Ice Lady (_ice_lady_) wrote in 50_elements, @ 2008-08-01 11:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | dark |
Valley of Death (FFVII yaoi, Sephiroth/Vincent Dark #3 Fangs)
Title: The Valley of Death
Pairing: Sephiroth/Vincent
Disclaimer: Don’t own.
Rating: NC17
Summary: Winner gets a prize.
Warning: Sex. A lot of it. And violence. Some blood play. Vampirism insinuations. Seems like non-con perhaps, but it’s not.
Word count: 3939
A/N: I know it's been a while. I've actually written this story ages ago (and another one which I'll post soon) but life just grabbed me and refused to let go. :-/
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They call it the valley of death because the earth is rich with iron. The air is humid and the sea is salty; the storms are common, and it’s not a real valley, but more like a cliff. Everything living that knows what electricity does avoids it like plague. Everything weak stays away. The trees at its outskirts are bent and broken, the earth is shattered and moist with never ending assault of the waves. The rocks are chirped, because even ice, no matter how insignificant and small, takes enough force from the wind to turn lethal.
And the winds… the winds are strong enough to lift a grown human off the ground, if one would survive the icy assault long enough.
The sky opens, as they say, even though the thick blanket of condensed water that hides it from the prying eyes is anything but. The winds that accompany it bend the trees and break the branches. The temperature drops rapidly, the sea subsides and roaring thunder cuts the air.
The houses nearby close their shutters and lock their doors with mechanical efficiency of centuries. The dogs and cats and chickens hide in whatever shelter they could find; lucky if their owners made them some. Humans don’t dare come out, preoccupied by reading or making bread by the candlelight. Some curse their parents for bringing them to life here, others their fates for tying them down.
They call it the valley of death because nothing escapes its foggy curtain of rain, ice and deadly electricity. This is wilderness, this is nature, this is the other face of the Planet.
He runs around, avoiding the rushing wind with superhuman accuracy. His black hair is wet but as though it’s not, considering the lightness the wind raises it with. His red cloak turns to burgundy, and he discards it without second thought or even a pause. His eyes pick up something in the distance and he smiles ferally, showing fangs and razor sharp teeth, but then continues his escape, looking wilder than ever.
The valley ends and he falls to all fours, trying to pass as fast as possible through the rocky terrain, looking like a cat chasing its prey.
He is not human. He may look that way, but he’s not. The question is, has he ever been one?
He stumbles for a moment, misjudging a rock, and lands face down into the sharp mud. One glove less and half a second later, he gets up, not decelerated, leaving nothing but pink dissolving pools behind him. And a leather glove.
Eventually, he glances behind himself again, but his face turns grim as the ruby eyes narrow but fail to see through the curtain of condensed grey and oxidized red. He continues his run nonetheless, another step, another rock, another salty muddy pool to fight his way through.
The deeper he runs into the storm, less relying is he on his senses. The smells, sounds and vibrations all blend into a big undefined one. And that is his first mistake.
Something far more powerful and stronger cuts his way; a fist stronger than his entire body grabs his neck and pushes him flat back to the rocky wall behind him. He fights for air and his entire body rebels against the cut of circulation and lack of oxygen. Both his hands, the free and the gloved one, try to pull the strong hand away. Both of them fail miserably, and he closes his eyes to save them from the falling ice. He spits the excess water from his mouth.
“Got ya,” a deep voice with a sharp edge and amused undertone whispers straight into his ear and a tip of a tongue slides down his jaw.
The grip finally subsides and he manages to take one long deep breath that washes away the blue of his lips.
“Pity,” the voice says again, sharper, more amused. “Grey befits you.”
He opens his eyes at last, sharp, defiant, bemused. His lips purse and mouth produces a growl that would send any man fleeting.
The person holding him is obviously not human enough. The edges of his lips shoot up and sharp, deadly sharp fangs emerge from underneath the flesh. He chuckles, in that edgy, spiky way of his, letting the air travel and curl over his tongue.
The sky lights in three flashes and the roaring sound cuts the already deafening storm. The ground shakes, as well as the man with dark hair and black clothes still pressed to the vertical rock, but the one holding him shows no sign of demise, sans the exceptionally long silver hair that dances wildly in the wind, making him look even more outer earthly. As a medusa, he looms over his victim protectively, catlike eyes in two slits, completely focused on the covered flesh.
“So does the nude,” he speaks at last and his victim’s eyes show momentary bedazzlement as it takes his mind a while to make the connection.
“Let go,” he hisses, even as the head with those deadly eyes and even deadlier smile nears.
He chuckles, yet again, sharply, like a blade over skin. “You have no say in this, I’m afraid.” The tone is even more amused, if that is still possible.
