A collection of drabbles focused on the impossible relationships in FF7 - inspired by the song 'Wishful Beginnings' by David Bowie. If you have any suggestions or ideas - I'm all ears!
I love the idea of this couple. Rosso's the perfect opposite of Lucrecia; the perfect fit for Vincent's monstrous side.
Warning: Explicit scenes.

• Vincent / Rosso •

She laughs to insanity as he drags his gloved fingers over her flesh, skin burning, nails scraping downwards and making her shiver – oh, but he's not as bestial as they make him, this little Valentine. She'd already guessed just how much of the beast he was letting out when he sought to kill her through combat; now she wants to taunt him till it breaks loose completely. It wasn't a fair fight, was it, if one of them was still human? Of course not.
But there aren't a thousand ways to break a man's mind open just enough for the madness to take control, to seep out like a dark poison paralyzing his self-control.

She can feel the dagger-sharp metal of his fingers tearing through the red fabric of her stockings; the blue fluorescence that trickles down her perfectly shaped calves glows on his golden gauntlet as he lets his fingers trail down her bent leg; his hair tumbles in dark locks, tickling her throat as she lays beneath him, her own hands gripping his shoulders as he roughly pulls her to him, hips locked against hips.

Oh, he's giving in to his demons, alright.

"You wretched whore," he groans against her throat, "Don't think you're capable of getting away with this."

"But I already am," she laughs, "You weakling."

He backhands her with his gloved human hand, and her head whips to the side, exposing her milky white throat- red strands criss-cross her flesh like bloody scars and he bends his head, savagely biting down on the strained tendons of her neck- she yelps in delight and he draws back only to take her head in his hands and bite down on her lower lip. It's not gentle, it's not tender, and she absolutely loves it. She can taste blood and it's getting to her head – her hands are travelling down the folds of his black shirt and finding their way under it – he almost flinches as her fingers scathe his icy skin, but her leather-clad legs encircle him, wrap around him and there's no escape, neither from her or from his own mind. She's a crimson sin of a woman and he can't help himself; the wild desire to hurt her is mingling with every other masculine yearn he might have and he's ripping away the leather from her chest, uncovering her flawless artificial skin. He slides an arm around her ribs and kisses her, bites her, molests her – she's laughing again, laughing at his weakness, at her domination over him even though technically she's the one being mistreated… but she's sure he can't even fathom the control she's wielding on his very mind.

"Can't resist, can you," she murmurs, her deep accent giving every syllable a seductive slur. "But you disappoint me, darling - is this all the pain you can afford me?"

For all response he wrenches her arms up above her head, one hand holding hers down, fingers mingling with hers – his metallic fingers come down and she can't see what he's doing, but the next moment a searing heat pierces her to the core and he's moving against her, and she can hardly breath for the tantalizing pleasure and the bubbling urge to laugh a victorious laugh; he leans over her, kisses her to swallow her breath, sucking the air from her lungs, and she gasps when he breaks away, nipping at his lips in return… He wants to kill her, he wants to torture her – she's so fucking beautiful beneath him, a superb aberration clad in leather and crimson furs – he doesn't want to desire her so much but there's nothing he can do, and he's deluding himself that his demons are to blame. Maybe they are; or maybe it's his forgotten part of masculinity coming to claim dominion over this strange half-life of his.

It's her fault anyway. He stares down at her with heavy-lidded eyes, takes in her arched torso, the shadows between her ribs, the expression of utter satisfaction on her face; he won't have it. He wants her to hurt, he wants her to scream and claw at him instead of laying back and enjoying it.

He takes his gun from its holster and presses the barrel under chin, and she smiles; his hips come to kiss hers in a languid movement and he's sinking in a bliss of sensation; the gun barrel slides up over her jaw, up her cheek as he bends over her, closing his eyes, fingers tightening on the trigger. And then there's a burning humidity on his lips as she kisses him- the gun is pressing into her temple but she doesn't care, she has him; she has him completely.

"Show me your demons, Valentine," she purrs against his lips, "And we'll see if they can compete with mine."

There is no longer any thought; no longer any words- they abandon themselves to pure, primal sensation, the gun barrel having strayed to her neck though he's only holding onto it loosely now, his mind having imploded, his awareness drowned in the silken feel of her skin against his, of her violence matching his own. A perfect match for utter mutual destruction.

•

When he next awakes she's standing a little way off, elegant double-blade clutched in one hand, the trademark trail of crimson fur dropping from the small of her back, hiding her legs and pooling on the floor around her feet. He can hardly feel the tips of his limbs though he can certainly feel the cold bitter wind against the uncovered skin of his chest, ripped shirt gaping around it.

She's got her back to him, ruffled red mane brushing against her shoulders; she turns her head to the side as she hears him move.

"I'm looking forward to resuming our duel, Vincent Valentine," she says.

And then he's whipping his gun in an absurd gesture to recover his dignity; but the bullets he fires soar through empty air, resounding with the bitter laughter of the unattainable crimson lady as she leaps away, keeping her temporary victory to herself.

He's not so far from being a man, after all.

•