Pairing: Vincent/Cloud (though in my head it will always be Sephiroth/Cloud)
Warning: Clawplay (aka knifeplay). Unbetaed.
Sweat ran down Cloud’s forehead, following the curve of his skull to tickle the nape of his neck. His arms, held over his head so that his fingers could curl around the bars of the headboard, trembled with the effort of keeping his body as still as possible; the muscles of his spread thighs quivered against the worn leather of Vincent’s pants.
Vincent’s breathing was slow and controlled as he leaned over Cloud’s body, wearing nothing but those pants and the brass-and-leather glove on his left hand. Without the red bandanna to hold it back his hair slipped forward over his shoulders to softly brush Cloud’s over-sensitized skin, a few strands sticking to the Turk’s damp lips, parted slightly with concentration and arousal. His eyes were intent as he dragged a metal claw down and around Cloud’s navel, the dilation of the pupils turning them the near-black of coagulated blood.
The sharp, razor-fine pain on an erogenous zone caused Cloud’s muscles to tighten, pulling his stomach into a concave curve and making his hips jerk. Vincent paused, waiting until the blond caught his breath again, and then drew the claw back upwards to catch on the edge of his navel.
The single claw became four as Vincent brought the rest of his fingers into play and traced them down to the unmarked skin at Cloud’s groin. The blond let out a shaky breath, biting hard on the inside of his cheek to keep his self-control and not thrust uselessly upwards—but it was difficult when his pelvis was being firmly pinned with another’s hand and his body was splayed open defenselessly, when thin trails of blood welled up from the claw-tracks and slid hot and teasing down his flesh. The length of red cloth that was normally Vincent’s bandanna was now tied around his wrists to the headboard (more a token gesture than anything else, because a bit of fabric didn’t have a hope in hell of standing up to SOLDIER’s strength)…but it was just the illusion of being helddownfuckedused that he needed.
The expanse of pale, almost sickly, skin had become a canvas of sweeping curves and whorls, scarlet beads with the acidic scent of mako welling up along the lines. Vincent had the dead-steady hand of a sniper, of a surgeon, and he’d been careful to keep the wounds shallow and uniform. They followed the dips and ridges of Cloud’s too-thin body with medical, aesthetic precision.
Vincent let his gaze fall slowly over Cloud’s body like a discerning art critic. Some of the lines of red had been smudged by sweat and half-stifled writhing; Cloud was one of the most responsive people Vincent had ever known, but then, considering the man’s past, perhaps that wasn’t so surprising. The plain cotton sheets had been rucked up messily beneath the blond’s shoulders, hips, and feet, spotted here and there with blood. He was breathing fast and shallow, watching Vincent with eyes that glowed half-lidded from sweat-slicked hair.
Arousal. Daring. Willing submission. None of the fear that most others felt when they realized that the Turk’s cold, unnatural left hand had become as much a part of him as the other, human, one. In the back of his head, CHAOS bared his teeth hungrily.
Moving slowly, Vincent’s claws carved four long furrows along the delicate crease where the left thigh joined the body—Cloud choked, breath stuttering at the drawn-out burst of sensation. He was hard, and wet, and the abuse of an instinctively vulnerable area made his cock tighten. Most would be terrified of being held down, cut, by a monster with a beautiful face, but Cloud—oh, for Cloud it had become such an integral need for his fucked-up head and his fucked-with body that without that control he thought he would fly apart at the seams.
Many people could die if that happened.
The inside of the blond’s thighs were particularly tender, Vincent noted with a dark satisfaction that wasn’t entirely his own. The scraping of lethal metal made Cloud’s legs spread farther apart around him with a guttural groan, made toes curl against the bent springs of the mattress, the bony spine arch like a mage’s bow. Blood ran faster there with such close proximity to the femoral artery. It tasted thick and metallic on Vincent’s tongue.
(Thick and bitter-metallic in an abandoned room found off some hotel half-ruined by Meteor, the wallpaper was mildewed and the sheets musty and it had made the two monsters share a cracked smile. One was still consumed by a dead god and the other still paying penitence for his sins, and though neither wanted to think about how it had all come to this they couldn’t deny that this was what their lives had become.)