Final Fantasy VII, Vincent/Scarlet, blood and wine
Whatever the hell Hojo’s done to him – for him – put him through –
Hell is plasglass and blue for Vincent. Scarlet dips a fingertip into her wine, spreads the red along the open rim of the glass. Vincent sets his metal hand point-first against his cage, the full limit of his force behind it.
Scarlet smiles when his arm snaps. Her plasglass engineering against Hojo’s science: she’s still winning these skirmishes.
Hypnotic, this: how Vincent drifts on a moment of pain. His hair curls, swirls like ink through water, long enough to near veil his nakedness. Scarlet drains her glass of wine. Always easier with wet lips, slick lips, a full belly, a hot heart. She should probably get another, but he recovers faster than she’d thought.
His eyes are vitriol.
Scarlet licks her lips wet. She tastes, breathes, heavy red. He’s been in here for so long; she’s waited so long she wonders how much longer she should wait.
– his hair plasters him as the water drains, lines of a madman’s paintbrush. Scarlet’s surprised to see her hand on the release value. Must be, ha, sentiment; it can't be the wine.
“Scarlet,” he says, in a voice she remembers belonging to another.
“Are you—“ she breathes, hard, she’s not slurring– “going to behave?”
She’d forgotten how beautiful his smile could be.
He’s wet. He’s a weapon. Weapons are hers. She’s up against the glass and she’s slicker than he is, where it matters; she’s full of red wine and hot blood even if he’s only got thick blue and saltwater.
Scarlet doesn’t remember opening the door, but it must have been her, or possibly the wine. She doesn’t remember him stepping down – but he does; she feels a wet hand on her skin, flesh; she still shivers, laughs because no damned construct makes her shiver.
– she’d forgotten how tall Vincent is. Was. Is.
“I want –“
– and he says, “I know,” because he wants too, his whole life – death – everything is wanting, but –
“– not you.” His lips are so close to hers she can smell the dead.
Vincent’s tongue invades. She bites him, hard, bloods him. No one uses her weapons against her. Vincent’s cold and it’s not just the water. He’s hard but it’s not lust, it’s rigor. She wants it, a memory, but not as much as she wants –
– his fingers, a paired chill that she stutters, moans, pushes her openness against him until slick shines on the recoil; more, that he forks his hand and slides two and two alike of ice, unbearable. Scarlet bites his neck, shoulders, his rough-scarred chest to leave her mark in red rings. Vincent moves only at her direction. Perhaps she could read his coldness as an insult, but she’s Scarlet, she makes, takes, commands weapons –
She doesn’t remember asking this, but his flesh hand is against her lips, briny; she fucks his metal one, cutting, segments snarling hair and flesh alike. It takes an eternity for her to come even though it feels – it’s there waiting to come, as rigid as his metal. In the end it’s their mouths do it for her; she orders him slower, deeper, more; kisses him, fucks him with her tongue that she draws from him – yes – his own breath sharp like the taste of –
– blood, his claw’s copper when he withdraws; she heaves, shuddering, and thinks maybe she shouldn’t have a drink for a while.
Vincent regards his hand - her hand, her construct. He looks, almost, like he used to do. About to leave.
“I could have left you to rot in there,” Scarlet says. “Say thank you.”
“I thought I just had.”
“Since when do you think? You let your women do the thinking for you.”
“I don’t make the same mistake twice.” Something dark marks his lower lip, darker in his eyes. As he turns he –
–turns into hell–
Scarlet laughs, hard, that she sits on tile slick with saltwater. Her eyes run; there’s red everywhere. She doesn’t hurt like she should. Vincent’s – not Vincent –
Whatever the hell Hojo’s done to him. The hell Hojo’s put him through. The hell. What the hell. Vincent is Hell.
The beast spreads his wings. His departure leaves her sitting in wreckage; cold air cuts, curdles her wine-haze.
She’ll never be able to stomach a red again. Old blood shouldn’t taste like wine.