Work Text:
You wouldn’t class yourself as a hugely shrewd person. You’d been fortunate enough in life that there was never a reason for you to hone such a skill beyond basic body language and conversation, and it had never been something you’d even really thought about until a passing line from Cloud had piqued your attention.
With the area you’d been passing through now cleared of fiends, your resident ex-Turk found no further reason to travel with the pack, disappearing to find his own solitary route to the town up ahead. Stretching your battered muscles, you’d watched that red cape disappear into the trees and mumbled a dry comment while Cloud’s buster sword clicked into place between his shoulder blades.
“You know he’s — like — into you, right?”
Since then, you’ve made it your business to be more observant, not that your efforts bear any fruit.
Vincent Valentine is just as cold toward you as he is everyone else. At first you assume Cloud might have been trying to be funny, but broaching the topic elsewhere suggests otherwise. It’s unanimous amongst the adults in your band that the man behaved differently around you. Only slightly — only noticeable to those who have been subjected to him a few months longer than yourself.
Not one to deny yourself a good time, you decide you’re interested. What you glimpse of his face over the top of that cape is handsome. It’s always been that simple for you, but evidently this is going to be more complicated than just expressing that interest. How were you supposed to to tell a man who barely stood to be around others for more than a few seconds to fuck you?
So one by one, you turn to the people closest to you both for insight.
“Far as I understand it, he dun’t have the best track record with the ladies.” Cid mentions as you sit with him by the fire, cigarette filter bouncing on his lip with each consonant as he rolls tobacco in a paper. Normally not one to shy away from looking you in the eye, the engineer can’t seem to find it in himself to even have his head turned toward you as he speaks, let alone meet your gaze.
He knows more than he’s letting on.
“What, is he a creep?” You press.
“No! God. Wouldja just —“
Cid regards you with exasperation, his loyalty to an ally’s dignity winning out over respect for privacy.
“It’s... — menfolk are sensitive, alright? Man gets burned bad enough once or twice, he’s bound to give up on that sorta thing.”
There’s no way Vincent's been getting laid in that crusty basement coffin for the past 20 years, so you assume Cid alludes to something prior. The man dismisses any further attempts to dig after that, waving you away with an embarrassed growl.
Barret and Cloud are even more cagey, offering only shrugs and assurances that Vincent is probably still just like any other guy beneath all of those cold layers. That the simplest approach is best, you're told. Yet, both respond to your suggestion of outright telling him you’re interested with their own variations of: “Are you crazy?”
“Shy guys are like that. They’ll make any excuse to hover around, but getting them to talk is like pulling teeth.” Tifa explains when you find your way to her one afternoon.
Finally, you feel like you might be getting somewhere constructive.
“How did you go about it with Cloud?” You ask her.
“Cloud?” She tilts her head to the side, cheeks tinging pink. "What about him?”
You break away from her to stare into the middle distance.
Hopeless.
It takes another week of deliberation before you give up on outside assistance. It’s not getting you anywhere, and thinking about it so much has begun to stoke a frustration in your gut. The more you dwell on it, the more a passing interest becomes a crush.
Finally, you’re sick of it.
This time, when Vincent parts from the group at the wrap of a job, you resolve to follow him. After dinnertime has come and gone and the others have taken themselves to their rooms, you’re creeping out of the building and up the trail to the spot you know Vincent entertains his solitude in his spare hours. Up along the hill, looking over the town there’s a broken down trail fallen into disrepair by favour of one more convenient. You find the ex-Turk reclining back on the earth, seated at the edge of a partially destroyed retaining wall. The spot would have been used as a rest stop years back, now repurposed solely as a spot for him to brood.
Vincent’s eyes are closed when you approach, and when he opens them, his gaze trains only on the town below.
God, this was a stupid idea. You should’ve just gotten drunk and stumbled into him weeks back before your nerves had gotten a chance to accumulate.
