Final Fantasy VII (Chaos/Vincent)
Title: Meditatus
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG-13ish
Wordcount: 424
Warnings: xeno, dubcon
Prompt: Seduction or force, the darkness within, dreamscape sex - "I'm what you face when you face in the mirror, long as you live, I will still be here!"
Notes: Definitely more "force" than "seduction" here. Sorry for the lateness! Hopefully this is still acceptable. >>
Sometimes he catches his image in a mirror and wonders where the thirty years went. He can’t see any traces of the time on him -- not in his hands, which should be long and bony, and not in his face, which should be cracked and lined. His skin should be starting to lose its tautness and slip free from his jowls.
Vincent has heard that a corpse’s fingernails and hair continue to grow after death.
It would explain a number of things.
He avoids mirrors, when he can. He knows what he looks like. And on the rare (but not quite rare enough) occasions when his reflection does change, it’s never for the better, never in the way that it’s supposed to. His mother always held that eyes were the windows to the soul; his father disdained such beliefs as superstitious nonsense. But his father was wrong. He watches his eyes and sees as the emptiness buried in pupils reflects back at him in an unending spiral until the tiny flicker of hunger at their core becomes visible.
Chaos, of course. The other three have their needs, but Chaos is surrounded by emptiness because he devours everything in his path. Vincent still isn’t sure how to slake his hunger, if it can be slaked at all.
When he dreams, he dreams of a barren landscape scorched black by a dying sun. The ground is cracked and dry -- lava occasionally wells through the faults like blood squeezed from a wound. Beneath the bloated sun rests a black coffin standing upright. In such a blighted place, it’s the only monument worth noting. It sucks the light into itself and seems to laugh softly as it does so.
Leathery wings smelling of rotting meat and dried blood enfold him after that. Vincent gags, but Chaos presses onward, hot and stifling around him. Chaos never speaks in anything recognizable as words -- he seems to consider human language beneath him, or he might be too old to bother to learn something so fleeting -- but he laughs, soft and low. Mine, he seems to say when his claws rake over Vincent’s back. Mine, he growls, the sound muffled when his fangs twist into Vincent’s shoulder.
“No,” Vincent whispers.
Chaos’s rumbling laugh shakes the landscape. I am you. Always.
When he checks himself over in the morning, he finds angry red lines crossing over his body. There are flakes of skin and chips of dried blood under his fingernails.
Change, for him, is never for the better.
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: PG-13ish
Wordcount: 424
Warnings: xeno, dubcon
Prompt: Seduction or force, the darkness within, dreamscape sex - "I'm what you face when you face in the mirror, long as you live, I will still be here!"
Notes: Definitely more "force" than "seduction" here. Sorry for the lateness! Hopefully this is still acceptable. >>
Sometimes he catches his image in a mirror and wonders where the thirty years went. He can’t see any traces of the time on him -- not in his hands, which should be long and bony, and not in his face, which should be cracked and lined. His skin should be starting to lose its tautness and slip free from his jowls.
Vincent has heard that a corpse’s fingernails and hair continue to grow after death.
It would explain a number of things.
He avoids mirrors, when he can. He knows what he looks like. And on the rare (but not quite rare enough) occasions when his reflection does change, it’s never for the better, never in the way that it’s supposed to. His mother always held that eyes were the windows to the soul; his father disdained such beliefs as superstitious nonsense. But his father was wrong. He watches his eyes and sees as the emptiness buried in pupils reflects back at him in an unending spiral until the tiny flicker of hunger at their core becomes visible.
Chaos, of course. The other three have their needs, but Chaos is surrounded by emptiness because he devours everything in his path. Vincent still isn’t sure how to slake his hunger, if it can be slaked at all.
When he dreams, he dreams of a barren landscape scorched black by a dying sun. The ground is cracked and dry -- lava occasionally wells through the faults like blood squeezed from a wound. Beneath the bloated sun rests a black coffin standing upright. In such a blighted place, it’s the only monument worth noting. It sucks the light into itself and seems to laugh softly as it does so.
Leathery wings smelling of rotting meat and dried blood enfold him after that. Vincent gags, but Chaos presses onward, hot and stifling around him. Chaos never speaks in anything recognizable as words -- he seems to consider human language beneath him, or he might be too old to bother to learn something so fleeting -- but he laughs, soft and low. Mine, he seems to say when his claws rake over Vincent’s back. Mine, he growls, the sound muffled when his fangs twist into Vincent’s shoulder.
“No,” Vincent whispers.
Chaos’s rumbling laugh shakes the landscape. I am you. Always.
When he checks himself over in the morning, he finds angry red lines crossing over his body. There are flakes of skin and chips of dried blood under his fingernails.
Change, for him, is never for the better.