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⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆Moonlight and Ruin

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Rating: NSFW 18+

Tags: cunnilingus f!recieving fingering public sex

Pairing: Vincent Valentine x Reader

Summary: After another month of pining and coming to terms with the fact that he will always be the one to hurt you, Vincent decides to slip a note under your pillow and escape in the night. He would get his revenge alone and then close himself off from the world as he originally planned. You find him twisting the ideas around in his mind as if he wants you to catch him. Read these for context as it's a part of a miny series: Where Desire Slumbers, A Dawn's Resolve, Eclipsed affections.

Notes: A little messy, but I wanted to give you a ramble I've had for a while about the first sexual experience between Vincent and our beloved indulgent reader. I'm not sure if I wrote him correctly, and I know I flipped through the povs back and forth. If you want a music recommendation, I listened to Cherry by Lana Del Ray and Cry by Cigarettes After Sex while writing this. Thank you for all your support!

re: edit there were so many typos and rushed sentences with no punctuation so I rewrote practically everything. I had my friend proof read it this time ;w; i've spent another 12 hours on this, nothing has changed just sentences are broken up better and not stacked like giant texts of the bible since someone said it was hard to read that way for them. Sorry about that!

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The night stretches vast and endless above, its stars pulsing in quiet rhythm—dancing without ever moving. A crisp autumn breeze stirs your hair, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the distant hush of a sleeping town. Your bare feet patter against the cobblestone, each step pressing into the rough, cool stone, a silent reminder that you could turn back and slip beneath your cold sheets and pretend this restlessness never stirred you.

But you don’t.

You don’t know why you thought you’d find him here, beneath the waning moon, in the hush of a world on the edge of dreaming. The streetlamps flicker, their glow dimming to a somber amber, no longer fighting the darkness. You had rushed from the inn the moment you woke, a strange unease settling deep in your bones, as if something was slipping through your fingers, something you weren’t meant to miss.

The note in your hand is a crumpled mess; creased, smoothed out, then tortured all over again beneath restless fingers. Frustration coils in your chest, your thoughts seesawing between the hollow comfort of ignorance and the sharp bite of truth. You grit your teeth, biting your tongue so hard that the taste of copper lingers on your lips.

The ink, scrawled in a hand too familiar, cuts deeper than the jagged cracks of the cement beneath you. No matter how many times you crush the paper in your grip, the words refuse to disappear.

This is where I belong. Forget me.

Your teeth clench, tension locking your jaw as your eyes sting, heavy with unfallen tears. As you walk toward the back of the inn where you and the party stayed, his shadow appears before his form fully emerges beneath the moon’s glow.

He sits on the fountain steps, head tilted back, staring at the stars.

Cool grass cushions your bare feet, each blade brushing against your skin, gentle but insistent, as if urging you forward. You already know he heard you long before you rounded the corner. By the time you step into view, his gaze is already on you. His eyes tighten slightly, not quite surprised, but in recognition.

Your tongue felt heavy, thick with words you weren’t sure how to say. After everything that had passed between you, the silence felt heavier than ever.

You had built something with him. It was something quiet, something unspoken. Nights spent on watch together beneath these very stars had fostered a closeness that needed no words. Your conversations were held in glances, intimate, in the way his shoulder would shift just slightly, inviting you to rest against him. A slow blink of his eyes was permission to inch closer, to let the space between you shrink.

You had thought, maybe, you were growing close. Maybe, you understood him in ways others didn’t.

Vincent was like a cat in some ways, distant yet watchful, his presence steady but reserved. Yet when he let you in, he did so completely. It was in his gaze, the way it softened with vulnerability at times when he looked at you, the quiet warmth that lived there despite his guarded nature. And in those moments, when his walls lowered just enough for you to see inside, you found it hard to breathe.

The thought of these moments slipping away was unraveling your patience, dissolving the restraint you had clung to for so long. How many times had you wanted to pull him down to you, his sharp features inches from yours—clumsily, perhaps, but with a longing that would speak for itself in the hurried whispers of your lips? How often had you imagined holding him beneath the warmth of the sun, grasping his hand mid-mission as you wandered through deserts, forests, towns…?

He was everything you wanted, and you had laid it before him, clear as water. He may have been the one who locked himself away for thirty years, but you were the one left parched, thirsting for even the gentlest reminder of his touch. Your pulse had never forgotten. It still beat with the memory of that evening on the beach, the way he had held you close—closer than he ever had before, closer than he ever had since. He hadn't touched you that way again, but he never truly pushed you away either.

Yet you knew.

There was something he wouldn’t tell you, something heavy, something awful that kept him trapped in his silence. It lingered in his distance, in the way he lost himself in thought. And though he never said a word, his gaze always betrayed him—longing for something, for someone he couldn’t find in you.

You remember the first time you caught him fiddling with the brooch. A simple piece—white gold wrapped delicately around a worn moonstone, dulled by time and wear. His clawed fingers turned it over absently, tracing the edges as if smoothing away the years. It looked fragile in his grip, yet something about the way he held it told you it wasn’t.