“Can I sit?” You ask, and without looking at you, Vincent inclines his head in acknowledgement. A kind of reaction you’re sure the others would take as cement proof of a soft spot, but there’s nothing for you to work with. No conversation flow to follow. No body language to speak of.
If anything, at least, you’ve got your confidence.
Smoothing the back of your skirt, you seat yourself beside him and cross your legs, absorbing the view.
In your periphery, Vincent closes him eyes again, paying you no mind.
“So look.” You mutter into the night. “I dig you. And — well, I’d like to get it out of my system, so…” Your gaze flickers to what you can see of his face when he gives no indication of a response.
A huff on your part draws his gaze, and Vincent’s amber irises glow in the dim last light of a sun that has already set. You roll onto your knees beside him, sitting a little closer. Propped up on his elbows, he observes the exasperated frown on your face.
“You’re so hard to talk to, you know.” You muse.
“I’m sorry.” He replies, unmoving, expression unreadable as you draw closer, encouraged just a little by an actual reply.
Reaching up, you aim for his high collar. “You just gotta tell me—“
The clawed fingers of his gauntlet are gripping your wrist in an instant, gaze boring into you while he holds you inches at bay.
No undressing. Understood. Still —
There’s no helping your frown. “I’ll leave the rest. Just…the cape—“
“What about it?” He scowls.
“I’m not fucking a guy in a cape.” You tell him. “Not unless its Halloween.”
Vincent watches you for a long moment, expression unchanging. There’s a twitch in his fingers that gives him away. Whatever it was he thought you were planning, it certainly wasn’t to have sex with him. In hindsight, a man more or less frozen in time for 2 decades probably didn’t have a fucking clue what you meant by ‘I dig you’. Still, he gives no sign of interest nor protest, and its with reluctant acceptance that all of the initiative would have to come from you. You've never had to work so hard to catch a dick.
“Do you trust me?” You ask him, making no move to push beyond where he’s physically keeping you.
“No.”
Bad phrasing.
“Do you trust me not to try to kill you?”
...
Vincent releases your wrist, expression still as stone until your fingers cautiously unfasten the buckles around his throat, starting at the top, keeping yourself from leaning in lest he lash out like a caught animal. You’re not dead by the time you’ve unclasped the first buckle, and by the second, you flinch at a blink, pulling your hands away completely.
He tilts his head the tiniest bit. His gaze flickers elsewhere.
Keep going, something in the back of your mind tentatively translates for him. The next leather strap is smoother to tug. The two after that even more so. Once the only thing keeping the cape on is its own weight slung over his shoulders, you realise that if you want it gone, you’re going to have to get closer.
Then, Vincent sits up. Just a little. Closing a perfectly calculated portion of distance to straighten himself just enough. Either he’s more eager than his disposition lets on, or it’s a guard; keeping himself in as few vulnerable positions as possible, keeping you from having higher ground. You’re not complaining.
Pushing the heavy fabric back and off his shoulders, you can’t help but notice the warmth that had soaked into it from his body heat. Funny — you’d always expected him to be cold to the touch. The cape crumples in a heavy heap, and you’re quick to pull out of his space, sitting back on your haunches to consider your next move.
He’s less broad without the silhouette of cloth draped over his armour. Even now, with those pauldrons still strapped to his shoulders, its easier to tell how wiry he is beneath. There’s more continuity to his body like this; his long legs and the waist smaller than your own make far more sense. Vincent is toned in the way most Turks you’ve come across are: no excess bulk. Just enough calisthenic muscle curated for the particular job of getting in and out of places as quickly as possible.
A twitch catches your eye, and Vincent suddenly finds it bearable to look at you again when your gaze is drawn down to the taut fabric in his lap. Trapped between his body and all those layers bandaged tight around him, his interest announces itself.
Okay, maybe the others had been onto something. Still, the biological response of a man with a functioning penis who hasn’t used it in over 20 years isn’t enough for you to just dive in. You can feel how cautiously he’s gauging your reaction. You can feel your own desire warming your gut.
