last stands, it was all that kept me aiming that gun at whatever had hurt you instead of turning it back on myself. You would never forgive me for that, would you? Not all the pheonix downs in Gaia could put back together a dead man's head.
In the end, it had been you to speak first, that day under the waterfall. I hadn't asked you to take me out for my birthday, and honestly I'd regretted it. Then again, there always was something about the very sound of your voice which commanded me, even when you sounded so unsure. You never bothered me about my books, about my distance from you as you fished, whistling and talking to yourself as if you were the best conversation you'd ever experienced. The warm sun even allowed me a few smiles to hide behind a hand freed from its perpetual gauntlet. Most of all, you had never, ever asked where I disappeared to when the storms came. It was I who told you, I who showed you, the ever-curious having too much respect for his own good.
It was also my fault that your heart was broken, as well mine that it was mended. At first, it was because I felt sorry for you. That ever-impending guilt that will forever plague me, no matter my state or place, took me over once more and allowed me to tuck away the wings. To approach you with nothing on my person but my melting dignity, and to let you return to me the pleasure my inner beasts had stolen from us. Pleasure is such a silly word, one of your own, which replaces the inner monologue of my soul with impeccable vernacular. You are beautiful, Captain, in every way imaginable, and I will never be worthy of that cobalt glow. Not from either of you.
As I lay still and silent beside you, all these images and thoughts race through my mind. The feel of your rough lips on the scarred skin of my back sends chills of vain pleasure racing through every millimetre of my body. My eyes slip shut, abhorring the sensitivity of that part of myself, and that you know it, and that I let you do this despite. Warm, thick, calloused fingers press needily against a part of me I still hate, naive fingers who will never know the scars of the place they cry for now. However, because I feel guilty, I press back, and let those slick digits slide painfully inside me without so much as a grimace.
"Vince...you okay?" I hear you grunt, breathless, into my ear, thinking only how well endowed you are as the proof of this presses against my spine. I allow my body to sigh, and merely nod in response, biting the inside of my cheek as I move against you, pretending I want it as bad as you do. Despite my self-loathing, my body warms to the feel of another so intimately close, where no one has been let. The others weren't let. You are.
Those fingers begin to spread inside me, and I would rather die than know that I let a gasp escape my lips. A soft sound I can never take back, which forces me to become a better liar. Then again, you don't even seem to notice, as a soft moan is your response, those bony digits slipping back and forth, in and out, making those strange tinges shoot through the lower, forbidden parts of my body. The nerve endings responding to something they very much like, though my stomach feels tight and desperate as the uncontrollable responses trigger so many vivid and lost memories. He liked it dry. I bled more that way, and he liked the idea that no matter how much he cut me I would never get infected. I never saw him, but I know he was thin and wrinkled, just like his body. My heightened senses could feel it so keenly, somehow, as it moved inside me. He loved that no matter how much I hated it, how hard I tried, how my body rejected him in the form of vomiting, convulsions, horrid, half-human screams...it also, inevitably, responded to him. He liked me to taste myself. At that I am forced to hide a wretch into yet another rock against your hands, and suddenly my entire body explodes from the inside. Daemon eyes overtake my vision as my back arches hard against you, the nausea dying instantly as a soft cry absolutely tears itself from my dry lips. You moan again, and my body gives a little shiver, approving.
"Y'like that, huh?" you half-whisper, slipping the lobe of my ear between your lips, sucking the flesh back and nipping gently on it. To that my body and mind react in tandem, unarguably. The Grey Man did this, and I have never liked it. My aversion is reflected in the sudden thrashing of my shoulders, in a desperate attempt to escape both you and the decades-old sensory attack. I hear you protest softly, soothingly, stopping the motion of your hand to finger my spine clumsily with the free one trapped beneath you. " 'Sokay if you don't like it, just say so. I'm sorry. I'll go slow." As if you aren't already doing so, agonisingly, as that little touch brushes so many sensitive spots that the hated orifice reacts around your half-buried fingers. I bite back a whimper, and suddenly wonder why. It doesn't hurt. It isn't making me sick, anymore. I no longer feel an ounce of self-loathing. To my absolute horror, my mind and body are now agreeing that I want this! Frightened, a sick shiver runs through my body, and for once you recognise it for what it is. Your lips are against my neck again, and I am silently urging you lower, toward a place you have yet to discover.