Without thinking, you motioned for him to follow. He raised an eyebrow at you, his expression unreadable but clearly questioning your intent. What business did you have leading him toward the storage closet? The realization of what it must have looked like struck you immediately, heat creeping up your neck as you fumbled with the door and yanked him inside by the edge of his cloak.

If he had wanted to resist, he could have. He was immeasurably stronger than you, yet he let you maneuver him without so much as a word. That alone made your stomach twist, warmth pooling somewhere in your chest.

"Vin, light, please." Your voice was steady, but in the darkness, you were grateful he couldn’t see the way your eyes traced his silhouette.

You couldn’t make out much, but the broad curve of his hips as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other was etched into your memory.

A quiet hum of acknowledgment rumbled from him before he reached for the dangling cord, tugging it down with an effortless flick of his wrist. A dim yellow glow flickered to life, painting the small space in soft, wavering light. Shadows stretched along the walls, wrapping around the two of you like something almost tangible.

You held out your hand expectantly.

Vincent hesitated for a fraction of a second before wordlessly dropping the brooch into your palm. His crimson eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place—mild curiosity, perhaps, or maybe something softer. He watched in silence as you rummaged through a nearby box, fingers brushing past cold metal and glass vials until you found what you were looking for. You’d spent enough nights helping Cid polish rusted parts that you could find the right solutions in the dark.

With a quiet exhale, you pushed a few boxes aside, clearing a space just big enough for the two of you to sit. The closet was small, too small, and yet Vincent settled across from you without a word.

Your legs brushed first—just the lightest graze of your foot against his leather-clad calf. He didn’t move away. His other knee bent, resting just beside yours, framing you in a way that made your breath hitch.

Still, neither of you spoke.

Instead, Vincent watched, gaze intent, as your pale fingers soaked the cloth in the strong-smelling liquid. It was an unspoken challenge—one you knew he would intervene in the moment he thought you were being careless. His silent scrutiny was its own form of protection, his way of being present without interfering.

You gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll be gentle, promise."

His brows furrowed slightly. He didn’t understand—of course he didn’t.

With an exasperated sigh, you reached forward and took his hand, carefully wrapping his gloved pinky around yours. His fingers twitched slightly at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. Then, pressing your thumbs together, you held the lock.

"This is a promise, locked, okay?" You grinned at him. "Vincent, if you didn’t look so young, I’d swear you were sixty-eight."

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, a sound deep, low, and soft. A quiet, half-chuckle, barely there but unmistakable. The warmth of it settled deep in your ribs, spreading through your chest like firelight on cold hands.

The two of you stayed like that for the rest of the evening, tucked away in the maintenance closet, breaths nearly mingling in the close air. You worked the polish over the brooch until your fingers ached, the dull gold brightening beneath your touch. It would never be perfect—the scratches were too deep, the years too long—but when you held it up to the light, the stone gleamed once more.

That was when you noticed it.

A faint engraving on the back, previously hidden beneath the tarnish. Your eyes traced the delicate etching, lips parting before you even realized you were speaking.

"Lucrecia Crescent."

The name slipped past your lips in a whisper, barely more than breath.

Across from you, Vincent inhaled sharply.

You looked up just in time to catch the shift in his expression. His face didn’t change much, but you could see it in his eyes—the flicker of something raw, something fragile, before he carefully schooled his features once more. He reached forward, fingers steady but slow, and plucked the brooch from your hands.

Without a word, he tucked it back beneath his garments, hiding it away.

His gaze met yours, and for the first time that night, you saw something there. Uncertainty. Worry. Maybe even fear.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. "I won’t ask."

Vincent’s eyes flickered, searching your face. Whatever he found there, it must have eased him, because his shoulders relaxed just slightly.

"Thank you."

It felt like he was thanking you for more than just your silence.

When you finally stood to leave, you nearly tripped over the boxes you had pushed aside, your foot catching on something behind you. Vincent’s hands found your hips, steadying you before you could collide with his chest. The heat of his touch, even through the fabric, sent a shiver up your spine.

Your face burned.

Without another word, you stumbled out of the closet and down the hall, the sound of Vincent’s measured steps following close behind. The faint click of his boots against the floor was the only proof that any of it had happened at all.

The cool night air pulled you from your thoughts, but the embers of your anger only burned brighter when you noticed his hands fiddling with the same brooch. His fingers ghosted over the edges, as if testing the worn metal, as if weighing its significance all over again.

Your grip tightened around the paper in your palm, the crumpled note that had shattered the fragile quiet between you. He must have heard the rustle, because his shoulders rose with a deep, weary sigh.

You took a step closer. Then another.

Your emotions, always uncontainable, spilled over as your eyes blurred with tears. You had never been good at swallowing them back, not like he was. You felt everything too much, too fast, too completely. It overwhelmed you, made you ache in ways you didn’t know how to temper.

"Why?"

The word trembled from your lips, barely holding its shape. Your fingers clenched around the note like it was your last tether to him, like if you let it go, he’d disappear entirely.

Vincent’s expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way his gaze softened, a flicker of something regretful. He hadn’t wanted you to find the note so soon. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to leave it at all. He watched you, eyes catching the tear-streaked path down your cheek, but he didn’t move from where he stood.

"I'll always hurt you. There's no life to be had with me."