You don’t want to just fuck him and dip. You want him to enjoy it. You want to know what it’s like to enjoy him.
Looking back up, your gaze meets his, and Vincent seems to suffer a minuscule flinch of his own. There’s a tightening of the cloth of your skirt and a metallic scrape of his armoured claws rubbing against themselves.
In the most minute sense, he’s holding onto you.
You steel your resolve, confident that you probably aren’t going to die for this. “Your pace.”
He stares for a moment longer, before his eyes close. Slow blinking like a cat offering its trust. Then, he nods.
Determined, you creep down the length of him, and his chest silently expands, contracting only when you’re settled on your knees between his legs.
“So,” You mutter, glancing at your newest obstacle, “three belts.”
Vincent’s head dips a little, and a thin, amused smile tugs at his mouth before he’s correcting it. Ah — so that’s what he’s doing when he’s got his cape to conceal it for him.
Getting to work, you’re far quicker at unfastening this set of buckles, saliva gathering beneath your tongue as you get closer and closer to unwrapping such a prize. Vincent’s whole body stiffens when you unzip his fly, and without the tension to pin it down, his cock strains against the briefs beneath, almost spilling out like it’s a matter of urgency.
You tug the band, shimmying it and those stifling pants down his hips just enough to get a look at a soot black tangle of pubic hair. A little more, and his cock is springing free.
His gaze is fixed on your face, and had it been five minutes prior, you’d have felt more trepidation. Now, you’re happy to ignore his scrutiny for the sake of sating your curiosity. His cock is just as pale and translucent as the rest of him. Thin webs of blue and purple blood vessels wrap around him like spider veins on eyelids. Peeking out from beneath his foreskin, the head of him shares the same mildly bluish tinge as his mouth. A dull shine tells of a wetness that had been swiped away by the fabric of his briefs. What a waste of pre-cum.
“You don’t want to do this, do you.”
It takes a second for you to process what just came out of his mouth. Was that a question? It sounded like a statement. An already defeated fact that he seemed to need to declare, just in case you’d forgotten — as if reminding you would snap you out of having dropped to your knees with the sole intention of having his penis in your throat.
You meet his gaze with a scowl of your own, making it clear how unwelcome such a remark was. His expression almost looks guilty. Like he’s regretting this before its even started.
Slipping your hand between your legs, your fingers dip into your underwear, keeping your expression as steady as possible despite the bloom of pleasure that comes with the feeling of your cunt being touched intuitively as you gather up the slick between your fingers. Vincent’s Adam’s apple bobs at the display, and when you withdraw your glistening hand, he finally emits an audible breath. His cock twitches as you close in on it, offering a drop of pre-cum as if it were trying to make amends for its owners foolishness.
“Yeah. Not one bit.” You say, before closing the distance, wrapping your drenched fingers around his shaft and spreading your own wetness over his skin. “Are you gonna get over yourself?”
Vincent’s lashes flutter. For a moment, his eyes close altogether, rolling back until he seizes control over himself with a hiss. Just barely, you can make out the thin punctuation of your name on his breath. His fingers grip whatever they can by his sides rather than shoving you away, so you’ll take that as a sign.
“Your pace.” You remind him, a little more gently.
A little more gently, he nods, croaking, “Understood.”
You lean in, feeling the heat of him in the air, just short of your mouth. The scent of musk that beckons you forth and that shining pearl of pre-cum that begs to be tasted-
“Too fast.”
Vincent’s hand — not armoured, but gloved, holds you at bay by your shoulder before your tongue can make contact, and something petulant stirs in you. Foiled by your own rules.
You lean back, removing the risk of your mouth, pulling back his foreskin so you can at least carry on with your initial task of lubing him up. The man shivers as your hand slowly glides up and down his shaft, but he doesn’t move to stop you. This is doable. The hand that had pushed your shoulder back now holds onto your shirt as an anchor point.
