InsaneJournal

Cid squeezed his eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them again. The image remained unchanged. So much pale skin, exposed for all the world to see. Toned arms stretched up and crossed behind the head, a hands breadth of gold visible on the left. Sleek midnight hair draping down that gorgeous torso, scars minimized by the lighting, but still there if you knew where to look (and, oh, did Cid know). A drape of familiar red barely covering the lap, black hair peeking up above. Long legs that seemed to go on forever, kneeling on more red. And that face. An open “come hither” expression written upon every beautiful inch and deep in those crimson eyes. Lips smiling in invitation. “All my love, Vincent” written in familiar handwriting off to the side. And yet, this was no professional glossy photo, no extremely personal gift. This was the centerfold in a well known men's magazine.

“Oh, Vin”, Cid muttered in a voice tinged with lust and anger, “you and I are going to have a talk when I get home.”