His voice carried over the space between you, rough and quiet, like he had already convinced himself of the truth in those words.

You could see it now, the things he wouldn’t say aloud. He would never give you children, maybe he was incapable of it, maybe he simply wouldn’t try. He didn’t have the heart to offer you a peaceful life, not the kind you deserved. He wasn’t going to settle down in some quiet town, wasn’t going to live in a house with a white picket fence.

He wasn't allowed.

The atonement was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. The blood, the fight, the ache, it was the only thing that stopped his mind from spiraling into a cacophony of cruel voices.

Your chest heaved as your grip on the note loosened. It fell, fluttering to the grass.

"And you get to make that choice on your own?"

Your voice cracked, but it didn’t break. The fury burning in your chest held it together.

"What about what I want?"

Vincent stiffened at the force of your words, his crimson gaze flickering with something new. It wasn't just sorrow, but surprise. He had expected your grief, your resignation, maybe even your regret. He hadn’t expected your fire, the way your anger crackled in the air between you.

You took another step forward, closing the distance. Heat radiated off your skin, a stark contrast to his own cold resolve.

Vincent barely had time to process it before you were towering over him, for once. He had to tip his head back slightly as you climbed the stairs above him, your form framed against the dim glow of the streetlamps.

His breath caught just slightly.

Your legs were bare, skin kissed by the soft golden light, and though he knew this wasn’t the time, his gaze betrayed him. It always did.

His eyes traced the line of your figure before snapping back to your face, catching the sharp rise and fall of your chest. The frustration rolling off you was palpable, and yet—

You were stunning.

You had always been stunning.

And that made all of this so much harder.

"Don't," he said, voice low, a warning that carried more weight than anger. The sound reverberated through him, steady but frayed at the edges.

But you didn’t stop.

"No, you don’t!" Your voice wavered as you scrubbed at your eyes, hands trembling against your cheeks. "I don’t care if you leave sometimes… but you can’t leave forever. Don’t go where I can’t follow."

Your breath came quick and uneven as you searched his face, hoping—pleading—to find even a small fracture in his cold resolve.

For a moment, something flickered in his gaze. A hesitation, barely there.

Then, as if retreating into himself, Vincent lowered his eyes to the brooch in his hand. His fingers brushed over it again and again, tracing the engraving as if memorizing something he had long since committed to heart. It was a habit, a ritual, one he repeated so often that you wondered if he even realized he was doing it.

"Precious things always wilt in my grasp," he murmured. "You're no different."

The words carried the weight of inevitability, as if he had already mourned you before you were even gone. As if he believed time itself would erode whatever it was you shared, leaving nothing but another memory to haunt him.

You swallowed hard. "That’s not true."

But he didn’t answer.

"I meant what I said. Forget about me." His voice was quieter now, but the certainty in it stung worse than if he had shouted. He glanced at you once, almost like he was bracing for the impact of his own words. Then his gaze broke away, darting to the ground, the fountain, anywhere but you.

Before you could move, before you could reach for him, Vincent stood. His movements were fluid, practiced, pushing you aside without effort but without force.

Then, without ceremony, he tossed the brooch into the fountain.

The sound of it hitting the water was small but sharp, sending ripples across the surface. The splash jolted through you, your breath catching as though the cold had touched your skin instead.

Vincent turned before the last ripple had even faded.

Without looking back, he stepped down from the stone ledge, cloak sweeping behind him as he descended onto solid ground. His walk was smooth, almost too composed, but there was something about the way his coat billowed behind him that felt final.

He was heading toward the treeline.

The woods would be an inconvenient pass, dense and uneven. But that was the point. In your state—bare legs, thin clothing—you wouldn’t be able to follow.

Vincent knew if he turned, if he saw the tear-streaked devastation on your face, his resolve might crack. His jaw tightened as he forced himself forward, steps slow but unwavering.

"Vincent Valentine, you absolute… i-idiot!"

Your voice rang out behind him, raw and trembling, cutting through the night like a blade. His stride faltered. The rustling of fabric followed, and instinctively, he turned his head—expecting to see you running after him, desperate for one final plea.

But what he saw instead made his breath catch.

You stood beneath the moonlight, lifting your shirt over your head, your hair catching in the neckline before you yanked it free. Then, with swift, determined fingers, you hooked into the waist of your shorts and pushed them down. Vincent's chest seized.

His gaze dragged over you before he could stop himself, taking in the sight of your bare legs, the way your linen chemise clung to your form. It was shorter than he imagined- shorter than in the fantasies he tried to convince himself weren't that indulgent.

His throat tightened, but the moment your teary eyes pierced into him, his gaze snapped up. You wiped at your face, your expression hardened, then turned away.

Without another word, you stepped into the fountain.

Vincent remained frozen, his mind struggling to catch up with your actions. You didn’t hesitate. You slipped beneath the water's surface, vanishing in an instant.

His stomach dropped.

His breath quickened as he strode forward, steps quick and heavy, his chest rising and falling harder than before. But just as he neared the edge, you emerged, breaking the surface in a rush of air and droplets.

The moment stilled and he would keep it in his memory until the day he drew one last taste of air.