His lips move, mouthing the words before he ventures to speak them. “Little…little more…”
As you ignore a nagging pang in your gut reminding you of your own need, you reflect on how this is probably the most constructive communication you’ve ever had with Vincent. You pick up speed just a little, watching almost longingly as pre-cum oozes over the back of your thumb. It’s not fair — but it has been decades for him, after all. You can’t expect to eat your cake and have it too.
“Vincent.” You murmur, a wave of embarrassment crashing over you at how thick your voice sounds. Your free hand tugs at his briefs again, exposing his sack. “I can ease you into it.”
The man’s eyes widen as he registers your intention. You can see the denial readying before his gaze locks to yours, and he stops short.
Man, how desperate must you look that even Vincent Valentine takes pity on you?
“Just don’t—“ He stifles a hitch in his breath. “Don’t stroke it then.”
That’s a compromise you can get around, and you don’t waste a moment, only keeping hold of his cock to keep it out of the way as you lean in. Your brain fogs with something awfully primal at the scent of him, salivating as the flat of your tongue swipes languidly up the seam of his balls. You feel his thighs tremble, and in your periphery his head snaps to the side, concealing his face as best he can behind his mess of hair.
You keep on with the casual licking, letting yourself grow intoxicated with the taste of his skin and sweat until the trembling subsides. You try to venture further with it, just about to pull one into your mouth before Vincent is stopping you again with a grunt, fingers bunching in your shirt. So, its back to licking, until you build enough of his confidence to start smoothing your lips along the base of his shaft.
Your name slips out in another grunt, and Vincent’s hips roll ever so slightly up.
In retrospect, you get ahead of yourself. Gliding the flat of your tongue up the underside of his shaft until the salty taste of his pre-cum hits your taste buds, sending sparks through your nervous system. The walls of your cunt flex needily around nothing, and the haze of your clouded thoughts deafens you to the urgency on his voice when he snarls your name this time.
You’re not caught up until after you’ve tasted the first rope of cum that spurts over your tongue. You’d be eagerly drinking the rest down were it not for Vincent’s gloved hand in your hair, wrenching you off of him just in time for a second ribbon to paint your lips and chin. The rest, he spills into his own hand, and its only when he’s too distracted to conceal it that you catch sight of his expression.
He looks phenomenal. Caught between riding out overwhelming bliss and trying to will it into halting altogether.
Then he looks mortified.
Then he looks angry.
Wasted cum pools on the ground in front of your knees, and you sober yourself up, wiping at his spend around your mouth and giving it one last little taste before you have to subject yourself to him glowering down at you.
“Get up.” He orders, and for a moment you fear you’ve gone too far.
You do as you’re told, legs stiff and sore from being folded beneath you, gravel marks on your knees. You’ve really gone and ruined it, you think, until you catch the twitch of Vincent’s cock. Still as hard as had been when you’d started.
His fingers, gloved and clawed, tug and toy with the hem of your skirt. His amber eyes glow beneath his fringe, expression otherwise unseen while he inspects the fabric.
“This looks valuable.” Vincent mentions, rubbing the fabric between his fingertips. “That’s too bad.”
“Wha-“ Your question cuts into a yelp when Vincent yanks you unceremoniously toward him. You arms fly forward as you stumble to break your fall, catching one hand on the ground and the other on his arm.
The moment you’re within his grasp, Vincent is manoeuvring both of you, guiding you to straddle his hips while he finds a more comfortable position. No longer all too fussed over you having higher ground anymore.
Once you’ve found your bearings, your desire catches up to you. Rather than scrambling to keep yourself upright, you’re acutely aware of how close your aching cunt is to his cock. Vincent’s attentions seem captivated by them same situation, gaze trained on the inches of skirt that brush his lower stomach, only just blocking what he wants to see from view. The armour on his hip digs into the meat of your thigh while his hands have disappeared beneath your skirt. One palms your thigh, your ass, your hip, while metallic claws toy with the band of your underwear. At first, his exploration of you is fervent. Incensed.
