go on just say it, you need me like a bad habit.
title: sensitive
fandom: final fantasy vii
rating: nc-17.
warnings: porn? language. ): idk.
pairing: veld/vincent valentine
summary: for elvaron. LOL IT'S A RLY RLY LATE B-DAY PRESENT, K.
Vincent was sensitive. Veld knew this, could read and digest it as easily as the next person couldn't. Vincent was as sensitive as Veld was rash and reckless, and he supposed it was something that couldn't be helped, that it was apart of who he was, ingrained forever into the codings of his somewhat (extremely sounded better, he thought) reserved personality. He denied it, certainly, and he tried his best to keep himself in check, to keep the flicker of emotion from passing over features hardened with the tellings of age. But it didn't help or change anything -- not really, not the way he wanted it to. Maybe everyone else bought his facade as if it were the most convincing trick in the world, and maybe everyone else didn't bother to dig a little deeper, to figure out what was brewing beneath the surface, but. Veld always bothered. It was apart of his job. It was apart of who he was. Veld bothered precisely because everyone else didn't.
And, okay, maybe he did it because it also annoyed the shit out of Vincent. But he'd never tell.
Who else was there, after all, to see him at his worst, to see his fingers tremble when he reached for his gun, when his palm flattened down against the side of his leg, against the worn leather of his holster? Who else was there to hear the ring of panic in his voice when he called out his partner's name and received no response in return for over a minute? Who else was there to watch him when he sat up in bed at night, fingertips drifting delicately along the smooth paper to whatever book (or report, or file, or who the hell ever knew when it came to him) he seemed to be intently studying? Who else was there to catch every stumble, and every falter, and every hitch of breath, and every time his lungs didn't collapse the way they should have when he exhaled? It was him. Always him, and Veld never wanted it to be anyone else for even a second, because. Because, well, Vincent's sensitivity was his to exploit. He was selfish like that, he supposed. He didn't much care, either.
He had always been fair game, though. And he made it so easy, too, made it so simple, and Veld thought, well, you should see this coming, you should know better, but you never do, you never ever ever do, Valentine, you make it hard to stop. What else was he supposed to do, really, when they were alone, and when the doors were bolted shut, and when the windows were pressed tightly down into their frames? Vincent was sensitive, and Veld would exploit it as long as he let him, as long as he allowed it, because. Well, that was half the fun, wasn't it, and that was what it was about. No one ever got to see him crumble the way Veld did. No one ever got to see him fall apart the way Veld did. No one ever got to see him quiver and shake and tremble the way Veld did.
Vincent was sensitive everywhere. At work, when he was alone, when he was with other people. When he was spread wide beneath Veld, when that dark hair was clinging to the sides of his neck, to his cheeks and forehead. When his gun was discarded, when the tie was abandoned, and when his cool curtness was forgotten elsewhere, somewhere far back, maybe in the hall, maybe on the staircase leading up to their room. When nothing else mattered, and when the only thing Veld could feel was his skin sliding damp and smooth and pale beneath his fingertips, against his mouth, against the flat of his tongue. It was so hard to breathe, then, and it was so hard to stop, then, and he wanted more, always wanted more, always needed more. Even when Vincent was trembling against him, and even when he was gasping, and Veld thought, louder, you're never loud enough, I need to hear you really fucking hear you Vincent please. Even when Vincent was pushing his hips back, lifing them up off the mattress, and even when Veld's fingers were digging into the flesh at his waist, drawing him a little closer every time he snapped forward. Out of rhythm, but perfect, and needy, and desperate, always desperate, always something else, and Veld kept thinking of, couldn't stop thinking of, constantly thinking of what Vincent was thinking about when his fingers were wrapping carefully about the length to his dick.
