[Final Fantasy VII] Hangover
Title: Hangover
Fandom: FF7
Pairing: Vincent/Reno
Rating: R
Contains: Ummm, sexual situations. Swearing. Indecent exposure, kinda. Hey, it's Reno, after all.
Hangover
He awoke to someone driving nails into his skull with what felt like a sledgehammer. Giant rusty nails. With lots of bacteria and deadly diseases attached. Ow. His jaw felt weird. He moved it gingerly. Double ow.
Reno rolled over and moaned when the motion caused the room to tilt and spin funnily. Fuck. Whatever had been in that stuff he'd had last night had been potent. No wonder his fellow Turks had declined. Smart people, them. One hand coming up to cradle his head, Reno got up - sloooowly, he reminded himself - swayed dizzily on his feet for a few moments before stumbling in the general direction of the kitchen. Coffee. He needed coffee.
However, his quest for the sacred brew was cut short rather abruptly when he stumbled into a heinous trap with sharp teeth and promptly went crashing to the floor with barely enough time to let out a very manly yell.
After making sure that his nose was just squashed and not broken, he sat up to detach the offending object from where it was digging into the ball of his foot. It came loose without much resistance, but he still glared at it with all the force a hungover Turk could muster. And froze.
What had been giving his foot a not-so-gentle love bite was an unfamiliar studded leather strap, attached to an equally unfamiliar black holster with a very familiar three-headed dog emblem on it. Reno stared at the holster, then at his foot and noticed that he had stepped on the tattered seams of a red cloak with an abundance of straps and buckles attached. Dumbly, he realized that he had just trampled Vincent Valentine's favorite security blanket and was holding Vincent Valentine's shrewdly symbolic holster. And Valentine's asinine steel-tipped boots were standing in the corner. Thank god he hadn't tripped over those, or he might have lost a toe.
For a moment, Reno could only sit there and gaze at nothing, before he began looking around for any other people's belongings that might have suddenly relocated themselves in his bedroom.
Boots in the corner, check. Cloak on the chair, check. Rumpled bed, empty, check. Handcuffs on the bed frame, condoms on the floor, empty tube o' lube on the nightstand, check, check, FUCK!
Reno jumped up off the floor, casting his eyes wildly about the room as if viewing it from some other angle would make the horrible, horrible proof of the deed disappear, or possible cause the other guilty party to step out of a closet. Frantically, his mind tried to come up with a memory, any memory that would prove he had not had sex with Vincent Valentine last night while being drunk off his ass. So far, the only evidence to the contrary was the fact that he was feeling quite hungover and not at all fucked, and he didn't think Valentine would be bad in bed. Unless he had been the one to bottom, and wouldn't that be a memorable occurrence?
Ahem.
Not that he ever thought about Valentine being anything anywhere. Of course not. Because he was creepy as fuck. And because that belonged into the corner of his mind that had become deranged with excessive alcohol consumption and abuse of leisure drugs, and did not match up with normal, sane, healthy-minded Reno at all. And why did he get the feeling that somewhere, someone was laughing at him right now?
The delicious scent of freshly brewed coffee was wafting through the half-open doorway.
Reno's feet began heading in the direction of the smell without his permission, before his addled brain caught up with the rest of him and screamed that this might very well be a trap, considering that the bedroom looked extremely lived in, and the holster was quite obviously missing its gun.
Even without his reputation as a Turk, 'Reno' and 'coward' were two words that simply did not belong together in the same sentence, unless said sentence went 'Reno kicked a coward' or something to that effect. But the thought of Vincent Valentine, ex-Turk and shapeshifter extraordinaire, sitting in his kitchen with a loaded gun and calmly waiting for Reno to be lured out by the scent of the coffee was bone-chilling indeed.
Then again, Valentine struck him more as a masochist than a sadist, which probably also had something to do with the handcuffs, and... Not going there, Reno reminded himself firmly, and - deciding that creepy-ass Valentine or no, standing here debating over the merits of leaving the bedroom was making him look like a pussy - took a deep breath and crept down the hallway towards his kitchen.