You hoisted yourself up onto the stone steps, water cascading down your body in gleaming rivulets. Vincent stopped in his tracks. He could barely breathe.

You were soaked through.

Your white chemise clung obscenely to your skin, transparent where it lay flush against you. Your heaving chest, your rose-tipped nipples peeking through damp fabric, the water trailing over the delicate lines of your ribs, your stomach, pooling down the curve of your thighs—

Exquisite.

Vincent couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. His hunger hit him like a sudden storm, curling in his gut, thick and heavy, so tangible it ached. It pulsed in his throat, in his hands, in the places he had forced himself to ignore for too long.

Because hell, how long had he denied this?

How many nights had he stood under cold running water, his palm wrapped around himself, teeth gritted, your face filling the spaces in his mind? How many times had he swallowed down the need, convinced himself that this desire was something he could control?

But now, standing before you like this, seeing the heat in your eyes, the way you clutched the brooch against your chest—

He was starving.

And you were divine.

Your nipples, so often imagined in his mind, now stood in stark reality beneath his gaze, peeking shyly through the damp, clinging linen. His breath caught, his chest rising too fast, too sharp.

Your face was flushed, burning beneath the weight of his stare. Your arm moved instinctively to shield yourself, but even then, you lifted your chin in defiance. As if daring him to look. As if testing his restraint.

He could feel it, the slow, inexorable crumble of the walls he had spent decades fortifying. Self-restraint be damned. He had spent too long denying himself, denying you.

If you wanted to use him, then let it be so. His body, this body that had felt too much pain, too much weight, too many scars of the past was yours if you wished to take it. He had been a fool to pretend otherwise, a coward for running from the inevitable.

Selfish. Greedy. Unworthy.

He would let himself be all of those things for you even if it tore open old wounds.

He feared how willing he was how, if you asked it, he would pluck the moon from the sky and place it in your hands. If you whispered for vengeance, he would spill blood at your feet. If you asked for a crown, he would slay angels to bring you their feathers.

If anyone dared lay a hand on you in malice, he would tear out their throat with his teeth. He would only stop if you commanded it. Almost akin to ordering a hound.

The last time he had felt this, he had lost everything. He had watched the woman he loved die, had let it happen. He had told himself, never again. He didn’t deserve to feel this way again. And yet, here you were, undoing him with kindness.

A slow, creeping, aching torture that seeped into his very marrow, turning him starved and desperate. It was scary how you could undo him so easily with your words, your temper, your body.

As if entranced, Vincent moved.

He climbed the steps, slow and deliberate, his crimson eyes locked onto yours. When he reached you, his hand lifted, fingers curling firmly but gently around your wrist.

You tensed, your breath hitching as he pulled your arm away from your chest, no longer letting you hide. But he didn’t just look—he sheltered you with the bulk of his body blocking the cool night air from touching your skin.

Your cheeks flushed deeper, a small, startled sound escaping you. A protest? A plea?

Vincent brought your wrist to his mouth, his lips brushing against the damp skin, soft and reverent. The heat of his breath sent a shiver through you, the contrast between warmth and the cool air almost dizzying.

He kissed his way down the delicate line of your arm, slow and thorough, as if apologizing for every unspoken word, every wound he had left on your heart.

Your breath stilled as he lingered at your wrist. His tongue flicked out, warm and teasing, tasting the beads of water clinging to your skin.

And in that moment, as he devoured you with his eyes, you realized,

You would let him get away with anything.

If only he kept looking at you like that, like you were his.

Only his.

"You can't just leave her b-behind," you stammered, your voice unsteady, both from nerves and the biting chill that Vincent's cloak could only shield so much. "You can leave me behind, but don't... don't leave her when she's so important to you." The last words stuck in your throat, thick with something unnamed.

A tear slipped down your cheek as your gaze dropped to his chest. You couldn’t meet his eyes anymore, couldn’t let him see the jealousy, the insecurity gnawing at you. You knew—this woman, the one his jewelry belonged to, he must have adored her. You had spent so many nights watching him stroke the space to the left of his heart, fingers brushing over the hidden keepsake, as if reassuring himself that it was still there.

You wanted to be the one who grounded him. You wanted to pull him from the tides of self-inflicted guilt, to anchor him here, with you. But if it was her memory that kept him whole, even in the smallest way, who were you to compare?

Even as your thoughts tangled, Vincent pressed forward, his steps deliberate, urging you back. The cold kiss of water met your skin before you realized it, your feet sinking into the fountain, the surface rippling up to your hips as he followed. He didn’t stop until your back met the cool stone of the sculpture, the carved woman standing behind you, her vase endlessly pouring water in the opposite direction, as if turning away from the two of you.

The lily pads and algae drifted apart around your bodies, disturbed by movement, a quiet acknowledgment of change.

A soft click echoed through the air. Then a splash.

Vincent's gauntlet hit the water, sinking beneath the surface, ripples stretching outward.

"She's a ghost," he murmured, his voice like velvet unraveling. There was no hesitation, no retreat—just him sinking to his knees before you, his hands settling at your hips, fingers warm against your skin.

Your breath caught.

