[INCOMPLETE]
Who: Vincent, Hojo.
When: right after this.
Where: wherever Hojo ended up? ♥
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: Aggravated, Chaos!influenced Vincent? HE'S ON A MISSION, BITCHES. DON'T GET IN HIS WAY. Probable violence. Porn.
Summary: Vincent has plenty of unfinished business with Hojo, and he hasn't been 100% in his right mind as of late, so he heads out to have a friendly little chat with his favorite person.
It was different.
This time, unlike the many times before, it was very, very different. Different because... ah, he didn't work for Hojo anymore, did he? Had turned his back to him just as quick the moment he discovered he wasn't as big of a threat to the people he cared about as he had originally thought. Had turned his back because he was tired, and because there were bits and pieces of him that had stopped caring, had stopped understanding and figuring and wondering, around a month or two ago. Had turned his back because there was Kazuki now, and Kazuki. He mattered most, didn't he? Just as Namine did, and well.
He wasn't himself, either. Not really. He hadn't been affected by the event, by any means, but he still wasn't himself. There was that hard ball of anger that gathered in the pit of his stomach, reaching deep down to his fingertips, until there was nothing left but him. Raw, and careful, and observant, and entirely predatory in every action he took, every step he planted on the firm ground beneath him. With the precision of a Turk, and the violent nature of an animal that was barely contained, scratching at its glass cage, banging and warping and plotting. Whispered lies in the back of his mind, ones that held steady whenever red eyes flicked up toward a darkened sky, whenever gloved fingers curled in against a palm that shouldn't have been as cold as it was.
He had work to do.
And, oh, finding Hojo. He briefly wondered if the man had expected him to fail, had expected him to falter, but... really, he'd know better, wouldn't he? Vincent could practically sense him, and maybe it was the demon, the horrible entities that laid inside him, that could catch his scent, leading him deeper and deeper, past the city streets, past the shuddering lampposts, into the open where he'd stand, watch. Observe, consider, and then he'd be on his way again, moving with a grace that nearly fumbled in its exactness. Cerberus was, as always, attached to the holster in his waist, pressing hard against his hip with every step that echoed out into the frozen air. He wouldn't need it. Not this time.
He had his fingers. Had his arms, and his hands, and those were enough. Those would work just fine, and then. Then he'd do what it was he needed to do, to sate the whispers, to quiet the voice, the heavy voice, that lulled him into a dreamlike state. Annihilate, it whispered. Yours, and destroy. Pretty, pretty bones, made for dust and coffins. Pretty, pretty words, made for swords and bullets. And he listened, obediently, black hair shifting from its place against shoulders clad in red as he leaned forward, stopping at the edge of the city.
He was near. Close. Maybe ten to twenty feet away. And beyond, just beyond, over a small hill that crested and folded the horizon, was something that Vincent supposed should have passed as a house. And, yes, even in the dark, even in the heavy thicket of black, he could make out Hojo's form, just beyond, past the doorway that held no door in its frame. Vincent made quick work of the distance that separated him from the one he wanted to see, and within moments, he was at that doorway, gloved hand pressing hard into rotting would as red eyes searched the steady darkness for Hojo's form. He found him not even a second later, only a foot or so away, and for a moment, he said nothing. Nothing, and then:
"I've missed you," he murmured softly, breaking the heavy silence, and though his voice was quiet, it spoke of something much more deeper, much more dangerous, than what it appeared to be on the surface.
Carnage, it whispered. Treasured memories that open doors to graves that are not your own. Drink, and taste, and have, and tear. Pretty bones are meant for coffins.
And he listened.
When: right after this.
Where: wherever Hojo ended up? ♥
Rating: NC-17.
Warnings: Aggravated, Chaos!influenced Vincent? HE'S ON A MISSION, BITCHES. DON'T GET IN HIS WAY. Probable violence. Porn.
Summary: Vincent has plenty of unfinished business with Hojo, and he hasn't been 100% in his right mind as of late, so he heads out to have a friendly little chat with his favorite person.
It was different.
This time, unlike the many times before, it was very, very different. Different because... ah, he didn't work for Hojo anymore, did he? Had turned his back to him just as quick the moment he discovered he wasn't as big of a threat to the people he cared about as he had originally thought. Had turned his back because he was tired, and because there were bits and pieces of him that had stopped caring, had stopped understanding and figuring and wondering, around a month or two ago. Had turned his back because there was Kazuki now, and Kazuki. He mattered most, didn't he? Just as Namine did, and well.
He wasn't himself, either. Not really. He hadn't been affected by the event, by any means, but he still wasn't himself. There was that hard ball of anger that gathered in the pit of his stomach, reaching deep down to his fingertips, until there was nothing left but him. Raw, and careful, and observant, and entirely predatory in every action he took, every step he planted on the firm ground beneath him. With the precision of a Turk, and the violent nature of an animal that was barely contained, scratching at its glass cage, banging and warping and plotting. Whispered lies in the back of his mind, ones that held steady whenever red eyes flicked up toward a darkened sky, whenever gloved fingers curled in against a palm that shouldn't have been as cold as it was.
He had work to do.
And, oh, finding Hojo. He briefly wondered if the man had expected him to fail, had expected him to falter, but... really, he'd know better, wouldn't he? Vincent could practically sense him, and maybe it was the demon, the horrible entities that laid inside him, that could catch his scent, leading him deeper and deeper, past the city streets, past the shuddering lampposts, into the open where he'd stand, watch. Observe, consider, and then he'd be on his way again, moving with a grace that nearly fumbled in its exactness. Cerberus was, as always, attached to the holster in his waist, pressing hard against his hip with every step that echoed out into the frozen air. He wouldn't need it. Not this time.
He had his fingers. Had his arms, and his hands, and those were enough. Those would work just fine, and then. Then he'd do what it was he needed to do, to sate the whispers, to quiet the voice, the heavy voice, that lulled him into a dreamlike state. Annihilate, it whispered. Yours, and destroy. Pretty, pretty bones, made for dust and coffins. Pretty, pretty words, made for swords and bullets. And he listened, obediently, black hair shifting from its place against shoulders clad in red as he leaned forward, stopping at the edge of the city.
He was near. Close. Maybe ten to twenty feet away. And beyond, just beyond, over a small hill that crested and folded the horizon, was something that Vincent supposed should have passed as a house. And, yes, even in the dark, even in the heavy thicket of black, he could make out Hojo's form, just beyond, past the doorway that held no door in its frame. Vincent made quick work of the distance that separated him from the one he wanted to see, and within moments, he was at that doorway, gloved hand pressing hard into rotting would as red eyes searched the steady darkness for Hojo's form. He found him not even a second later, only a foot or so away, and for a moment, he said nothing. Nothing, and then:
"I've missed you," he murmured softly, breaking the heavy silence, and though his voice was quiet, it spoke of something much more deeper, much more dangerous, than what it appeared to be on the surface.
Carnage, it whispered. Treasured memories that open doors to graves that are not your own. Drink, and taste, and have, and tear. Pretty bones are meant for coffins.
And he listened.