n.otes: Because sex is fun. So is lawbreaking. So is reckless driving, criminal negligence, and, um, breaking ever common sense law known to man.
a.dditional notes:I'm giong to hell. You're all coming with me.
t.ertiary notes: This is probably too explicit for a PG-13 rating, but I don't -think- so. So, uh, if it's too explicit, I'll, um, change the rating. Or something. Because the porn is necessary to the plot (I LOVE being able to say that...)
Story II: Blown Straight to Hell
Her legs wrap tightly around him.
Nibelheim is far behind them. They're in Rocket Town now, hiding from the world. Well, in the forest outside Rocket Town.
Not too far away, the Vincent Black Shadow sits, the kickstand extended.
"Tell me you love me, you murderous bastard," Yuffie hisses.
"I love you," he tells her, groaning as she slides along his length.
Her fingernails dig in wherever they can find purchase in his flesh. The sensation of the punctures in his skin immediately closing up is an odd one.
And then he tenses, all the muscles in his body contracting. She can feel it. He's about to orgasm.
Orgasm is the worst part.
She feels so small against him. He pulls her close, that inhuman strength crushing her breasts against him. His grip on her threatens to crack her spine. The thrusts of his hips could so easily tear her flesh inside.
She looks up, into his eyes. If she can make eye contact... But no, his pupils have dilated and the capillaries in his eyes are doing that burst-heal thing that gives him the impression of having red eyeballs. Chaos is watching her, Chaos is touching her. It is Chaos's mouth, not Vincent's, that nips at her earlobe.
She hates it when Vincent orgasms. Not only is there the threat of being maimed or possibly killed, Chaos is always that much closer to her. And fun and interesting as Vincent is, Chaos is not what you would call a perk. Chaos is a vile demon, and he has made Vincent kill people, and he wants to paint the world in red and black, in blood and ash. And every time Vincent loses control of his body, Chaos hovers just underneath the surface.
Worse than the knowledge of what Chaos is, though, is the knowledge of what Chaos's presence does to her. Feelings rise within her, the urge to lash out at everything she knows. Suddenly being a petty criminal and losing her virginity to a foreigner and wreaking havoc wherever she goes isn't enough. She wants to do something big. Something bold. These feelings of wild freedom and being chained down frighten her.
And then Vincent has finished, without maiming her. He never actually does, but the threat of it always lingers just under the surface of their lovemaking, like a drowned corpse whose legs have entangled in weeds beneath the surface of a lake. Chaos retreats back into Vincent's mind, and the hypnotic strobelight effect in Vincent's eyes ends.
"Is it wrong?" She asks.
"I think we've surpassed simple right and wrong. God knows I left them behind a long time ago."
When I first started worshipping Chaos, she knows he wanted to add.
"I don't mean the sex, Vinnie. I meant... Well, no offense, but I feel... Free when I'm watching you struggle with that thing."
Vincent shakes his head. "That's how anyone who came into non-fatal contact with him would feel. You have to remember that Chaos is rebellion."
He tries to slide out of her, but her hands grip his shoulders and she moves with him.
Various muscles along his body twitch and spasm.
"Yuffie," his voice hisses from between his teeth, "you have no idea how that feels."
She knows the sex has left him extremely sensitive, but too exhausted to do much more than sleep, or at best lie in her lap and attempt to carry on a conversation (he's been getting better at the whole conversing thing, too, she notes). It drives him crazy when she teases him in his exhaustion.
He insists, his voice an angry murmur.
She releases him.
Yuffie watches as he settles into a pile of dead leaves, his eyes already sinking closed. He takes a light nap. He doesn't really need to, she knows. Chaos is probably already wiping the fatigue toxins from his body.
When his eyes drift open, she says: "Let's go for a ride."
He says: ". . ."
She glares.
"If you want to," he adds.
They dress in silence. At length, she pulls on her ridiculously bright yellow sneakers and he runs a rag over the shining steel-copper alloy that coats the toes of his boots. He polishes that metal obsessively--- she would know, she watches him do it all the time.
He pulls on the red trench coat, slides the Outsider into its holster. His right hand extends, fingers spasming in the fingerless leather gloves he never removes, not even during sex.
Yuffie moves, sparrow-quick, to sit upon the Black Shadow.
Vincent joins her. She turns around, wrapping her arms and legs around him in her favourite position. He reaches around her, easily starting the Black Shadow.
The bike thunders and rumbles, purring like some demonic cat. Its headlights seem to cast a red tint to everything in the darkness. She would expect nothing else from a motorcycle kept functioning with dark magic.
Her yellow scarf snaps in the wind like some vengeful whip. It cracks Vincent across the nose, obscuring his vision.
It makes her want to laugh until she is sick and shaking. The momentarily confused expression on his face, the brief watering of his eyes, the panic that only lasts for a second when he realizes he can't see.
Vincent's right hand reaches out and pulls its knot loose while his left hand tightens on the handlebars. He casts the scarf behind them. It flies away.
In the impotent moonlight, the now-knotted and spiralling fabric looks almost like a grey chain, falling away.
Vincent's trench coat fans out behind him. His long black hair streams to mingle with the vivid red. The effect, she knows from experience, is a cross between Dracula and a conquering prince.
"Go faster," she murmurs into his jaw. She traces that strong, handsome line with her tongue.
He shouldn't be able to hear her, but he does lots of things he shouldn't be able to do.
His hand clenches on the throttle. His wrist spasms. The motorcycle speeds up.
A quick glance backwards confirms her suspicions. They are now going ninety miles an hour.
"Not fast enough. Have a little fun."
Her hands slide into the waistband of his pants. He makes a sound; she isn't sure quite what it is. She doesn't have his superhuman hearing.
She sees the muscles in his arm twitch. She looks back again, just in time to see his knuckles turn white.
His wrist jerks again.
Ninety seven.
They are now not only breaking the speed limit, they are breaking the laws of common sense, as well. This would be reckless driving, if any police were to stop them. They would be paste, if he were to crash.
He won't, though. Chaos will protect his host.
She moans. "Faster. Have some fun, Vincent! You make roadkill look like the women in Gold Saucer who take off their shirts for plastic bead necklaces."
She can feel his erection through the thick denim of his jeans. She wriggles closer into his lap, repeating her request.
Vincent's mouth tightens into a thin line, but the motorcycle speeds up.
One hundred fifteen.
She cries out to the wind as the final fetter on her soul, the instinct of self preservation, comes undone.
And oh! what a joy life is when you don't care if you live or die, so long as you can go out with a hell of a bang.