"But—"

"You'll ruin me." His voice was raw, breaking at the edges, his hand tightening in the fabric of your soaked chemise. "Fuck—"clearly lost in how close you were, disregarding your concern of his past unrequited love.

It was the first time you had heard him swear. The way the word left his lips, a rasp dripping with want, sent a shiver down your spine. He was unraveling because of you. His fingers tangled in the wet fabric at your thighs, gripping it like he needed something to cling to, like you were the only thing holding him in place.

Your heart pounded, legs trembling as his hands traced over the pale expanse of your skin, slow, reverent. He knelt there, worshipping you with his touch, his mouth hovering just above your navel, the heat of his breath making your skin prickle.

You clutched the brooch so tightly that the metal bit into your palm.

"Stay," you whispered, pleaded, demanded, prayed. Your fingers tangled into his hair, gripping, pulling, needing.

Something in him fractured.

Vincent shrugged off his cloak in a single movement, tossing it over the fountain’s edge. The moonlight traced along the sharp lines of his shoulders, his chest narrowing into the water’s depths, his throat exposed to you. His lips parted slightly, his breath uneven. He was yours to observe, yours to claim.

And he let you.

All thoughts of leaving seemed to dissolve from his mind, because his grip on your waist tightened, his arms drawing you to him as he buried his face against your stomach. Your hands fisted in his hair as his lips pressed against the soaked fabric, mouth feverish, hungry. His teeth scraped against the linen, tugging, tasting. Desperate.

"Vincent—" you whined, but your hands still pulled him closer, fingers twisting in his hair as his gloved hands continued their slow exploration of your legs.

Anyone could step outside. The back garden only hid so much. But the thought of it—the risk—only made your pulse race faster.

Vincent pulled away from tracing the soft planes of your stomach, his breath warm against your skin. "If that's what you want… I won't try again."

"Promise," you whispered, though even you weren’t sure if you meant it.

His hand came up to yours, gently prying the brooch from your fingers and setting it onto the lip of the fountain’s edge. Then he used his teeth to tug off his glove, revealing the pale skin beneath, almost translucent barely luminescent under the moons light, veins faintly visible beneath the surface.

When he interlaced his bare fingers with yours, slowly and intentionally.

"I promise," he murmured. His crimson gaze flicked up to yours, then back down to where your hands fit together. His grip tightened at your hip, his voice rough with need. "I need you… need to worship you. But if you don’t want this—any of it—I’ll stop."

The certainty in his voice eased the tension in your body, but the heat in his eyes left you trembling, your arousal slick between your thighs, mixing with the water.

You nodded, breathless, then gave him the words too. "I won’t tell you to stop."

Vincent exhaled, something like relief slipping past his lips as his grip shifted. Your fingers tangled deeper into his raven hair, steadying you.

"We’ll see," he murmured, his breath ghosting over the inside of your thigh. His lips found purchase just above your knee, his bare hand sliding along your calf, lifting it from the water, resting it over his shoulder to expose you where he needed you. You were already soaked from water, but there was a lingering dark path along your lavender panties that made his throat tighten. Your toes barely grazed his back, and as he sank lower, his mouth following the path of his hands.

You shivered, sinking further into him, his hands trembling over your form, into this

Your stomach dropped. He was insatiable.

Vincent’s slender fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down with deliberate ease even reaching behind his head to pull it down over your foot. Dusky lavender, he had complimented the color on you once before when you wore a similar sweater.

He wasn’t a man of many words, but his mouth was far from inexperienced. He knew exactly where to graze his teeth, where to savor the tremble in your breath. The ends of his fingers coaxed your hips to relax, guiding you toward the warmth of his breath. Every exhale that ghosted against your skin was followed by lips and tongue feverishly tasting your body.

When he finally settled between your thighs, his gaze flicked up, inky lashes framing eyes that burned into you.

That look alone could ruin you. You realized in this moment you would never deny him and he would never deny you.

You surrendered completely, already pleading.

"Vincent… please… hah… no teasing."

Your neediness didn’t go unnoticed. His mouth descended, tongue sliding through your folds, savoring the taste of you with an approving hum. He licked into you languidly, as if he had been starving for you, ready to drown in your release.

His fingers dug into your hips, sure to leave bruises, anchoring you to him. You didn’t want him to let up. Your hips rocked into his mouth, your leg bouncing against his shoulder, toes curling every time he sucked your swollen clit into the heat of his mouth before letting it go with a soft pop.

The contrast of the cool water against his feverish tongue sent shocks through your core. Your release was already building—too fast, too much.

You weren’t a virgin, far from it. You had been with men who promised, I’ll make it up to you next time, as they left you aching, unfulfilled. You had never asked for this before. You hadn’t thought a man would want it, would yearn so badly for a taste of you.

But here, beneath the vast expanse of stars, you understood pleasure. And the man giving it to you would never leave you wanting.

His tongue circled your entrance, your name tumbling from your lips in gasps. His fingers massaged your thighs, slow, teasing. He was bringing you back out of the throws of your mind, into the moment with him. You wanted them inside, needed him to fill you as you were clenching around nothing, empty.

"Vin… I… I need it…" You whimpered, grinding into his chin, shameless in your desperation.