"Y'want me ter stop?" An honest-to-Shiva whisper this time, and the pause allows me to realise my breathing has become bated. The accent - that horrible accent - which has been thickened by the heat of the moment, reduced to a vulgar dialect of words that should never be allowed into the language we speak, makes my stomach do a full turn. It is not illness this time, however, but pure desire, unlike I have felt in nearly forty years. I feel my head shaking of its own volition, emphatically, and I catch my lower lip in my teeth. Gaia, Cid...if you stop now, I really will kill you...
As if you can read my mind, you chuckle very softly and slide one leg between my own. You are still wearing the red boxers with little, old-fashioned aeroplanes on them. I saw them on you yesterday, and I know you haven't changed. The fittingly rough fabric brushes my tailbone and the curve of my buttocks as you force my legs wider slowly, coaxingly. Everything about you is rough, from the stubble on your chin to your calloused skin, to the way you speak and the way you fight. Only two things, I've discovered, are exceptions to this rule: The way you treat your ships, and the way you treat your lovers. It is a beautiful contradiction, and my stomach sinks further as I realise, fatefully, that I could very easily love you for it.
At this moment, however, I am distracted by the feeling of yet another finger joining its companions inside me, making a grand total of three warm pleasantries. I have stopped counting. I want only to feel you brush once more that place none of them could ever find, ever cared to reach. I had thought it myth, had hoped it myth, until now. A rough breath escapes me as I press with true eagerness against those fingers, my slickening brow furrowing. It is worth the pain, if you only understand what it is I want. I can think you only a psychic when the warm slickness of your tongue once more finds - by accident - that place between my shoulder and neck at the same instant your fingers curve back inside me. I cannot help myself - I cry out loudly, arching and pressing against you as my entire body writhes in need. If I could speak harshly, if I had your tongue, I would demand in painful vernacular to be desecrated immediately. Fuck me. Now.
The beasts inside me allow me many small oddities, only one of which are the wings which have become so useful to the Turks. Another is the low, daemonic growl that creeps up from the deepest parts of my chest as you stop for just a moment. Without a warning, those challenging digits escape the pressure of my need, and another, louder growl follows the last. An angry growl, a demanding growl.
"Just 'old yer chocoboes," you mutter, as I hear the sharp click of plastic and close my eyes to imagine the sight of you fumbling behind me. I dare not turn to look; that would ruin my fragile illusion, as well as my current state. That in itself would very quickly become a physical danger. As an afterthought, my logical brain states bluntly that there was some sort of mispronunciation of the common bird's name, though there is scant time for it to register exactly what. You are against my back once more in hardly a moment, betraying how practised you really are at this. But you are hesitating much too long; it took my body only a moment to accustom itself to the feeling of warmth once more, and I am more than aptly ready for you. Frustrated, the hand that is so often covered in claws swipes back as if to use them, urging the member already nudging so teasingly to give in as I already have. You hiss in - is it pain, or surprise? - and my body reacts to that, as well. There is some killer still in me, in so many forms.
The growl that bursts forth from me as you finally take my obvious hint is entirely human, surreal in its truth to my own deep voice. You cry out in tandem with me, and as our voices meld in harmony, my body searing with pain that is undeniably pleasurable, a flash of bright blue overcomes my senses, and that small, soft-spoken phrase penetrates my psyche. Overwhelmed as I am, I can do nothing to stem the tears that pour forth, all consciousness left of me ceasing your pause before it begins, cutting off your question as to my comfort as I strain against you, hating the sound of my voice as it rises to pitches it has not reached since before I was allowed the enticing luxury of a gun. My sudden action against you promts a curse, followed by my name, cried out in something akin to pain as my head falls back against your shoulder and I will our bodies to move. Suddenly, beautifully, we dance.
I never knew you had rhythm, and I will have to remember to ask you to dance with me at the next Turk ball, if I'm not busy being screwed senseless by you in a back room. Cidney Reginald Highwind, I refuse to believe you have me speaking this way! Yet such small, petty things could never surmount against the power of our bodies entwining, my voice so high and needy almost drowning out your own cries of my name, of curses and that dirty talk I've always hated, which sounds so hot and incredible with that nasty accent of yours. I want you to fuck me, Cid. I want you to tell me over and over how good I feel. How tight I am. I want to squeeze myself around you in that way the Grey Man loved and spite him for it with the sound of your ecstatic reactive moan. I want to make you bleed from clawing you so hard, because my body alone can't handle the waves of pleasure shooting up and down, in and out, through and through and over and over as I gasp and plead and scream. I'm dying for you, Cid, there is nothing more precious to me than the cleansing of my soul and body as you drive into me hard enough to spear me through. I know I am dying! I am not fit to live through this, not worthy to remember the absolute passion with which you tell me, as if I don't already know, that you love me. Let it not end so soon! I could not handle losing you...not even to this. Never.