There were moments, minutes, seconds where Veld was tempted to demand that he say something, to say anything, just so he could hear him speak, just so he could know what he sounded like when his barriers were broken and useless. Moments, minutes, seconds where Veld was leaning over him, palms sliding carefully up his thighs, pushing them wider, marking them with fingerprints that would not be easily forgotten. Seconds where he wanted to know what the fuck it was Vincent was thinking about when he was getting himself off, when Veld was fucking him, when Veld was pulling him closer, pulling him up, and grinding back inside of him. Wanted to know, and Vincent never said, and Vincent never opened his mouth to do anything other than gasp and keen and sometimes moan, and Veld wanted desperately to tear his fingers through his hair and murmur how does it feel tell me how it feels i need you to tell me because i need to hear it i need to hear it i need to hear it i need you i need you i fucking need you warm and breathy against his ear. Even when he was on the edge of climax, and even when Vincent was already shuddering, already lifting his hips a bit more as burning fluid spilled from between the spaces in his fingers, and Veld thought, I really got to stop thinking.
Silence, and then nothing, and sometimes black, and sometimes white. Depended on the day, honestly, and Veld would try his best to keep from collapsing on Vincent, to keep his weight off the other as he slumped back against the covers, back against the mattress. He'd usually fall asleep, then. Sometimes he didn't, but usually. Usually, he did, and he was a perfect mess against the white sheets, a perfect mess of trembling muscle that Veld had so carefully constructed. And, sometimes, Veld would spend that time thinking about everything he had promised himself he would stop thinking of. He had never been good at listening, though, not to himself or anyone else, and he supposed it figured, supposed it made sense. Supposed Vincent was the type to stay silent no matter the situation, and yet he wasn't really sure why it bothered him the way it did.
Hard to mention to Vincent, though, too. Hard to mention, because he'd maybesortofkindof smile and maybesortofkindof shake his head as Veld narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
Maybe sort of kind of, and he'd say, "Don't be so sensitive."
holy christ i'm tired. i haven't been to sleep at all sdfdlkdsngleknwglk SO BB IF IT'S HORRIBLE, THAT'S WHY. I'LL WRITE YOU SOMETHING BETTER WHEN I'M MORE COHERENT.
BUT HAY I'M STILL HERE, I DIDN'T GO TO IOWA ): EVEN THOUGH I FEEL BAD.
w/e, can't make everyone happy. ;;
in other news, fuck rp. i'm gonna dropkick that shit into the next century, godddddd. idk why people think it's awesome and amazing to get on my nerves or something.
MAYBE I NEED TO GET OVER IT. brb slapping myself
fandom: final fantasy vii
rating: nc-17.
warnings: porn? language. ): idk.
pairing: veld/vincent valentine
summary: for elvaron. LOL IT'S A RLY RLY LATE B-DAY PRESENT, K.
Vincent was sensitive. Veld knew this, could read and digest it as easily as the next person couldn't. Vincent was as sensitive as Veld was rash and reckless, and he supposed it was something that couldn't be helped, that it was apart of who he was, ingrained forever into the codings of his somewhat (extremely sounded better, he thought) reserved personality. He denied it, certainly, and he tried his best to keep himself in check, to keep the flicker of emotion from passing over features hardened with the tellings of age. But it didn't help or change anything -- not really, not the way he wanted it to. Maybe everyone else bought his facade as if it were the most convincing trick in the world, and maybe everyone else didn't bother to dig a little deeper, to figure out what was brewing beneath the surface, but. Veld always bothered. It was apart of his job. It was apart of who he was. Veld bothered precisely because everyone else didn't.
And, okay, maybe he did it because it also annoyed the shit out of Vincent. But he'd never tell.
Who else was there, after all, to see him at his worst, to see his fingers tremble when he reached for his gun, when his palm flattened down against the side of his leg, against the worn leather of his holster? Who else was there to hear the ring of panic in his voice when he called out his partner's name and received no response in return for over a minute? Who else was there to watch him when he sat up in bed at night, fingertips drifting delicately along the smooth paper to whatever book (or report, or file, or who the hell ever knew when it came to him) he seemed to be intently studying? Who else was there to catch every stumble, and every falter, and every hitch of breath, and every time his lungs didn't collapse the way they should have when he exhaled? It was him. Always him, and Veld never wanted it to be anyone else for even a second, because. Because, well, Vincent's sensitivity was his to exploit. He was selfish like that, he supposed. He didn't much care, either.