He groaned against your skin. "Anything. Tell me."

His voice was heavy, thick with need. He had dreamed of hearing you like this of you begging for him. He shuddered when your fingers tugged at his hair again, his scalp stinging, but he loved it.

"Your fingers…" you murmured, shyly. So cute.

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk playing there before he dipped his head back down, teasing your entrance with his tongue as his fingers traced over your slick folds. He wasn’t in a rush, he wanted to savor the way your body responded to him maybe commit it to memory for when he was alone with his thoughts.

When he finally sank a single finger inside, your world tilted. The stars above seemed closer, or maybe it was just the way he was pulling you apart. He worked you open slowly, despite your eager pleas for more. Another digit slipped in, curling, pressing into that spot that made your whole body jolt. He was so deliberate with the scissoring motion inside, brushing against your walls so well. You'd thank whoever got him into working with guns, because fuck was that trigger finger absolutely wrecking you at this moment.

His lips latched onto your clit again, tongue circling so thoroughly, so expertly that your slick coated his hand, your thigh trembling on one side of his head.

Your breaths grew heavier, muscles clenching around his fingers. Your mouth parted, curses spilling freely as you tried to muffle your cries behind your wrist. You had waited months for this—for him to touch you like this—and now you were falling apart too fast.

Vincent groaned at the sound of your pleasure, the need in your voice. He needed more of it, more of you. It took everything in him not to let you remove his belts with that look in your eyes, as if you were already fucking him in your mind.

"Bite me," you gasped. "Please, please—ah—" You requested so insistently as you caught a glimpse of those sharp teeth hiding behind his perfect lips. Your hands fisted in his hair, urging him closer. Tears pricked your eyes, overwhelmed by how good he was making you feel, how completely he was consuming you.

How could he deny you?

A low growl rumbled from his chest. His mouth found your hip, lips parting wide before his teeth sank into the soft flesh above the bone. His fingers thrust deeper, curling, twisting, fucking you open as you pulsed and clenched around him. His bite was firm, not enough to break skin, but enough to make you shudder. His tongue soothed the mark after, sucking at it as if imprinting himself onto you.

You keened, pleading for more, and he obeyed.

He trailed bite after bite, leaving bruises across your hip, up your stomach, his lips pressing reverent kisses over each one. He lingered just beneath your breast, hungry and fevered, his body rising with yours as he pushed up onto his knees. You tilted your chest into him, offering yourself.

Vincent's hands trembled as they slid over your curves, cupping your breast, kneading, pinching. His mouth found the stiff peak of your nipple, pulling it taut between his lips, tongue flicking as he moaned against you.

You tasted like rainwater and coconut balm.

His fingers teased your other breast, rolling it between his leather clad hand. Each gasp, each moan, each sweet, desperate sound made his pulse pound harder, his cock straining against the soaked leather of his pants.

"I'm gonna… don't stop… so good… your mouth—mmh."

Your words were a drug. He groaned against your skin, hips jerking involuntarily with nothing to grind into. He wouldn’t touch himself, not yet, not when he had you falling apart in his hands.

He wanted this moment. He wanted to feel you come undone.

With a trail of kisses to your navel, he whispered, "Let go for me."

His fingers plunged deeper, fucking into you at the rhythm of your pulse, coaxing you higher, higher—until you shattered.

Your climax crashed over you, your hips rocking erratically as his name tore from your throat. Your trembling hands muffled your cries, teeth biting into your wrist to keep yourself from screaming.

Vincent didn’t stop—wouldn’t stop—until your body was completely spent, your slick coating his fingers, dripping into the water. Only then did he slow, guiding you down, letting you ride out your release on his hand. His lips pressed one last kiss against your arousal, letting his tongue taste his reward with a moan. He lapped you up, stroking a broad stripe of his tongue across your folds. You tasted absolutely delicious, his favorite kind of bitter and sweet.

Gently he lowered your leg letting you settle against him. A dull ache formed between your hips, but the way Vincent touched you now which was so soft, so sweet, made it feel like nothing at all. He kissed up your stomach, up your ribs, up the bruising havoc he had left behind. A part of him was satisfied, but the rational part of him was disappointed in his lack of self restraint. Your hands slipped from his hair, fingers framing his face as he lifted himself to meet your gaze. His chin and mouth were glistening from your slick, like you marked him too. His dark crimson eyes burning with a lot of different emotions. Fear, lust, longing, relief, shame- but most of all-

Devoted. Utterly, irrevocably devoted to you.

"Thank you," You whispered, hoping he would understand you meant for more than bringing you to the pearly gates of heaven itself.

Your fingers slid beneath his jaw, brushing the tip of his ear as you cupped his face. Your breath hitched as you watched him lick your arousal from his lips, from his fingers, methodical and unbothered by shyness. His flushed face, his lidded gaze, he was wrecked, but he still looked at you like he wanted more.

That gave you the in you needed. You leaned in, and so did he, your lips meeting in a slow, tender kiss. You guided the kiss, parting and pressing your lips together again, tasting the salt and musk of yourself on his tongue as you licked inside his mouth. He let you explore, his hands settling at your lower back, thumbs rubbing slow circles into your muscles as you sighed into him. He was so tall compared to you even on his knees and it sent a thrill down your spine. His hands could splay easily around your waist, hips, back. You felt coveted.