I have not even been touched. The force of your body rocking and moaning and sweating against mine peak to a point of heat which sets through to destroy me, sending chills of powerful relief from my scalp to the very tip of my toes, meeting to crash to a climax at the very core of me. I scream, an unadulterated pleading of your name as I feel the heat of my orgasm take me over, followed so very closely by the feel of painful ecstasy burning me from the inside, where you quiver helplessly. I am spent, instantly and unabatedly, and let you know so with my motions, as I am sure you are used to. The subtle curling of my legs into my body, the shivering that matches your own, the tucking of my head under the curtain of black I so recently trimmed neat. You fall against me, panting, more exausted than I have ever seen you, even after a fight. Even after Sephiroth. No one could take this much from you, no one must be allowed to...none but me.
I don't even feel it when you break our intimate contact, every part of me still hot and pulsing. My head is spinning, and I barely register the soft touches of you cleaning me - us. I know, however, that you have drawn away from me, leaving my vulnerable, wet back to the mercy of the cold air in this contraption of yours. When your heavy body practically collapses back behind me, I feel that as well. The arm you begin to drape hesitantly over me is pulled roughly around my waist as I turn around in the small bed and bury my face into your chest. You are still breathing labouredly. I can forgive you for being surprised.
Not yet, not even after all of that, am I ready to say what you want to hear. I think most likely you are intelligent enough to surmise that I never will. That in itself shows how little you - like all others - know of the true nature of my mortal soul. Your lips press against the crown of my head, ample strands of thin hair the colour and sheen of obsidian sticking to them, as you have just had the chance to wet them. You do not say it this time, because you do not want to think about the fact that I will not respond. However, if you think it is because I am not prone to lying, you are wrong. It is simply because I can not, as of yet, break my habit of avoiding your eyes. I cannot speak truth to the cobalt, for I am not strong enough. Thus my heart will remain encased in the same crystalline of the both of you, the ones who have stolen it, and, for now, I will sleep.
Fandom: FFVII
Rating: NC-17 (if you have a large vocaulary and turn your head and squint)
Comments: Okay. This sucks. Ima say it right up front. This is one of the best pieces I've ever written, as far as writing style, characterisation...it's fucking beautiful. And then I went and put a lemon in the bastard, and ended it early. I could shoot myself. But I owed a friend a commish with Valenwind smut, so it had to happen.
I WILL rewrite this. It will happen. Expect it. Near future. Ima force it.
That said, HAY GUYS~ I'M BA~CK!! 8D
P.S. I NEVER write Cid as seme. This is just wrong in so many ways...
I knew I was going to lose to him from the moment I first saw those cobalt eyes. My fingers almost wrote out the word "sapphire" there, but I could only wish I had been so lucky. If they were dark enough to be sapphire, I wouldn't have even spared him a glance. But no, they were cobalt. The exact same shade as...
" 'Lo." It was the first human thing I'd heard in...what had it been? Thirty years, I suppose. The last person to stumble across me had let me lie. Made a small comment, brushed my cheek, started when I'd stirred, and closed the lid back on me. I very much wish he hadn't made such a trained decision that day. Egotistical as it may be, it seems to me that things would have been very different had I been around. But perhaps it really is all timing. We will never know.
By the by, there I lay, vision blurred slightly from deep respite disturbed so abruptly, gazing into the glowing half-light of a bit of materia. It backlit his head, making it a shadowy form of light-coloured mess on one side and unclean skin on the other. Something smelled very burnt at first, and I wondered for a moment if it was the man. My new senses weren't used to the smell of cigarettes, and my nose wrinkled up. It made the man leaning over me blink a little faster, and as I grew accustomed to the dim lighting I made out the blush across his cheeks. Damn, even in death they did that. I really wished they would stop.