Vincent Valentine was leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but a pair of pants (thankfully his own), sipping coffee from Reno's favorite mug, and absent-mindedly flicking the safety on his gun on and off with one golden tip of his claw. His hair was hanging about him in damp strands, which were periodically dripping water onto his bare chest. Reno followed one such drop with his eyes as it curved over the man's collarbone, slid past his nipple, crept down the expanse of his stomach and finally disappeared into his bellybutton.
Reno abruptly realized that he was standing naked at the entrance to his kitchen staring at a half-dressed creepy-ass shapeshifter (who was dripping water all over the floor and himself and drinking the elixir of the gods from Reno's favorite mug), and also sporting one hell of an erection.
Which was weird, since some ungodly hour in the morning was not Reno's idea of the ideal time to be happy to see someone, especially when hungover. And certainly not when that someone happened to be Valentine. Who was not someone to get hard over, because he was creepy. And not sexy. Well, maybe a bit. But certainly not enough to get this happy.
Valentine removed the cup from his lips and turned his head as if he had just happened to notice Reno, and calmly said, "Good morning." Then, he moved his gaze towards Reno's jutting cock and repeated, "Good morning," with the same deadpan expression, save for the slight quirking of an eyebrow.
Reno was quite sure that he should not be blushing like an idiot schoolgirl (albeit an underdressed idiot schoolgirl), so he defiantly marched into the kitchen, grabbed another mug from the pile of dishes near the sink and, ignoring the crashing sounds as the pile crumbled behind him, poured himself some coffee.
Ah, heaven.
"So," he finally rasped, after savoring the slight numbness that came from swallowing too hot liquid. "Let me guess. I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?"
Valentine, who had redirected his gaze towards the window in a mockery of politeness, sipped his coffee and murmured into the rim of the cup, "Yes, no, not really and maybe."
"Huh?" Reno said intelligently. It was completely unfair that Valentine should give answers by forcing him to remember what had come of his mouth a minute ago, when his own brain was still cross with him about the alcohol tolerance thing.
"Yes, you did drink yourself into a stupor," the dark-haired man said tactfully, "And passed out in the bar."
"And then what?" Reno snapped, annoyed with the other's reluctance at revealing information. Did or didn't I fuck you, Val? Come on, throw me a fucking bone here!
"Since your colleagues were rather preoccupied with getting each other home, I thought you might appreciate it if I did the same for you. It seems I was mistaken." Then he set down the mug, produced a cell phone from his back pocket and started punching buttons.
"The fuck are you doing now?" Reno demanded.
Valentine eyed him with something very much like amusement glittering in his freaky red eyes. "Note to self: Next time, leave Turk to be molested by bar's other occupants ...But to answer your question... I brought you back here, you told me that you wanted to 'eat me right up', along with a few other unmistakable offers..." Reno sputtered indignantly. "...and got quite grabby. Which is why you are sporting that bruise." He motioned to Reno's jaw.
So that's why it felt weird! Bastard. Which was a petty thought after the almost-heart attack he'd had over almost sleeping with Valentine, but Reno had never claimed to have the most profound of thoughts.
"Then you threw up all over me and promptly passed out." Valentine pointed towards one of the chairs where a recently washed black shirt was still dripping profusely. "But I've decided not to torture the apology out of you, since you can't remember anything anyway."
Reno, who was still trying to decide whether or not Valentine was joking about killing him, blurted the first thing that came to mind. "And then what's with the handcuffs and the other shit?"
The other man arced an eyebrow. Reno had to admit that, yes, he was quite surprised that his imagination was still insistent about him fucking Valentine.
"It is hardly my responsibility what you leave lying around," Valentine said, fishing a red piece of cloth out of his pocket and starting to wrap it around his head. "Although, I must say I'm a bit surprised that anyone would leave sex toys lying around for others to find."