His lips were everything you had imagined—soft, warm, chapped in places but perfect between your teeth. When his own scraped against your tongue, a new spark ignited in your veins, rekindling your excitement. You pushed impossibly closer, hardened nipples grazing the leather of his chest, hips pressing against his, his erection prominent beneath the layers of clothing and belts.

You wanted to drop to your knees, to worship him too. But his hands held you firm. He wasn’t letting you move an inch.

You didn’t know who pulled away first for breath, only that as he rose to his feet, you clung to him, a sudden fear creeping in, a fear that he would forget your newfound promise.

But instead, Vincent knocked your legs out from under you with his forearm, catching you effortlessly against his chest. Your arms tightened around his shoulders, the water sloshing at his knees as he carried you toward the edge of the fountain.

"I didn’t give you anything," you murmured, your pout betraying your worry. You didn’t want this to be one-sided. You didn’t want to use him.

He barely paused as he stepped out of the water, carrying you with ease. "It’s fine," he murmured. "You’ve given enough."

There was a hesitation, barely a flicker, before his lips pressed softly to your head. You felt him inhale deeply before straightening again, adjusting you in his hold as he reached out, slinging his wet cloak over his shoulder.

The brooch lay on the stone’s edge, caught between his fingers. For a moment, he looked at it, as if debating whether to toss it back into the water—or keep it.

You answered the question in his eyes with a soft smile. Your hand moved to his, fingers curling over his where they held the brooch, and you clenched his fingers around it.

It was enough.

He could remember his past love. Remember who he was. You would never ask him to give that up. It made him the man you desired right now. You knew, in some way, that you could accept this ghost of his past. And you wouldn’t let a memory stop you from your pursuit of his heart.

As he carried you back toward the inn, you asked again, just needing to hear it one more time.

"You’ll stay… right?"

Vincent’s voice was velvet, rich in your ears. "I’ll stay."

In the stretching silence save for the sound of his walk and wet leather, you decided to say what you needed to while you still had a strum of bravado in you.

"I like you," you blurted out, chest tightening the moment the words left your mouth.

Vincent’s lips quirked into that charming, maddening half-smile.

"Oh?" His skin flushed at your admission, but instead of answering right away, he brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, an affectionate, unhurried gesture. He didn’t know if he was ready to name the feeling in his chest, but he could accept yours. Slowly if you would put up with it.

"You make it very clear—"

Your mouth fell open. He was teasing you.

Heat flared across your face, even down your neck. Had he noticed? The way you grumbled every time other women giggled at the mere sight of him? The way your eyes lingered when he walked past, hips swaying just enough to drive you crazy?

"I-I do not…" you tried to refute, but he only laughed. A soft, low sound that sent warmth straight through you.

"Mm." He pretended to agree, setting you down gently as you reached the front entrance of the inn. You were chilled to the bone, your body still sticky, exhaustion settling in from the night’s activities. Vincent looked entirely too smug as you wobbled slightly on your feet, and before you could recover, he pushed the door open.

The pub was quiet, lit only by a single candle on the bar. No one awake except for Cid, hunched over with a bottle in hand.

You immediately wanted to run past in embarrassment, pressing closer to Vincent. How were you going to hide your practically naked form?

He sighed, fingers lacing with yours as he pulled you behind him to give you some shred of decency, already dreading Cid’s brashness. But luck wasn’t on your side. The old man turned, grinning far too wide the moment he saw you both.

"Finally put an end to your lovers’ quarrel, huh?" Cid hooted, lifting his bottle. "’Bout damn time! Tired of watchin’ you two eye-fuck each other across the damn plane."

You buried your burning face against the middle of Vincent’s back with a groan.

"And it’s bad enough with those three," he jerked a thumb toward the hallway and set of stairs, letting out a loud laugh implying that you were as bad as Cloud, Tifa, and Aerith. That trifecta was incredibly entertaining, but annoying to witness at the same time.

Vincent sighed again, long and suffering, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles in warning before pulling you past the drunkard and toward the stairs trying to cover you but it was hard without the bulk of his cloak around him. He was quite a slender man towards his waist and hips, not quite built like a soldier, but rather like a turk. All lean and sinewy for quick attacks.

"Don’t forget, these walls are real thin!" Cid hollered after you with a chortle.

Vincent didn’t stop, dragging you down the hall before the embarrassment could suffocate you. You had never been more grateful for the quiet of the upstairs corridor. Four doors lined the hallway. Yours was at the very end, and Vincent’s which you were standing in front of it now. He had never willed himself to knock on your door before. Not even when he had slipped that note beneath your pillow in the dead of night. It still annoyed him that you never locked it, who were you hoping to meet in there? Was it him?

"I’m so tired," you mumbled, nudging his door open before he could suggest otherwise. "I’ll berate that bastard tomorrow."

The door clicked shut behind the both of you, and before he could process the moment, you were stripping. His eyes tracked the movement, the flex of your muscles as you worked the soaked fabric over your head.

Heat flared low in his stomach. Hard again. Behamaut save him.