The only reply I could manage was a very soft grumble, which I'm sure he didn't hear. As I stirred and began to sit up, knowing this time I wouldn't be left so easily alone to rot, he stepped back, as if he were truly afraid of me. It was then I saw the others around him, weapons raised, and the long spear in his hand. They glowed like ghosts in the bluish-green light, and I felt my stomach turn over at that colour. The green-hued lab-coated people, the ones in suits and the ones with syringes. A flash of memory, which passed over my visage as merely a blink, and they were solid, living people once more. My eyes passed over each of them, slowly, measuring them bit by bit as I fingered the weapon still beside me. It had slipped a little from its holster against my leg, but the fact that it was still close enough to be slightly warm to the touch made my whole body tingle with the want for blood. I could smell them like no human ever should, taste their raw energy and flesh against the back of my tongue, hear their quivering heartbeats and twitching fingers. If I had been a killer before, I was a monster now.
These tales are all in the past, however, and I meant to be narrating that which has come after everything. My tale is greatly a death sentence, and this one even more so. A number of years, fleeting years, of avoiding those eyes. Years of wondering every time he takes me to that cave if he knows, how he couldn't know. The crystals that encase the love of my past - the obsession of my past - are the same deadly blue as his eyes. I tell her about him now, as if she could care. As if she could do anything but feel guilt, say anything but "I'm so sorry..." What good will apologies do? When all that is left is suffering and hate, and everything around me is dying, what good are apologies? I don't care anymore. I can't, and I won't.
Four years of avoiding his gaze. Four years of hiding in ventilation shafts and mechanical equipment. Four years of never sitting at the same table as him to eat. Four years of hiding behind books and fabric. Four years of less than a paragraph in spoken word. Four years of pretending airship golf is a hobby born of boredom. Four years of stifling laughter. Four years of lies. Four years of fear. Four years of anger. Four years of begging silently for forgiveness. Four years of angst. Are you through with me yet? Because I am more than sick of avoiding you.
I thought it would hurt to tell you I found humour in the way you troubled your chin when you thought. Even worse to say that every time you spoke, you were speaking for me. It would, then, mean death to admit aloud that I regretted wearing leather pants for their tightness when you were covered in blood and sweat from a battle, torn fabric flying around rippling muscles as you chewed on a broken, unlit cigarette and screamed that you would never, ever give up. When you made those last stands, it was all that kept me aiming that gun at whatever had hurt you instead of turning it back on myself. You would never forgive me for that, would you? Not all the pheonix downs in Gaia could put back together a dead man's head.
In the end, it had been you to speak first, that day under the waterfall. I hadn't asked you to take me out for my birthday, and honestly I'd regretted it. Then again, there always was something about the very sound of your voice which commanded me, even when you sounded so unsure. You never bothered me about my books, about my distance from you as you fished, whistling and talking to yourself as if you were the best conversation you'd ever experienced. The warm sun even allowed me a few smiles to hide behind a hand freed from its perpetual gauntlet. Most of all, you had never, ever asked where I disappeared to when the storms came. It was I who told you, I who showed you, the ever-curious having too much respect for his own good.
It was also my fault that your heart was broken, as well mine that it was mended. At first, it was because I felt sorry for you. That ever-impending guilt that will forever plague me, no matter my state or place, took me over once more and allowed me to tuck away the wings. To approach you with nothing on my person but my melting dignity, and to let you return to me the pleasure my inner beasts had stolen from us. Pleasure is such a silly word, one of your own, which replaces the inner monologue of my soul with impeccable vernacular. You are beautiful, Captain, in every way imaginable, and I will never be worthy of that cobalt glow. Not from either of you.
As I lay still and silent beside you, all these images and thoughts race through my mind. The feel of your rough lips on the scarred skin of my back sends chills of vain pleasure racing through every millimetre of my body. My eyes slip shut, abhorring the sensitivity of that part of myself, and that you know it, and that I let you do this despite. Warm, thick, calloused fingers press needily against a part of me I still hate, naive fingers who will never know the scars of the place they cry for now. However, because I feel guilty, I press back, and let those slick digits slide painfully inside me without so much as a grimace.
"Vince...you okay?" I hear you grunt, breathless, into my ear, thinking only how well endowed you are as the proof of this presses against my spine. I allow my body to sigh, and merely nod in response, biting the inside of my cheek as I move against you, pretending I want it as bad as you do. Despite my self-loathing, my body warms to the feel of another so intimately close, where no one has been let. The others weren't let. You are.