Valentine was wearing that infuriating now-I-have-seen-everything look, which clearly stated he wasn't just referring to an innocent pair of handcuffs, and that only served to irritate Reno further. "Fuck you." Not the most creative insult, but it would have to do.
Except that Valentine suddenly had him trapped between the counter and himself. Reno hadn't even seen him move. So fucking fast!
"You seem quite fixated on that," the other observed, his normally quiet, even tone deepening into something similar to a purr. "Perhaps you should get that out of your system."
When Valentine closed his flesh hand around his cock, Reno's overactive libido took charge with a groan of, "Finally!" and shoved his sanity out of the way, which seemed to be quite content with sitting there frozen in an "Oh" of surprise at the thought that this was Vincent fucking Valentine, the one who could compete with Strife for title of "Frigid Bitch" any day, jerking him off in the middle of his kitchen.
Reno would have loved to return the favor, except that the other man took that moment to squeeze hard, and he really had to brace himself against the counter to stay upright on his buckling legs after that.
Teasing fingers pushed against the spot behind his balls and Reno moaned, spreading his legs wider. A part of him stopped making the "Oh" long enough to wonder when in the seven hells he had become such a fucking girl, but then Valentine's hand was back around his cock with just the right amount of pressure, and he didn't think about much anymore except getting just a bit more friction.
As the hand abruptly withdrew, he couldn't quite hold back the noise of protest that sounded pathetic even to his own ears. Then, there was warm breath near his ear and he could almost feel Valentine's lips as he said, "Then again, maybe not. I've had better back in my day. Perhaps you could convince me by staying sober, next time."
With those words, he vanished into the bedroom. Reno stared after him, incapable of speech. When he heard the window opening and closing a few seconds later, he started swearing.
It was only after he had given himself a much-needed orgasm that he realized that Valentine's black shirt was still draped over one of his kitchen chairs. Slowly, his scowl faded to be replaced with a predatory grin.
Who would've thought you'd be such a cocktease, Valentine? Very well… challenge accepted.
----
A/N: Writing this piece broke my brain.
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Fandom: FF7
Pairing: Vincent/Reno
Rating: R
Contains: Ummm, sexual situations. Swearing. Indecent exposure, kinda. Hey, it's Reno, after all.
Hangover
He awoke to someone driving nails into his skull with what felt like a sledgehammer. Giant rusty nails. With lots of bacteria and deadly diseases attached. Ow. His jaw felt weird. He moved it gingerly. Double ow.
Reno rolled over and moaned when the motion caused the room to tilt and spin funnily. Fuck. Whatever had been in that stuff he'd had last night had been potent. No wonder his fellow Turks had declined. Smart people, them. One hand coming up to cradle his head, Reno got up - sloooowly, he reminded himself - swayed dizzily on his feet for a few moments before stumbling in the general direction of the kitchen. Coffee. He needed coffee.
However, his quest for the sacred brew was cut short rather abruptly when he stumbled into a heinous trap with sharp teeth and promptly went crashing to the floor with barely enough time to let out a very manly yell.
After making sure that his nose was just squashed and not broken, he sat up to detach the offending object from where it was digging into the ball of his foot. It came loose without much resistance, but he still glared at it with all the force a hungover Turk could muster. And froze.
What had been giving his foot a not-so-gentle love bite was an unfamiliar studded leather strap, attached to an equally unfamiliar black holster with a very familiar three-headed dog emblem on it. Reno stared at the holster, then at his foot and noticed that he had stepped on the tattered seams of a red cloak with an abundance of straps and buckles attached. Dumbly, he realized that he had just trampled Vincent Valentine's favorite security blanket and was holding Vincent Valentine's shrewdly symbolic holster. And Valentine's asinine steel-tipped boots were standing in the corner. Thank god he hadn't tripped over those, or he might have lost a toe.
For a moment, Reno could only sit there and gaze at nothing, before he began looking around for any other people's belongings that might have suddenly relocated themselves in his bedroom.
