Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 7
Shambles
"It had begun with an argument, which was hardly unusual, considering it was Valentine." Pre-Jenova Project Turk fic.
?Blocked
It began with an argument, which was hardly unusual, considering it was Valentine. Veld had him in his office, yelling at him, and he didn't really feel like Valentine was taking him seriously, and really the kid had scared him half to death and he needed to put some fear into the cocky bastard, so he backed him against the wall and had his hands pinned. Valentine had quit struggling for a change, and all Veld could hear despite his own yelling was the hoarse harsh breaths Valentine was taking, and why was he breathing like that? Maybe he had scared the boy; and then the young Turk leaned in and kissed him. It was like bleeding, like falling, like knowing that the shot wasn't fatal and you'd have to fire again even before the bullet had hit the target. It required a response, and Veld found himself kissing back, thick fingers snarling in Valentine's floppy hair, because Veld was a Turk and this was just another kind of battle.
Hands tore at clothes and they staggered together, colliding with Veld's desk, and Valentine had the presence of mind to shove the papers off the desk before Veld planted him on it ass-first.
Vincent pushed him back for a second, letting him go, but before Veld had processed the action enough to complain, the other man had pulled him close again, wrapping his legs around Veld's waist and arching up.
Veld slid into him as if he was made for him, muffling a cry in Valentine's hair. It was like his old friend death, waiting for him as he took the man, dancing just beyond reach and out of sight and Veld thrust harder, trying to catch up, and Valentine sank his teeth into his shoulder and Veld saw sparks and darkness closed in for just a breath.
Hot stickiness against his chest pushed the darkness back, and he was staring at Valentine who for once in his goddamned life wasn't smirking.
Veld became aware of where they were, and to a lesser extent what he had done, but he was more aware of the fact that now that the shouting had stopped, someone would be coming to see if he'd actually killed Valentine this time. Probably Letty and her shadow.
He stepped back and pulled his pants up. Tom foolery, willy nilly, all over his own desk, and he at least didn't have the excuse of shots. Not that he needed an excuse for his behavior. Valentine had - had - had kissed him, and he looked up to see the other man brushing his hair back and hopping down off the desk to put his pants back on. Veld realized that the boy had finger-shaped imprints all over his lover back and hips, bright red and stark against the pale skin. He also became slowly aware that his shoulder hurt like fire as they sorted out their discarded shirts, and he reached up and discovered that Valentine had left a deep imprint of every tooth in his mouth. He didn't think the skin was broken, though.
Valentine was awkward. Veld realized that he could keep his mouth shut and it would probably never be spoken of until it happened again. And it would; once a line had been crossed like that, there was no uncrossing it.
Letty cracked the door open and peered in, looked at them for a breath, then shut it again. "He's not dead," he heard her say, and then Reeve's footsteps retreating but not hers. It was just like her to decide to guard the door so they wouldn't be disturbed. He couldn't take it as an implicit acceptance, because she might be waiting to yell at him - an interesting role reversal - but she wouldn't want her boss embarrassed by outsiders regardless. Scarlet would keep her mouth shut like grim death, as well; some of his other kids were perhaps less discreet.
Valentine was dressing silently, and he could feel the gap between them growing in the silence, and he was half-tempted just to leave it because Vincent on his desk was unprofessional and hypocritical, two things Veld loathed, and when had he started thinking of the kid by his first name? Surely in the last thirty seconds, and that meant, well. He worried about Vincent; he worried about all the kids, but it was only Valentine - last names, last names were professional - only Valentine who sent him into such paroxysms of rage because the thought of not having the kid around to scream at was physically painful, like the heart attack he'd blamed on him too.
"Vincent," he growled, and he gaped at Veld, tie halfway on, fingers frozen mid-motion, "next time?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Lock the damned door." Veld picked up his own tie.
"Yes, sir!" Valentine grinned that irrepressible grin of his, and slipped out.
Veld sighed and began picking up the shambles of what had once been his organized desk. With Valenti - with Vincent - in his life, he had the feeling the activity would become a lot more familiar.
Hands tore at clothes and they staggered together, colliding with Veld's desk, and Valentine had the presence of mind to shove the papers off the desk before Veld planted him on it ass-first.
Vincent pushed him back for a second, letting him go, but before Veld had processed the action enough to complain, the other man had pulled him close again, wrapping his legs around Veld's waist and arching up.
Veld slid into him as if he was made for him, muffling a cry in Valentine's hair. It was like his old friend death, waiting for him as he took the man, dancing just beyond reach and out of sight and Veld thrust harder, trying to catch up, and Valentine sank his teeth into his shoulder and Veld saw sparks and darkness closed in for just a breath.
Hot stickiness against his chest pushed the darkness back, and he was staring at Valentine who for once in his goddamned life wasn't smirking.
Veld became aware of where they were, and to a lesser extent what he had done, but he was more aware of the fact that now that the shouting had stopped, someone would be coming to see if he'd actually killed Valentine this time. Probably Letty and her shadow.
He stepped back and pulled his pants up. Tom foolery, willy nilly, all over his own desk, and he at least didn't have the excuse of shots. Not that he needed an excuse for his behavior. Valentine had - had - had kissed him, and he looked up to see the other man brushing his hair back and hopping down off the desk to put his pants back on. Veld realized that the boy had finger-shaped imprints all over his lover back and hips, bright red and stark against the pale skin. He also became slowly aware that his shoulder hurt like fire as they sorted out their discarded shirts, and he reached up and discovered that Valentine had left a deep imprint of every tooth in his mouth. He didn't think the skin was broken, though.
Valentine was awkward. Veld realized that he could keep his mouth shut and it would probably never be spoken of until it happened again. And it would; once a line had been crossed like that, there was no uncrossing it.
Letty cracked the door open and peered in, looked at them for a breath, then shut it again. "He's not dead," he heard her say, and then Reeve's footsteps retreating but not hers. It was just like her to decide to guard the door so they wouldn't be disturbed. He couldn't take it as an implicit acceptance, because she might be waiting to yell at him - an interesting role reversal - but she wouldn't want her boss embarrassed by outsiders regardless. Scarlet would keep her mouth shut like grim death, as well; some of his other kids were perhaps less discreet.
Valentine was dressing silently, and he could feel the gap between them growing in the silence, and he was half-tempted just to leave it because Vincent on his desk was unprofessional and hypocritical, two things Veld loathed, and when had he started thinking of the kid by his first name? Surely in the last thirty seconds, and that meant, well. He worried about Vincent; he worried about all the kids, but it was only Valentine - last names, last names were professional - only Valentine who sent him into such paroxysms of rage because the thought of not having the kid around to scream at was physically painful, like the heart attack he'd blamed on him too.
"Vincent," he growled, and he gaped at Veld, tie halfway on, fingers frozen mid-motion, "next time?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Lock the damned door." Veld picked up his own tie.
"Yes, sir!" Valentine grinned that irrepressible grin of his, and slipped out.
Veld sighed and began picking up the shambles of what had once been his organized desk. With Valenti - with Vincent - in his life, he had the feeling the activity would become a lot more familiar.
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