Those fingers begin to spread inside me, and I would rather die than know that I let a gasp escape my lips. A soft sound I can never take back, which forces me to become a better liar. Then again, you don't even seem to notice, as a soft moan is your response, those bony digits slipping back and forth, in and out, making those strange tinges shoot through the lower, forbidden parts of my body. The nerve endings responding to something they very much like, though my stomach feels tight and desperate as the uncontrollable responses trigger so many vivid and lost memories. He liked it dry. I bled more that way, and he liked the idea that no matter how much he cut me I would never get infected. I never saw him, but I know he was thin and wrinkled, just like his body. My heightened senses could feel it so keenly, somehow, as it moved inside me. He loved that no matter how much I hated it, how hard I tried, how my body rejected him in the form of vomiting, convulsions, horrid, half-human screams...it also, inevitably, responded to him. He liked me to taste myself. At that I am forced to hide a wretch into yet another rock against your hands, and suddenly my entire body explodes from the inside. Daemon eyes overtake my vision as my back arches hard against you, the nausea dying instantly as a soft cry absolutely tears itself from my dry lips. You moan again, and my body gives a little shiver, approving.
"Y'like that, huh?" you half-whisper, slipping the lobe of my ear between your lips, sucking the flesh back and nipping gently on it. To that my body and mind react in tandem, unarguably. The Grey Man did this, and I have never liked it. My aversion is reflected in the sudden thrashing of my shoulders, in a desperate attempt to escape both you and the decades-old sensory attack. I hear you protest softly, soothingly, stopping the motion of your hand to finger my spine clumsily with the free one trapped beneath you. " 'Sokay if you don't like it, just say so. I'm sorry. I'll go slow." As if you aren't already doing so, agonisingly, as that little touch brushes so many sensitive spots that the hated orifice reacts around your half-buried fingers. I bite back a whimper, and suddenly wonder why. It doesn't hurt. It isn't making me sick, anymore. I no longer feel an ounce of self-loathing. To my absolute horror, my mind and body are now agreeing that I want this! Frightened, a sick shiver runs through my body, and for once you recognise it for what it is. Your lips are against my neck again, and I am silently urging you lower, toward a place you have yet to discover.
"Y'want me ter stop?" An honest-to-Shiva whisper this time, and the pause allows me to realise my breathing has become bated. The accent - that horrible accent - which has been thickened by the heat of the moment, reduced to a vulgar dialect of words that should never be allowed into the language we speak, makes my stomach do a full turn. It is not illness this time, however, but pure desire, unlike I have felt in nearly forty years. I feel my head shaking of its own volition, emphatically, and I catch my lower lip in my teeth. Gaia, Cid...if you stop now, I really will kill you...
As if you can read my mind, you chuckle very softly and slide one leg between my own. You are still wearing the red boxers with little, old-fashioned aeroplanes on them. I saw them on you yesterday, and I know you haven't changed. The fittingly rough fabric brushes my tailbone and the curve of my buttocks as you force my legs wider slowly, coaxingly. Everything about you is rough, from the stubble on your chin to your calloused skin, to the way you speak and the way you fight. Only two things, I've discovered, are exceptions to this rule: The way you treat your ships, and the way you treat your lovers. It is a beautiful contradiction, and my stomach sinks further as I realise, fatefully, that I could very easily love you for it.
At this moment, however, I am distracted by the feeling of yet another finger joining its companions inside me, making a grand total of three warm pleasantries. I have stopped counting. I want only to feel you brush once more that place none of them could ever find, ever cared to reach. I had thought it myth, had hoped it myth, until now. A rough breath escapes me as I press with true eagerness against those fingers, my slickening brow furrowing. It is worth the pain, if you only understand what it is I want. I can think you only a psychic when the warm slickness of your tongue once more finds - by accident - that place between my shoulder and neck at the same instant your fingers curve back inside me. I cannot help myself - I cry out loudly, arching and pressing against you as my entire body writhes in need. If I could speak harshly, if I had your tongue, I would demand in painful vernacular to be desecrated immediately. Fuck me. Now.
The beasts inside me allow me many small oddities, only one of which are the wings which have become so useful to the Turks. Another is the low, daemonic growl that creeps up from the deepest parts of my chest as you stop for just a moment. Without a warning, those challenging digits escape the pressure of my need, and another, louder growl follows the last. An angry growl, a demanding growl.
