"Chrome" and the general overall concept of "Chrome" is completely copyright Orin Drake 1999-2003. Quite frankly, I could completely get around all of this copyright stuff but just so everyone knows what's going on, I'll say it's based on Final Fantasy 7 from our pal Squaresoft.
Background: This particular piece of... whatever, came from listening to the song "Chrome" by Recoil. Let's just say the vision was stunning the first time I heard it. I wrote this piece in about twenty minutes, and (possibly a first) edited it within hours of that. As for the warnings, well, avoid this fic if you dislike yaoi/bisexuality (although really there's very little) and/or the act of masturbation. Oh yeah, and there's lots of cursing in this, as with all of my other stuff. Whether or not this actually fits into my "The Sins of Two Fathers" universe... well, why the hell not, I guess. Might make things a little more interesting, right?

Chrome
by Orin Drake

He sat down heavily at the back corner of the bar without a word. Without so much as eye contact with anyone. He was not happy, to put things lightly. He was not... anything. He was downright dangerous right now; more so than usual.
Instead of a regular "slightly less than fresh" waitress coming to take his order with a smile on her face and a pleasant giggle when she wandered away, the bartender himself came over. He was a stout man, not having worked in the place long by the look of his clean fingernails. Regardless, he knew a Turk suit when he saw one. And he made sure to come over personally, right away.
Smart decision. The Turk thought without looking over. Had it been a happy bar girl... she'd not have been happy around him for long.
"What'll you have?" the bartender asked in a low voice.
Had the finely dressed man actually looked up at him, he'd have seen the horrific fear across his face. He might have even laughed and gone back to his apartment fulfilled and cheery, had things been different. But this time was unlike anything else or any other time in his life. Without even looking at the guy he announced sharply, "Scotch. The bottle and a glass."
He certainly must have sounded impatient. It really only seemed to take a small number of seconds for his order to be placed in front of him. Bottle, glass, no ice. That's how he liked it. The startled bartender retreated without a word or a check.
He poured himself a shot and swallowed it all right away. That familiar burn... it had been a while. Quite a long while. Not that he didn't drink some of the finer wines and such every now and again (either after stealing it or killing the owner of it), but he had no such intention tonight. Tonight in particular he planned to get sloshed out of his mind and probably find himself in prison the next morning after beating the shit out of a bunch of people. It didn't matter. This was bad. This needed to be quelled, right now. This was a matter of the heart.
He chuckled darkly and under his breath at that thought, pouring himself another. A matter of the heart. His mind spat bitterly. Fucking heart. Fucking world. Fucking... fucking slut.
Is that what Lucretia really was? Just a dumb little slut like all the rest?
No. Of course she wasn't. And that's why it hurt so fucking much to lose her. She was so... different. Smart and pretty, kind but confident. So sweet, so dear. She'd been so good to him, so gentle and understanding. And he'd lost her. He had just, lost her.
And to a useless fuck like Hojo. He took another shot and flung the glass against the nearest wall. No one made a sound or a motion when it shattered; no one was left to see it. Even the bartender himself had taken off, surrendering the building and all of his wares. Even a new bartender knew. Mr. Valentine and a bottle were never, ever to be taken lightly.
Fuck the glass. He'd drink from the bottle like an unfit commoner. Like what Shin-Ra told him he was. Like Hojo had said he was, not in those words, but in that little smirk. That satisfied smirk after Lucretia had told him--
Another deep, burning swallow. He knew better than anyone that drowning your sorrows didn't work. It didn't do anything but make you go around and act like a violent moron until you got yourself killed, and all the better for it. But damn it was nice to drown this shit out just a few hours. Great to let a warm feeling of calm envelop you, artificial or otherwise. It was great right up until you were leaning over a bathtub or a toilet or whatever the fuck you had to hold on to as you attempted to purge yourself "for the last time".
He pulled the standard issue Turk pistol from the shoulder holster, clicked the safety off and laid it carefully beside the bottle on the table. It's not like anyone wouldn't expect him to go shoot that son of a bitch. Shoot him several times in non-lethal places and make it hurt. Make the mother fucker beg. Maybe take out his little whore, too.
That very thought made him cringe. He didn't even care for himself when he'd been drinking. Not that it mattered.
He took another couple of swigs, almost choking on the sheer size of them, and experimentally put the pistol to his temple. So this is what it feels like, huh? Softly, slowly, he pulled the hammer back with an expert thumb. Edge of death. Edge of being. How much of a coward would he be, in the end? How right would he prove that asshole?
Something shimmered in the corner of his vision. Drunk or not, he was still a master of destruction; he aimed directly for the moving object and shot. At that very instant, it was like time had ceased to move regularly, the vision before him lasting straight into the nonexistent time of the world itself...
He could see the bullet move in little transparent waves, the seconds ticking like hours to days to months. That image in front of him was the calm, gleaming silver of cold chrome. Flesh so white against leather so black; day and blinding night with hair of molten silver--
He sat back, stunned. Obviously someone had put something in his drink. Something making him hallucinate. Shaking his head and putting the pistol back on the table, he stared blankly at the spot he'd thought he'd just seen something incredible moving within. But there was nothing there. A bullet hole in the wall behind it, but certainly nothing there. Nothing like his vision.