Then, he slows.
Then, he stops completely, still staring at where your bodies are very nearly joined.
You study his face for some indication of his thoughts, and there’s that guilt again. Yet again tortured over something that hasn’t even occurred.
“Hey.” You murmur, leaning down just a little, trying to capture his attention. “Do you need a moment?”
He needs several, apparently. Vincent is quiet for a good while before he finds his words.
“Are you— do you—“ He mutters. “…I don’t want you to get…-“
That’s what has him so bothered?
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Implant.” You nod. “No vacancy."
There’s real, genuine relief on his face hearing your words. You get not wanting kids; that’s why you’re on birth control in the first place, but he must really mustn’t stand them from that reaction. A moment later, Vincent is undoing the clasps of his gauntlet, and the moment his gloves are off, his hands are back on your thighs, shoving your skirt up to your hips so he can admire how soaked through your underwear are. Already, there’s a thread of cloudy pre-cum connecting the tip of his cock to his lower stomach, and you think you might die if he doesn’t put it in you.
A shiver runs through you when Vincent passes an experimental swipe of his thumb over your clothed cunt, and the sound you fail to hold back has his gaze snapping up to meet yours.
“...You want this.”
He still doesn’t believe it, even now.
“I’d even take you with the cape at this point.” You whine, swatting at him after he gives a thoughtful hum and reaches for the thing. “Vincent, for god’s sake—“
It’s your urgency that does him in.
Vincent yanks your underwear to the side, fixated on your cunt. His free hand angles his cock blindly into position, and when the tip catches your entrance, his grip is back on your hips.
He looks up at you, then. “Your pace.”
You’d like to think you’d be a bit more calculated about it, but at this point you’re acting on instinct. As soon as he gives you the green light, you’re bracing yourself against him, burying your face against his collar and sinking your hips down, taking him inch by inch. The stretch of him filling you is divine after having gone this long, and you’d be near mindless if it weren’t for the shuddering rumble in Vincent’s chest keeping at least some of your focus on his enjoyment.
The man lets himself lay back with a lost look, giving you all the real estate you need to take him all the way in, and when he bottoms out, you sit up and still yourself for a minute. Simply indulging in the ache of being so full of him.
Vincent lets out a hum beneath you that sounds suspiciously close to amusement. “At least I have an excuse.”
“You sure have a lot of smart things to say once you’ve blown a load in someone’s face.”
That shuts him up right quick. He almost looks sulky as he pushes your skirt back up, framing the view of his cock snugly sheathed inside you. “Move.” He says quietly, then even more quietly: “Please.”
Fuck, how can you refuse that?
You’re too wet to feel much friction as you raise up and sink back down on him. The angle of him, however, has you tightening around him already. Every tentative drag of the head of his cock against a particular collection of nerves spurs you into the next roll of your hips, and the next.
“V-Vincent—“
His knuckles blanch at the sound of his name slipping from your mouth, fingers still clutching your skirt. His brow knits in concentration and he pants out a breath he’d been holding. “Tight…” He hisses through gritted teeth. “Feels so…warm inside—“
“Yeah? You like it?” You breath, making a doomed attempt at acting like you’ve got an ounce of control.
It makes no difference to him. He’s no better off. The nod he offers is fervent, shaky. “Touch yourself.” He growls, hips snapping up to chase your movements, using his leverage to hit that one spot a little harder. “Want to—see you.”
Your bare fingers graze his own as you reach past, jolting a little at the contact. Something about it feels more intimate, shy even. Pleasure swells in the wake of your fingers intuitively navigating exactly the kind of touches you like. The pads of your fingers rubbing your clit, fueling the heat in your core, hurtled further along by the near-devastated look on Vincent’s face as he watches you get yourself off on him.