Boots in the corner, check. Cloak on the chair, check. Rumpled bed, empty, check. Handcuffs on the bed frame, condoms on the floor, empty tube o' lube on the nightstand, check, check, FUCK!
Reno jumped up off the floor, casting his eyes wildly about the room as if viewing it from some other angle would make the horrible, horrible proof of the deed disappear, or possible cause the other guilty party to step out of a closet. Frantically, his mind tried to come up with a memory, any memory that would prove he had not had sex with Vincent Valentine last night while being drunk off his ass. So far, the only evidence to the contrary was the fact that he was feeling quite hungover and not at all fucked, and he didn't think Valentine would be bad in bed. Unless he had been the one to bottom, and wouldn't that be a memorable occurrence?
Ahem.
Not that he ever thought about Valentine being anything anywhere. Of course not. Because he was creepy as fuck. And because that belonged into the corner of his mind that had become deranged with excessive alcohol consumption and abuse of leisure drugs, and did not match up with normal, sane, healthy-minded Reno at all. And why did he get the feeling that somewhere, someone was laughing at him right now?
The delicious scent of freshly brewed coffee was wafting through the half-open doorway.
Reno's feet began heading in the direction of the smell without his permission, before his addled brain caught up with the rest of him and screamed that this might very well be a trap, considering that the bedroom looked extremely lived in, and the holster was quite obviously missing its gun.
Even without his reputation as a Turk, 'Reno' and 'coward' were two words that simply did not belong together in the same sentence, unless said sentence went 'Reno kicked a coward' or something to that effect. But the thought of Vincent Valentine, ex-Turk and shapeshifter extraordinaire, sitting in his kitchen with a loaded gun and calmly waiting for Reno to be lured out by the scent of the coffee was bone-chilling indeed.
Then again, Valentine struck him more as a masochist than a sadist, which probably also had something to do with the handcuffs, and... Not going there, Reno reminded himself firmly, and - deciding that creepy-ass Valentine or no, standing here debating over the merits of leaving the bedroom was making him look like a pussy - took a deep breath and crept down the hallway towards his kitchen.
Vincent Valentine was leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but a pair of pants (thankfully his own), sipping coffee from Reno's favorite mug, and absent-mindedly flicking the safety on his gun on and off with one golden tip of his claw. His hair was hanging about him in damp strands, which were periodically dripping water onto his bare chest. Reno followed one such drop with his eyes as it curved over the man's collarbone, slid past his nipple, crept down the expanse of his stomach and finally disappeared into his bellybutton.
Reno abruptly realized that he was standing naked at the entrance to his kitchen staring at a half-dressed creepy-ass shapeshifter (who was dripping water all over the floor and himself and drinking the elixir of the gods from Reno's favorite mug), and also sporting one hell of an erection.
Which was weird, since some ungodly hour in the morning was not Reno's idea of the ideal time to be happy to see someone, especially when hungover. And certainly not when that someone happened to be Valentine. Who was not someone to get hard over, because he was creepy. And not sexy. Well, maybe a bit. But certainly not enough to get this happy.
Valentine removed the cup from his lips and turned his head as if he had just happened to notice Reno, and calmly said, "Good morning." Then, he moved his gaze towards Reno's jutting cock and repeated, "Good morning," with the same deadpan expression, save for the slight quirking of an eyebrow.
Reno was quite sure that he should not be blushing like an idiot schoolgirl (albeit an underdressed idiot schoolgirl), so he defiantly marched into the kitchen, grabbed another mug from the pile of dishes near the sink and, ignoring the crashing sounds as the pile crumbled behind him, poured himself some coffee.
Ah, heaven.
"So," he finally rasped, after savoring the slight numbness that came from swallowing too hot liquid. "Let me guess. I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?"
Valentine, who had redirected his gaze towards the window in a mockery of politeness, sipped his coffee and murmured into the rim of the cup, "Yes, no, not really and maybe."