"Just 'old yer chocoboes," you mutter, as I hear the sharp click of plastic and close my eyes to imagine the sight of you fumbling behind me. I dare not turn to look; that would ruin my fragile illusion, as well as my current state. That in itself would very quickly become a physical danger. As an afterthought, my logical brain states bluntly that there was some sort of mispronunciation of the common bird's name, though there is scant time for it to register exactly what. You are against my back once more in hardly a moment, betraying how practised you really are at this. But you are hesitating much too long; it took my body only a moment to accustom itself to the feeling of warmth once more, and I am more than aptly ready for you. Frustrated, the hand that is so often covered in claws swipes back as if to use them, urging the member already nudging so teasingly to give in as I already have. You hiss in - is it pain, or surprise? - and my body reacts to that, as well. There is some killer still in me, in so many forms.
The growl that bursts forth from me as you finally take my obvious hint is entirely human, surreal in its truth to my own deep voice. You cry out in tandem with me, and as our voices meld in harmony, my body searing with pain that is undeniably pleasurable, a flash of bright blue overcomes my senses, and that small, soft-spoken phrase penetrates my psyche. Overwhelmed as I am, I can do nothing to stem the tears that pour forth, all consciousness left of me ceasing your pause before it begins, cutting off your question as to my comfort as I strain against you, hating the sound of my voice as it rises to pitches it has not reached since before I was allowed the enticing luxury of a gun. My sudden action against you promts a curse, followed by my name, cried out in something akin to pain as my head falls back against your shoulder and I will our bodies to move. Suddenly, beautifully, we dance.
I never knew you had rhythm, and I will have to remember to ask you to dance with me at the next Turk ball, if I'm not busy being screwed senseless by you in a back room. Cidney Reginald Highwind, I refuse to believe you have me speaking this way! Yet such small, petty things could never surmount against the power of our bodies entwining, my voice so high and needy almost drowning out your own cries of my name, of curses and that dirty talk I've always hated, which sounds so hot and incredible with that nasty accent of yours. I want you to fuck me, Cid. I want you to tell me over and over how good I feel. How tight I am. I want to squeeze myself around you in that way the Grey Man loved and spite him for it with the sound of your ecstatic reactive moan. I want to make you bleed from clawing you so hard, because my body alone can't handle the waves of pleasure shooting up and down, in and out, through and through and over and over as I gasp and plead and scream. I'm dying for you, Cid, there is nothing more precious to me than the cleansing of my soul and body as you drive into me hard enough to spear me through. I know I am dying! I am not fit to live through this, not worthy to remember the absolute passion with which you tell me, as if I don't already know, that you love me. Let it not end so soon! I could not handle losing you...not even to this. Never.
I have not even been touched. The force of your body rocking and moaning and sweating against mine peak to a point of heat which sets through to destroy me, sending chills of powerful relief from my scalp to the very tip of my toes, meeting to crash to a climax at the very core of me. I scream, an unadulterated pleading of your name as I feel the heat of my orgasm take me over, followed so very closely by the feel of painful ecstasy burning me from the inside, where you quiver helplessly. I am spent, instantly and unabatedly, and let you know so with my motions, as I am sure you are used to. The subtle curling of my legs into my body, the shivering that matches your own, the tucking of my head under the curtain of black I so recently trimmed neat. You fall against me, panting, more exausted than I have ever seen you, even after a fight. Even after Sephiroth. No one could take this much from you, no one must be allowed to...none but me.
I don't even feel it when you break our intimate contact, every part of me still hot and pulsing. My head is spinning, and I barely register the soft touches of you cleaning me - us. I know, however, that you have drawn away from me, leaving my vulnerable, wet back to the mercy of the cold air in this contraption of yours. When your heavy body practically collapses back behind me, I feel that as well. The arm you begin to drape hesitantly over me is pulled roughly around my waist as I turn around in the small bed and bury my face into your chest. You are still breathing labouredly. I can forgive you for being surprised.
Not yet, not even after all of that, am I ready to say what you want to hear. I think most likely you are intelligent enough to surmise that I never will. That in itself shows how little you - like all others - know of the true nature of my mortal soul. Your lips press against the crown of my head, ample strands of thin hair the colour and sheen of obsidian sticking to them, as you have just had the chance to wet them. You do not say it this time, because you do not want to think about the fact that I will not respond. However, if you think it is because I am not prone to lying, you are wrong. It is simply because I can not, as of yet, break my habit of avoiding your eyes. I cannot speak truth to the cobalt, for I am not strong enough. Thus my heart will remain encased in the same crystalline of the both of you, the ones who have stolen it, and, for now, I will sleep.