It was a man, he'd thought. Wait--was it? Yes, it had to be. The body, the muscle, the facial structure... But holy fuck was it a gorgeous man. He shook his head, knowing that the alcohol really was getting to him. Maybe it had been too long since he'd been drinking. It had been so real, like the man was actually there, smirking at him knowingly. Almost like Hojo had, but... it was so different. Almost daring him to come over and shoot him, hit him, touch him--
He threw the entire bottle into the wall and through where the vision had been, the shards and splatters of scotch landing among the pieces of shot glass. That, whatever the hell it had been, was certainly a sign that he needed to stop drinking for the night. That man he'd seen, if he'd really seen anything at all, sure as hell wasn't human. Those eyes were silted and gleaming like some demon or monster. No man looked like that. None ever could. It just... it had been so... Hell, even he had been attracted to that vision. It was even more beautiful than Lucretia had been...
He stared back at the gun, laying there on the table and staring back. The barrel was still hot, smelling of gunpowder and smoke. And something else entirely, something he was absolutely certain he was imagining. Something very familiar. Hair and faint cologne, flesh and sex. The same smell when he and Lucretia--
He raised his pistol to throw against the wall as well. But this time he paused. A gun wouldn't shatter. No, it would probably fire and hit him in the foot or something stupid like that. Then he would really be chastised and taken as a fool. Instead, he calmly reinstated the safety and put it back in the holster. Stupid world, stupid gun. He almost laughed.
Sitting back and waiting for the effects of the alcohol to allow him to wander back to his apartment on the edge of the city, the image of that man would not leave his head. No matter how many thoughts of violence or women he tried to bring about to cover it up, to burn it out, that hallucination just kept coming back to him. Every time he successfully darkened the image out, it would spark and light again. What the fuck was wrong with him that he was actually picturing this guy over and over again, that he could not remove him from his mind?
But he could not deny it. He, the notorious womanizer, the finest shot of all the Turks... was getting a hard-on from an impossible drunk hallucination. In a dark, dirty, abandoned bar with glass on the fucking floor.
Abandoned. And he was drunk. He slowly glanced over at the entrance, just barely able to make out that the bartender had locked the doors on his way out. He glanced back to the spot where he'd seen that vision... and slowly pulled the zipper of his pants down. No one had to know. And even if someone found him, no one would ever figure it out. He was drunk. He'd just been heavily rejected. He was greatly feared by the general population. He could do this without questions, even from Shin-Ra.
For several minutes, he fumbled with the button, then with his underwear as his fingers refused to do exactly as he demanded. Fuck this. He decided, standing up shakily and pulling his pants down in one clumsy shove. Kicking his shoes across the room, he removed everything altogether with a little aid from the table catching him before he hit the ground. In this state of mind, the mechanics of his suit also escaped him. So, he simply tore the rest off knowing that he could sure as hell get someone else to pay for another.
Flopping back into his chair, completely open and exposed to the air around him, he sighed raggedly. Not that he was ever an exhibitionist, but things just went a hell of a lot more smoothly when he wasn't wearing anything. Settling back, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to picture that beautiful creature that had flashed in front of him and began to stroke himself.
What was it about this man that appealed to him so much? He almost had a Lucretia sense about him, in his features. He was unable to make sense anything of the sort in his drunkenness, but it didn't matter. He was already pretty fucking close to the edge with just the sight of it in his mind's eye--
He flinched, gasping, his heart racing out of his chest. He'd just let his other hand lightly rest on his thigh, but for a moment there it had almost felt like someone else's fingers. Like that other man's fingers, cold and smooth--he let himself moan aloud. He pictured it clearly, the silver haired creature kneeling in front of him without surrendering an ounce of pride; without needing to, because he wanted this, too.
The faster he stroked, the more real this vision seemed under his clouded mind. He could see this gorgeous, cold metal man kneeling, placing his hand on the Turk's thigh and wordlessly drawing his other hand around and over, licking his pale lips ever so slightly in anticipation--
He moaned again. Fuck, this was getting good. Better than any other time he'd ever jerked off in his life. Eager and so delicious it was almost painful. He imagined the man before him taking him into his mouth and swallowing--
That dark part of his mind, the one that came out with or without the help of alcohol in part thanks to his brutal training, took over. Instead of merely giving in to the euphoria this act should be granting him, the image of the other man in his head suddenly grinned and bit down; not enough to scar, but just enough to let the razor-sharp fangs draw blood.
Instead of reacting in disgust at his own disturbing vision, he cried out and threw his head back, completely losing himself. He swore he could almost feel the lips, the heat of breath, the trickle of his own blood...
As his vision cleared and his body came back to life from what felt like an intensive coma, he noted far too calmly that that had just been the best fucking orgasm of his life, and he had been picturing a man that certainly could not exist. He came with the knowledge that this would not be the last time he'd picture this man. And the inkling that this was more than just a hallucination fantasy.
Suddenly he wished he hadn't smashed that bottle against the wall.