Final Fantasy VII, Cid/Vincent, desperation
Cid was on the back porch with his feet propped up, paper in one hand and a steaming mug of tea in the other, when he heard the front door slam. Rolling his cigarette thoughtfully from one side of his mouth to the other, he listened with a cocked brow as someone stalked through the house, ripping open door after door. Shera yelped something uncomplimentary but didn't throw anything, and that pretty much cinched it.
He was ready with an innocent look and a grin when Vincent came tearing through the back door, but the grin died when he realized the guy looked desperate, not pissed. Seeing Vincent worried--obviously, blatantly worried--made the short hairs rise on the back of his neck, made him want to glance at the sky to make sure they weren't getting a repeat of last year.
"Cid," Vincent said before the words seemed to get lost. His eyes were paler than Cid had ever seen them, not their usual murky red but blood and amber, beastlike.
"Vin? What's up?"
Vincent hesitated, drew a breath to speak then shook his head, jaw clenching. The scrape as his clawed hand flexed was loud in the early-morning stillness, ominous enough for Cid to put his paper aside, finish his tea in a few fast swallows.
He dropped the empty mug before he could put it down, Vincent suddenly doing his damndest to occupy the same space as Cid, or at least the same chair. And it was a small fucking chair, not that early in the morning, and there were windows open all over the neighborhood.
"Inside," he grumbled, remembering belatedly to push at Vincent's shoulders, distracted by the teeth scraping lightly at his throat, not far gone enough yet to bite.
Vincent practically dragged him inside, and he threw a helpless look at Shera as they passed her in the hall. She yawned at him and shut the bathroom door in his face; someone hadn't had her coffee yet.
He sort of thought about protesting when Vincent pushed him down on the bed, but the claws were fucking sharp, and he hadn't liked that shirt much anyway. He drew the line at the pants.
"Hey...Vin. You okay?"
The wild-eyed look he got at that had to be dragged up from his crotch as he lifted his hips, pushed boxers and his favorite comfortable jeans down and--
Vincent was on his knees before Cid's pants cleared his ankles, burying his face in stiff curls and nuzzling, licking. Growling when Cid tried to nudge him back and make him talk. Growling.
"If you even think about changing," Cid growled right back, "I top."
Vincent gave an odd sort of whine at that, the whites of his eyes totally gone when he glanced up and met Cid's glare, still more himself than not, but only just.
Cid sort of forgot to breathe when Vincent rose to his feet, stripped off, and slunk onto the bed, ass in the air, spine a long curve to shoulders that pressed flat to the mattress.
It was still Vincent when he slid gingerly inside, when he found the angle that made the lean, scarred body under him push back with an appreciative snarl, when he came hard and felt the hard length in his hand jerk and pulse. Still Vincent when Shera yelled that breakfast was ready, though it was the Beast that sniffed the air hopefully and licked the side of Cid's neck. The Beast was fading, though, settling down now that whatever odd instincts had roused it had been appeased.
"You know," Shera said over pancakes a little later, "Behemoths tend to mate in the late spring."
Vincent wasn't looking at either of them, but Cid wasn't complaining.