Unlike his words, he releases the smaller man, who now tries to land gently to the tips of his toes and then the soles of his boots. And he stands by himself at last, head shorter than the silver animal before him.
“I want my prize,” he is being told and, reluctantly at first, but then simply defeated, he nods and lowers his eyes.
“Somewhere less…” he starts, but his rising eyes meet one quirked silver eyebrow.
“Less…?” the edgy voice continues as its owner crosses his arms over bare chest.
Red eyes roll slightly, somewhere between ‘annoyed’ and ‘needing more time’, but the silver eyebrow stands still. “Dangerous,” he says, not believing his own voice, but then winces as the sharp voice roars in laughter that is everything from amused to powerful and so much more.
“I don’t back away from danger,” the voice rolls the words one letter at the time, “gunslinger,” the tongue slides up the palate and under the teeth for an added kick.
The gunslinger does not manage to protest as the strong arms (both this time) push him into the muddied rock, and it shakes. His bones would have probably cracked were they just human. He hisses at first, but then the curled lips attack the pursed ones and he never gets the chance.
Everything with Sephiroth is dangerous, he knows that too well. Even just a kiss. That is what attracted him in the first place. That’s what keeps him here. Even just a simple kiss can turn into a fight for keeping his tongue or lips intact. He does have exceptionally sharp teeth and does not hesitate to use them.
Another thunder roars and the bigger man jumps away with a crazy smile on his lips. “Now, take them off,” he orders looking at the black layer of clothes on the gunslinger’s body.
He obeys and puts his hands on his belt, pulling the shirt out of the trousers, keeping the crimson eyes locked with green, defiance still written all over his face. He would have stumbled or fell or did something that might threaten or harm him were it not for the bigger body that acted as a shield from the storm just above them, its centre travelling straight towards them with threatening speed.
He pulls the black cloth over his head, wet and heavy, and lets it fall on the orange red ground, where it remains in the position dictated from the rocks below.
The edges of the cynical lips curl yet again, and the throat tenses for just a second, probably producing one of those chuckles, but the noise is too strong to make it audible. But it is there, in both the lips and eyes and, perhaps, even the eyebrows.
The hands, one bare and one gloved, hesitate for a moment, and it is a moment enough for the other pair, much stronger, to push the body to the orange coloured rock once again and take control of the belt and the buttons. The red eyes protest for just a second; he probably protests audibly as well, but in this weather, they’ll never know; then they land on the bulge already formed under the thin layer of leather, and the pupils dilate ever so slightly, making the eyes appear ever so softly. Ever so.
He is pinned between cold rock and warm body that is equally hard, lips assaulted again, only this time he fights back. He may be smaller, but his teeth are equally sharp, his fangs are equally long and mind equally dark. The other man is not stupid, his reflexes are not slow, but still, he manages to slip for just a second, perhaps because of the sudden rush of wind from an unexpected direction, or slipping of the dirt beneath him in an unpredictable way, but still, the result is the same. He groans and backs away, then licks the source of the stream of blood running down his lower lip and chin.
He has no reason to stop it, he just has a thing for tasting it. His lips curl yet again, but as a response to the victorious gleam in the crimson eyes, then spreads those arms, one gloved, one nude, with his and places his lips on the other’s neck. He bites deep and sucks until the other yells with pain, then removes his fangs and lets the owner’s body work its way into mending the wound. It’s deep and bloody and leaves a pink trail down the nude chest and abdomen, but doesn’t reach much lower before it gets washed away by the rain.
He sucks at the rest of the neck instead, slowly travelling to the ear and the cheek and the jaw until he reaches the other side.
The gunslinger is already flushed and panting, even though he’s obviously cold. He encircles the leather clad hips with his cotton clad legs and simply lets go.
He knows how strong Sephiroth really is. Or at least, he knows he’s strong enough for this.
“Take them off or I’ll rip them off,” he hears the voice with curled edge right next to his ear and, even though heavy breaths eat several syllables, the message is clear. The stronger hands release his own and fall to his hips instead, holding him closer, stronger, harder, pulling his skin into the other’s. He encircles the neck with his hands, one gloved, one nude, and starts pushing the boots off his legs, lips never leaving lips, hands never leaving hair or hips. Assaulted by the rain, always the rain.
The heavy footwear falls, one thud then the other, and his hips are released so he could stand in the claylike orange. He almost shudders at what his feet feel but, obediently as always, pulls his trousers down, not quite sure should he lock his eyes with the green pair or try to look away.
The green ones, though, devour him. He never thought sex was possible with looks alone, until he saw one of those. It’s cold around him, so impossibly cold, and he’s wet and tired, and yet those eyes are enough to make him as hard as he is now. That and the ever present bulge hidden under the thin leather. And it makes desire burn that much more.