Images flickered through his mind in rapid succession, your face pressed into his pillows, your lips wrapped around him, your hands gripping his hips as he took you for the first time in languid strokes. Your tongues exploring each other, his hands guiding your hips astride him, your fingers controlling his hair as his mouth performed his prayer...

His restraint wavered, were his knees about to become familiar with every inn floor in the future? A new religion blossoming between the apex of your thighs.

You snapped him out of it with a simple, innocent question. "Do you have anything I can wear?" your arms covering across your chest.

Vincent cleared his throat, shaking off the fantasy.

"Uh." He coughed, lowering his chin slightly, an old habit from when he could hide behind his crimson cowl. Right. Clothes.

He turned away, rummaging through his drawer until he found a tight compression shirt and a pair of his usual black briefs. Tossing them in your direction, he didn’t miss the mischievous smirk playing on your lips when you motioned for him to turn around with a twirl of your finger.

He complied.

The shuffling of fabric behind him tested his patience, especially when your scent lingered in the air, still warm, still intoxicating. He just busied his hands on hanging his wet cloak up on the dresser, hopefully by tomorrow it would dry out.

Then, your hands slid around his waist.

"You should change too," you murmured, lips pressing against the damp leather of his shoulder. Vincent turned to face you, tilting your chin up.

The air between you thickened. His greedy mouth claimed yours again, unable to help himself, hands trailing down your back. The compression shirt he had given you hung low at your hips, but it was tight at your chest, the fabric stretching where your breasts filled it out. He was definitely still a man underneath all of his armor.

You gasped his name, pressing into him, and he was unraveling all over again. His self-control frayed at the edges, his hands aching to rip that shirt off you again. Or maybe you could keep it on while he-

With a low groan, he forced himself to pull away, even though it pained him to do so. He knew you were tired, didn't want to increase the intimacy ten fold in one night when he had been on the verge of disappearing entirely.

Slow down. He told himself.

"Get comfortable," he murmured, motioning toward the bed.

Then, he turned away, undoing the buttons of his vest, but keeping himself out of your sight.

Vincent grabbed a bundle of fresh clothes and slipped into the tiny washroom, barely large enough to turn around in. He pulled them on quickly, not bothering to glance at himself. He wouldn’t ruin the night by standing there, picking himself apart. He just wanted to get back to you, sink into the covers, and fall asleep.

He wouldn’t leave again. Not if it meant seeing you cry like that.

The image of you charging through the grass, his crumpled note clenched in your fist, tear-streaked and furious, nearly brought him to his knees even now. He had made you sob, shake, scream at him. He figured he’d be making it up to you for a long time.

Stepping back into the room, he hesitated, spotting you curled up on his bed, face half-buried in his pillow. Something stirred, deep and unfamiliar.

He had never had someone sleep in his arms before. Not like this.

Sure, he had fucked before. Back when the human part of him still craved warmth, still sought out pleasure in tangled blankets and breathless gasps. But even then, his thoughts had been elsewhere. His body gave, but his heart remained locked behind bars.

But tonight?

His thoughts were only of you.

You had overtaken him completely, and he knew now—it would never be anyone else.

His feet felt too heavy as he neared the bed, as if something about this was too intimate, too real. His body wasn’t used to this kind of closeness, not after years of solitude. But you were already there, already taking up space in his life in a way that terrified him.

Carefully, stiffly, he slid under the blankets, trying not to disturb you too much. He hesitated, unsure where to place himself. His body felt too big, too cold, too unnatural for this.

Then, as if sensing his awkwardness, you shifted. Pressed your back into his chest- Sought him out.

Vincent exhaled sharply. His arm moved on instinct, resting over your waist. His fingers twitched, as if debating whether to hold you tighter. Unrelenting, he thought of his own greed, but he didn’t move away. You nuzzled into his pillow with a sleepy sigh and he felt like you wormed your way into his chest with that adorable hitch in your rhythmic breathing. He'd much rather just watch you sleep, he didn't truly need slumber at all. It did nothing for him most of the time, not like it once had.

You were so warm though. Inviting him to rest his weary self with you and something about sleeping with you felt more intimate than sex or devouring you in the fountain. He had almost thrown this away. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deep, committing your scent to memory. His grip tightened slightly despite the whispers in his head.

"You’ll be the one to hurt her. You’re going to bury her when this is over."

He swallowed thickly, squeezing his eyes shut.

With your breath steady in his ears, your presence anchoring him in ways he didn’t understand quite yet, words he couldn't fathom, Vincent let sleep pull him under.

It was the deepest, peaceful rest he had known since waking from his coffin.

BONUS: [The next morning you would unfortunately find yourself mortified to have found yuffie beat you to the punch, digging your wet underwear, clothes, and Vincent's gauntlet from the fountain with a horrified look on her face. You would hide behind the corner of the inn, wanting to dig your palms into your eyes in humiliation.

"V-vincent got laid?!" She exclaimed in both horror and amusement with a bright grin stretching over her lips. She was going to tease him relentlessly for sure.

You groaned and shuffled back inside the inn without a word, passing everyone at the counter. You'd let Vincent collect his gauntlet on his own when he woke up.]

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