|JL Sigman (jlsigman) wrote in kinkfest,|
@ 2007-09-24 11:46:00
|Entry tags:||a: jlsigman, f: final fantasy vii, p: hojo/vincent, september 19|
Fantasy VII, Vincent/Hojo: Xenokink, transformation, breaking one's spirit, mirrors
Warnings: Some strong language, horrific imagery
Word count: 547
Prompt: September 19th, #6. Final Fantasy VII, Vincent/Hojo: Xenokink, transformation, breaking one's spirit, mirrors - "I look in the mirror and I hate what I see"
A/N: I was trying to do another from Hojo’s view, but he decided once was enough. So I had to torture Vincent instead, sorry.
Hojo gave an irritated sigh as he switched off Lucrecia’s computer. She had effectively scattered and destroyed her own data before vanishing, leaving no traces of what she had done to the Turk save some scraps of paper and what Hojo remembered seeing the few times he had come down here. He had been so focused on the infant that he neglected to check on his assistant’s mental state until it was too late. He glanced at the monitor into the other room, and decided he would just have to start his own tests and procedures from scratch, and see what he had to work with.
Vincent’s spirit had been curled in a fetal position for so long, although he had no concept of time where he was, surrounded by howling beasts, grumbling monsters, and (perhaps the most horrifying of all) a voice that sounded very much like his own purring promises of power that no human could ever hope to control. There was little to anchor himself to, to remind himself that he was a man, a Turk, on duty to protect and observe and report back when called…
Something touched him.
Awareness tickled. It touched and probed and pinched and had a firm grip on his cock…
Vincent gasped, and felt the air in his real lungs, rushing past a sore throat. He forced his eyes open, which seemed an almost impossible task, as light as eyelids were supposed to be. It took a second to focus his sniper-trained eyes on the shape next to him.
Then he screamed, a long note, ragged around the edges from disuse, because Hojo had been the one touching him.
The primal responses inside of him caused him to buck on the table, forcing the restraints to their limit. He heard running footsteps and a loud clanging chime as a door closed and locked. Vincent screamed again in a different kind of horror as he felt himself changing, his limbs becoming other than the ones he had spent his life honing to perfection, and there was something sharp growing in his mouth, and the restraints snapped and he spasmed and twisted and blacked out and found himself on the floor.
He gulped air raggedly. The floor was cold concrete, easy to hose down if something went messily wrong. His head was turned to look at his right arm, covered in the tattered remains of a standard-issue Turk suit coat. He carefully flexed his fingers, which tingled with remembered pain. He dragged it to its shoulder to push himself off the floor, and tried to do the same to the left arm.
What came into view made him doubt his sanity.
Incoherent whines were all he could manage. He stumbled to his feet, but they felt wrong, and when he looked down at them, he screamed again. He looked up, and saw himself in the two-way mirror, part man, part monster, eyes burning red, the form blurring around the edges as he watched, and for a moment, he had wings and fangs and the cold pale face of the herald of Death itself.
His mind shut down, and he hit the floor again.
Hojo couldn’t stop cackling. Oh, what a delicious treat his former lover had left him!