He had always been fair game, though. And he made it so easy, too, made it so simple, and Veld thought, well, you should see this coming, you should know better, but you never do, you never ever ever do, Valentine, you make it hard to stop. What else was he supposed to do, really, when they were alone, and when the doors were bolted shut, and when the windows were pressed tightly down into their frames? Vincent was sensitive, and Veld would exploit it as long as he let him, as long as he allowed it, because. Well, that was half the fun, wasn't it, and that was what it was about. No one ever got to see him crumble the way Veld did. No one ever got to see him fall apart the way Veld did. No one ever got to see him quiver and shake and tremble the way Veld did.
Vincent was sensitive everywhere. At work, when he was alone, when he was with other people. When he was spread wide beneath Veld, when that dark hair was clinging to the sides of his neck, to his cheeks and forehead. When his gun was discarded, when the tie was abandoned, and when his cool curtness was forgotten elsewhere, somewhere far back, maybe in the hall, maybe on the staircase leading up to their room. When nothing else mattered, and when the only thing Veld could feel was his skin sliding damp and smooth and pale beneath his fingertips, against his mouth, against the flat of his tongue. It was so hard to breathe, then, and it was so hard to stop, then, and he wanted more, always wanted more, always needed more. Even when Vincent was trembling against him, and even when he was gasping, and Veld thought, louder, you're never loud enough, I need to hear you really fucking hear you Vincent please. Even when Vincent was pushing his hips back, lifing them up off the mattress, and even when Veld's fingers were digging into the flesh at his waist, drawing him a little closer every time he snapped forward. Out of rhythm, but perfect, and needy, and desperate, always desperate, always something else, and Veld kept thinking of, couldn't stop thinking of, constantly thinking of what Vincent was thinking about when his fingers were wrapping carefully about the length to his dick.
There were moments, minutes, seconds where Veld was tempted to demand that he say something, to say anything, just so he could hear him speak, just so he could know what he sounded like when his barriers were broken and useless. Moments, minutes, seconds where Veld was leaning over him, palms sliding carefully up his thighs, pushing them wider, marking them with fingerprints that would not be easily forgotten. Seconds where he wanted to know what the fuck it was Vincent was thinking about when he was getting himself off, when Veld was fucking him, when Veld was pulling him closer, pulling him up, and grinding back inside of him. Wanted to know, and Vincent never said, and Vincent never opened his mouth to do anything other than gasp and keen and sometimes moan, and Veld wanted desperately to tear his fingers through his hair and murmur how does it feel tell me how it feels i need you to tell me because i need to hear it i need to hear it i need to hear it i need you i need you i fucking need you warm and breathy against his ear. Even when he was on the edge of climax, and even when Vincent was already shuddering, already lifting his hips a bit more as burning fluid spilled from between the spaces in his fingers, and Veld thought, I really got to stop thinking.
Silence, and then nothing, and sometimes black, and sometimes white. Depended on the day, honestly, and Veld would try his best to keep from collapsing on Vincent, to keep his weight off the other as he slumped back against the covers, back against the mattress. He'd usually fall asleep, then. Sometimes he didn't, but usually. Usually, he did, and he was a perfect mess against the white sheets, a perfect mess of trembling muscle that Veld had so carefully constructed. And, sometimes, Veld would spend that time thinking about everything he had promised himself he would stop thinking of. He had never been good at listening, though, not to himself or anyone else, and he supposed it figured, supposed it made sense. Supposed Vincent was the type to stay silent no matter the situation, and yet he wasn't really sure why it bothered him the way it did.
Hard to mention to Vincent, though, too. Hard to mention, because he'd maybesortofkindof smile and maybesortofkindof shake his head as Veld narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
Maybe sort of kind of, and he'd say, "Don't be so sensitive."
holy christ i'm tired. i haven't been to sleep at all sdfdlkdsngleknwglk SO BB IF IT'S HORRIBLE, THAT'S WHY. I'LL WRITE YOU SOMETHING BETTER WHEN I'M MORE COHERENT.
BUT HAY I'M STILL HERE, I DIDN'T GO TO IOWA ): EVEN THOUGH I FEEL BAD.
w/e, can't make everyone happy. ;;
in other news, fuck rp. i'm gonna dropkick that shit into the next century, godddddd. idk why people think it's awesome and amazing to get on my nerves or something.
MAYBE I NEED TO GET OVER IT. brb slapping myself