"Huh?" Reno said intelligently. It was completely unfair that Valentine should give answers by forcing him to remember what had come of his mouth a minute ago, when his own brain was still cross with him about the alcohol tolerance thing.
"Yes, you did drink yourself into a stupor," the dark-haired man said tactfully, "And passed out in the bar."
"And then what?" Reno snapped, annoyed with the other's reluctance at revealing information. Did or didn't I fuck you, Val? Come on, throw me a fucking bone here!
"Since your colleagues were rather preoccupied with getting each other home, I thought you might appreciate it if I did the same for you. It seems I was mistaken." Then he set down the mug, produced a cell phone from his back pocket and started punching buttons.
"The fuck are you doing now?" Reno demanded.
Valentine eyed him with something very much like amusement glittering in his freaky red eyes. "Note to self: Next time, leave Turk to be molested by bar's other occupants ...But to answer your question... I brought you back here, you told me that you wanted to 'eat me right up', along with a few other unmistakable offers..." Reno sputtered indignantly. "...and got quite grabby. Which is why you are sporting that bruise." He motioned to Reno's jaw.
So that's why it felt weird! Bastard. Which was a petty thought after the almost-heart attack he'd had over almost sleeping with Valentine, but Reno had never claimed to have the most profound of thoughts.
"Then you threw up all over me and promptly passed out." Valentine pointed towards one of the chairs where a recently washed black shirt was still dripping profusely. "But I've decided not to torture the apology out of you, since you can't remember anything anyway."
Reno, who was still trying to decide whether or not Valentine was joking about killing him, blurted the first thing that came to mind. "And then what's with the handcuffs and the other shit?"
The other man arced an eyebrow. Reno had to admit that, yes, he was quite surprised that his imagination was still insistent about him fucking Valentine.
"It is hardly my responsibility what you leave lying around," Valentine said, fishing a red piece of cloth out of his pocket and starting to wrap it around his head. "Although, I must say I'm a bit surprised that anyone would leave sex toys lying around for others to find."
Valentine was wearing that infuriating now-I-have-seen-everything look, which clearly stated he wasn't just referring to an innocent pair of handcuffs, and that only served to irritate Reno further. "Fuck you." Not the most creative insult, but it would have to do.
Except that Valentine suddenly had him trapped between the counter and himself. Reno hadn't even seen him move. So fucking fast!
"You seem quite fixated on that," the other observed, his normally quiet, even tone deepening into something similar to a purr. "Perhaps you should get that out of your system."
When Valentine closed his flesh hand around his cock, Reno's overactive libido took charge with a groan of, "Finally!" and shoved his sanity out of the way, which seemed to be quite content with sitting there frozen in an "Oh" of surprise at the thought that this was Vincent fucking Valentine, the one who could compete with Strife for title of "Frigid Bitch" any day, jerking him off in the middle of his kitchen.
Reno would have loved to return the favor, except that the other man took that moment to squeeze hard, and he really had to brace himself against the counter to stay upright on his buckling legs after that.
Teasing fingers pushed against the spot behind his balls and Reno moaned, spreading his legs wider. A part of him stopped making the "Oh" long enough to wonder when in the seven hells he had become such a fucking girl, but then Valentine's hand was back around his cock with just the right amount of pressure, and he didn't think about much anymore except getting just a bit more friction.
As the hand abruptly withdrew, he couldn't quite hold back the noise of protest that sounded pathetic even to his own ears. Then, there was warm breath near his ear and he could almost feel Valentine's lips as he said, "Then again, maybe not. I've had better back in my day. Perhaps you could convince me by staying sober, next time."
With those words, he vanished into the bedroom. Reno stared after him, incapable of speech. When he heard the window opening and closing a few seconds later, he started swearing.
It was only after he had given himself a much-needed orgasm that he realized that Valentine's black shirt was still draped over one of his kitchen chairs. Slowly, his scowl faded to be replaced with a predatory grin.
Who would've thought you'd be such a cocktease, Valentine? Very well… challenge accepted.
----
A/N: Writing this piece broke my brain.
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