“Turn around,” the commanding voice instructs, sounding incredibly calm for something that had to be yelled loud enough to be heard. So hypnotizing, in fact, that he obeys before he realizes what he’s doing. He places his palms to the rock, still wet and slimy under his touch, and closes his eyes, knowing what will come soon.
And it tastes that much sweeter when it doesn’t come. Not because he’s deprived, but because the expectations simply grow.
The lightning hits somewhere near them, near enough in fact for him to feel the vibration of electrons passing through the earth, so strong, so fucking strong that it makes him shudder. His beasts always liked the storms.
One finger enters him, not really slick but simply wet and barely so, and cold. He squirms a bit, having to get used to the feeling that is much sharper and stronger than that he’d experienced before. If there is one thing he regrets now, that is not preparing prior to this whole mess. He doubts lubes are available here, but his desire is so strong that he simply doesn’t care.
He feels another vibration that travels from bellow, and he realizes the other is laughing. The storm is too loud to make the sound penetrate, but considering their closeness, he shudders at the thought. Then another finger gets in.
This is less comfortable and more painful. He won’t say it but he knows the other feels it, the way the sphincter tightens and his spine curls. He pulls them out to quickly return them back in, a bit more lubricated, by spit perhaps. By the third one, he wants him inside so much that he simply doesn’t care.
The only problem is the rain that is turning to ice and the way it leaves sharp marks over his body. As well as the cold and the spongy ground beneath that force his body to rely on his hands, and that makes no sense since the rock is everything but solid.
Sephiroth pushes in and he shouts out. He can endure so much pain, he can survive so many injuries, but it still doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable. And surprising.
But in the end, he asked for it.
He thrusts in one more time, faster but with a bit more care, no matter how strangely the two work together, and this time the gunslinger doesn’t shout with pain but moans with pleasure. Still, it’s not as good as it could be. One more thrust and he feels his nails and leather scraping the rock. He looks at his glove and quickly buries his teeth into one finger to pull it out, and just in time, as the claws grow out of his knuckles and take form over his nails.
He doesn’t want to ruin one good glove.
Another thrust and the claws dig deep into the rock, and he shudders, because they may be sharper than steel, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel them. Another thrust and he regrets it for just a second, perhaps, because he doesn’t like the pain that much.
Then a sudden rush of icy cold wind carries the bone shattering hail and he screams with pain as his back erupts with numerous bruises. Then it all stops and he realizes the somewhat warm body is pressed over his, hands on hands, belly on back, throat on head, chin on hair.
He’s covered with a silver curtain and all of a sudden the shattering noise is nothing but a distant memory, hidden far, far outside of this little bubble filled with nothing but their deep breaths and sweat.
He thrusts in again and the gunslinger yelps. He pushes his fingers into the rock again, only this time the stronger ones entwine with his and grip them tight.
“How do you do it?” he asks, then pants again. He feels a vibration somewhere at the low of his back, travelling up slowly before it forms a chuckle that curls out of the lips pressed straight over his ear.
“Just imagine,” he whispers, the tone of voice surprisingly soft, educational even.
The gunslinger’s exhale ends with a hiss created by another sharp thrust. “Why don’t you imagine us somewhere warm, then?”
Again, that vibration at the low of his back forms, only to be released as a full blown laughter that hurts his ears. “Where would be the fun in that?” the throat rolls out.
“Son of a bitch,” the gunslinger says, though the last word comes out like a high pitch as the other’s hips push into him again.
“Indeed, she must have been,” Sephiroth purrs, “for choosing that poor excuse for a human being over you.”
The gunslinger hisses then yelps, wanting to shoot back, defiance written all over his face, but some things are just too distracting. The hand over his right one squeezes so forcefully that he thinks his bones might shatter soon, but then it pulls, directs him to hold himself, but it doesn’t let go even then.
This brings a whole new level to pleasure and he feels the rocks break under his claws, but he’s far from caring.
Even the storm seems much more distant now, as so much pleasure passes straight through his core. He feels it all so strongly, and he tries to stop his own hand, but at last realizes why it remained in the other’s grip all this time.
He tries to say something, to shout the name, a warning, a threat, but he fails miserably as the hand as well as the hips increase their assault. He is pushed, literally as well as proverbially. He feels a crack in his head, originating from somewhere on his right cheek, as well as smells his own blood staining the sharp rock, but then that one short second of pleasure takes control over his body and he doesn’t’ care about it either.