For a split-second, you teeter on asking if he’s okay. He looks as if he’s about to burst into tears, but when his mouth falls open, a ragged, appreciative sound tears out of his throat. He doesn’t stop. His movements are are from practiced. Barely intuitive to the point that you’re questioning just how experienced he was prior to the hibernation. The man puts his all into complimenting what you're doing to yourself.
His noises, his determination throw you back into that mindless state, your insides clenching around his cock, spurred on by your fingers picking up their pace and the little jerky snaps of his hips and the growing volume of his hollow panting until finally, you can’t take anymore. You brace your free hand on his chest, sobbing pitifully as your orgasm ripples through you, dragged out by your own rapturous movements and Vincent holding your hips fast to his own. Shoving himself as deep as he can so as to feel the entirety of your cunt quivering and clamping down around him.
As soon as you’re out of the thick of it, Vincent is pulling you down with a desperate little snarl, burying his forehead against your shoulder. One arm coils around your waist, keeping you pinned against him while the other clumsily snakes up through your shirt to cup one of your tits. He barely lasts 10 more seconds before he’s doubling into you, holding on for dear life as his cock throbs and pulses, warming you from the inside. You shudder, limp in his arms, that primal part of you utterly satisfied knowing you’re full of his cum.
Vincent finally slackens, and for a while, the two of you remain still. Basking in the afterglow.
When you eventually stir, his arm slips heavily from your waist, and you push yourself up a smidge to check in.
“You doing okay—?”
Vincent is fine. So fine it seems that he’s fallen completely asleep, snoozing soundly on the ground, his spent cock beginning to soften within you.
You blink down at him, caught between a sense of awkwardness now that you’re back in a fit state of mind, and pleased with yourself over the fruits of your labour.
As pleasant as it feels to remain, you think better of sticking around, carefully peeling yourself away from the man. There’s an attempt to make him as modest as possible, tucking him back into his pants and reaching for his cape. Once he’s covered, you take your leave, making the wobbly walk of shame back to the inn where a hot shower and a pile of clothes that aren’t covered in semen await you.
The following morning, you join the rest of Avalanche as they congregate in the kitchen, taking far more advantage of the complimentary breakfast than excusable for an activist group.
Cloud and the others have brought in everyone’s commission requests for the day. Simple errands for a simple town, paying just enough to keep you all from starving once you’re ready to move on to the next settlement. After you’ve fought Yuffie hard enough to call dibs on a job, there’s a nudge at your shoulder.
Tifa catches your attention, motioning her head in the direction of Vincent, who is heavily scrutinising a calendar on the wall. Despite still being a little achey from the night prior, you don’t give anything away, shooting her a questioning look. When mouthing ‘Talk to him’ earns her naught but a snort, the woman rolls her eyes.
“Morning, Vincent.” Tifa offers the man from across the room.
“…So it is.”
There are several double takes at his acknowledgment of the woman’s existence. A further glance is thrown your way from Tifa before she simply smiles at the back of his head, processing the development and knowing better than to make a fuss.
You’ll get getting an earful about it later, you’re certain.
“You’ve been looking at that calendar a while.” She mentions
Vincent pauses, inclining his head vaguely in her direction, never meeting her eye.
“October 31st. How far away is it?”
“Uhh, few weeks out.” Cid answers first with a one-shouldered shrug. He snorts to himself, following with a muttered: “Worried you won’t find a costume in time?”
The man stews in contemplative silence for a moment, before turning on his heel with a metallic scrape. “That won’t do…”
“The hell are you talkin’ about?”
Vincent offers no response. With naught but a huff and a solemn shake of his head, he’s leaving the room the same way he entered, muttering a “Can’t wait that long—“ to himself.
The rest of you are left to blink at the door once it closes.
Cait Sith is the first to pipe up, trading a look with the rest of the room. “Who’d’ve thought he was a festive fella…”