Final Fantasy VII, Vincent/Yuffie, mercenary (Part 1)
Yuffie comes at night. Sometimes she barges through the bar's front door and lets Tifa cluck over her or exchanges insults with Reno between drinks, but usually she climbs through his window, with the scent of smoke and blood creeping after her. Midgar's a crippled city ruled by the wounded; they are no exceptions. Most of the time she's in her favorite shirt and shorts, pockets filled with whatever struck her as interesting, like a silver pocketwatch with half a terrible poem hidden under the clock's face, a switchblade with a bone handle, a ring with a place to store poison. Some of the time he peels layers of damp silk from her body, unwrapping her legs, hips, stomach, chest.
The rap on the door interrupts that train of thought. Vincent shifts in his chair and frowns at the pile of papers he is supposed to be perusing; he hadn't meant to be thinking about her again, to allow her to haunt him. He sighs, then stands and walks to the door. Tifa, no doubt, with another glass of whiskey and unencouraged advice about relationships. When he opens it, however, there's a twist deep in his chest, like Chaos writhing.
Yuffie's dark eyes flickered up, flat with boredom, and she runs her hands over her slicked-back hair. When she pushes past him, the heels of her polished shoes click on the floor. The navy suit is tailored and the black tie knotted smoothly: her blazer is cut smug around her slender figure When Yuffie turns to face him, her expression is cool, distantly amused.
She is the perfect Turk.
"I got a promotion to Lieutenant from Blondie McWheels." She says with a grin, then pumps her arms in the air, her air of threatening sophistication dissipating. "I told Rufus that he could take his ranks and shove it, but..." She pauses, her smile turning into a smirk. "He gave me your file."
There's another stirring deep in his stomach. Yuffie stretches her arms above her head, the fabric of her suit pulling tight across her chest, then strolls to the desk to flick through his work. "My file?" He prompts.
She looks at him from the corner of her eyes. "Mm. You know, you never really left the Turks. Your file's still open." She glances up, her smile crooked and eyebrows arched like slivers of a black moon. "They probably owe you, like, a billion dollars of back-pay, Detective Vincent Valentine."
He stares a spot on the wall above her head, but then his eyes flicker down to meet hers. A thrill shivers down his spine like a blast of Ice. "Detective Vincent Valentine has been dead for years, killed by Hojo. Yuffie-"
"Lieutenant." She corrects. "That's Lieutenant Kisaragi to you, Detective. Don't argue with your superior." She closes the distance between them, the smirk back on her lips, and presses her hands against his chest. "I outrank you, you know." She says, her voice low and husky and teasing. "So when I tell you to take off your shirt, you better do it."
His breath hitches and the ache within him spreads as his body responds. Her hands skim down his sides and grab his hips, and Yuffie pulls them together. She stands on tiptoe to kiss him, her tongue hot and wet. "Shirt. Off."
She takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest; in the dark blazer she is a slender shadow. Her cheeks are pink and her wide eyes are bright, but other than that she remains in her stoic Turk persona. She waits as he waits to see which of them will crack first under their desire, her chest heaving under the white-button shirt. She reaches into the breast pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one of the cigarettes free. She places the end of it between her lips, her mouth open so he can see her tongue roll over it.
He works the buckles of his shirt open and throws it toward the bed, not caring if it lands on the ground.
Yuffie smiles around the cigarette, the plucks it from her mouth and tucks it behind her ear. "Now mine."