He comes back to the eye of the storm, the momentary false hope of calmness before the final eruption. Everything is so silent, no rain, no hail, no wind, no thunder, just the two of them, their too heavy breaths and rushing heartbeats, the sound of metal over rock as his claws relax enough to allow themselves being pulled out, the sound of his feet fighting the almost liquid ground to keep balance and then the rapid pulling out that makes him hiss with pain.
He fights to pull himself together and peel away from the rock, feeling a pulse in his cheek. It will bruise, that, as well as part of his chest and shoulder. But that doesn’t matter now. He takes another breath and, still shakily, manages to pull away enough to turn around and face his captor.
A small smile forms on his lips but he wills it away.
“You’re quite tasty when you come,” the strong voice says and licks the white fluid from his own hand, while the gunslinger still ignores the stickiness of his fingers. And the pain in his claws. And so many things that wake up the beasts inside him, demanding revenge. They know, as well as their owner, that it wasn’t the contents of his fingers what he referred to.
“No,” he answers and buries his back into the rock.
The voice with a sarcastic edge rolls another chuckle. “Or what?” he says, corners of his lips quirking just enough. “You’ll deny me?”
“Don’t make me,” the gunslinger says, strange power underlining his voice. His eyes flash in bright orange and the purr in his throat turns to a growl as he bares his fangs.
The lips slightly curled do so a bit more and their owner approaches slowly, carefully, landing cheek on cheek and palm on the other. “Vincent the puppy,” he purrs out then turns it into an alveolar trill, before snapping the earlobe with his teeth, which makes its owner freeze in his spot, even though it’s obvious he’s fighting hard to remain himself. “Let me taste you,” he whispers as quietly as he can right after releasing the lobe, and right into the ear. “Please,” he adds, practically sighing the words before pushing his tongue deep, controlling the smile that appeared as a reaction to causing the other shudder.
Vincent’s head falls back to the rock and his lids creep over his eyes, his nostrils are widened and his breathing increases.
“Please…” Another trilling purr escapes the curled lips and the strong hand lands on the scraped skin of the heavy breathing chest. A few seconds pass before a nod from the other and razor sharp teeth don’t wait any longer before connecting with the delicate skin right under the clavicle and dig deep, lips and tongue pulling a good mouthful before the green eyes close in a wave of pure pleasure that shakes the tall man all the way from his boot clad toes to the ends of long silky hair.
“You’re sick,” the gunslinger whispers, hopes the wind will eat his voice away, but he underestimates the one listening to him, the one feeling him, tasting him, fucking him. He feels, then, a purr, a chuckle, vibrate from his neck in slow circles over his skin; a feeling that would terrify most, but somehow feels natural with every time they play their little game.
At last, the fangs let go of his skin, the cold rain washing off the warmth of the remaining few drops that escape the hungry mouth. “Always,” he whispers, lips still on the skin, almost gently, almost lovingly brushing the now tender flesh, just a second before the green flashing eyes move up, shoot a predatory gaze into the red ones, before the dark smile appears on those thin lips, threatening with madness unseen to most.
Or at least, those who see it, do not live to tell the tale.
“I’d apologize,” he starts, amusement in the tone. “But let’s face it, Vincent. It gets you off as well as it does me.” With the final word, still cynical at the edge, he snorts and, suddenly, so unlike what the gunslinger’s mind projected Sephiroth’s next move would be, he pulls a step back, into the storm, pale and still as a marble statue, not bothered by the heavy rain in the least.
“Now what?” the gunslinger yells, confused, among other things, wanting to move closer, but stopping as one wing opens wide, fills his field of vision, threateningly strong, painfully powerful, ready for action, to do its bidding.
“You’ve given me what I want, Vincent,” the voice that still sounds like the epitome of insanity, oasis of stillness in a storm, travels through the rumble of the falling water. Even the smirk is there, more stubborn than the falling rain when it comes to sending its message across. “Now I’ll give you what you want.” At last, the heavy wing moves, causing the sudden sharp change of the shattering noise. Another smirk escapes through the heavy curtain that usually doesn’t let anything through. “I know a very comfortable inn nearby.” Even the whisper manages to get through what normally wouldn’t let a shout pass. And in that second, in that blink of an eye, the pale body disappears, leaving only a very beaten black feather that quickly falls to the muddy ground, making Vincent jump out and into the rain, red eyes focused on the too dark sky, fighting hard with the rain, fighting hard to see his target, because unless he follows, there’s no way to go on.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispers, spreads his wings wide. The last thing that is seen is a small, wicked sort of smile adorning his lips before he, too, disappears behind the curtain of the hail and rain, to the clouds, to the fog, to the neverending darkness of the heavy storms.
And all that remains is noise. And water in the valley, rich with iron, rich with salt and humid air. And death.