Snakeskin (Sephiroth/Reader) (ch. 8/?)
AO3 / Pillowfort
Rating: Explicit
Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14
Tags: First Time, Reader-Insert, Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Frank Discussions of Past Rape/Abuse, Everyone is Queer, Canon-Compliant (if you squint), Pre-Crisis-Core Seph, Slow Burn, i continue to disappoint my friends and family, sephiroth is a virgin and in this essay i will, Reader is a Cis Woman, fluffy sex, Praise Kink, Gratuitous Biochemistry
Summary:
You are a young biologist, fresh out of graduate school, working in Shinra's R&D Division under Professor Hojo. You had long since given up on finding a partner and starting a family, preferring instead the company of your cell samples and your scientific instruments.
As the conflict in Wutai worsens, you strike up an unexpected friendship with a First Class SOLDIER.
(Sephiroth/Reader Slow Burn)
TW's for this chapter: We're finally making good on that E rating. Read with discretion and make sure your grandma's out bowling or something.
---
That night, you peeled the gauze off of your hand. The cut Masamune had left was, fortunately, shallow: an angry gash, like a paper-cut, across your palm. Dried blood stained the bandage. You flexed your hand and winced against the answering jolt of pain. Doing lab work with it was going to be challenging, to say the least.
Before work the next day, you grabbed gauze from the corner store and tried to wrap your hand. Sephiroth’s impeccable bandaging technique was impossible to replicate, and as the sun rose higher over the horizon, you gave up and went to work with gauze dangling from your palm.
Hammond was the first to notice. “Woah. What happened there?”
You draped your coat over the back of your chair. The office was near-empty now, sitting awkwardly in the nothing stretch between the holidays and New Year’s. “Just, uh. Cooking accident? I cut my hand real bad slicing avocados.” You mimed cutting your hand with a knife.
Hammond let out a sympathetic hiss and shook his head.
---
That night, you went in to feed the cells. 029 had died from mako exposure, but J - 180 - L - 9177 looked…different.
The cells were now thriving.
You placed the plate underneath the microscope and increased the magnification. The cells had the same strange appearance as before: irregular, clawing shapes, with multiple nuclei to a cell and that sickly gray cast. But cells now crowded the once-bare plate, pressing up against each other and against the dish, as if they were straining to get out. Even considering the time between when you had last fed them and now, this was an outrageous explosion of growth: from freezer-burned and forgotten, to climbing over themselves for space.
It was time to split the line if you wanted to keep growing them. Splitting involved making a brand-new plate using a few cells from 029-1: your current plate. It was risky enough cultivating one plate, let alone multiple. But J - 180 - L - 9177’s ravenous appetite for mako haunted you; how could you pass up the opportunity to learn what was different about these? After all, you’d be in just as much trouble with Hojo when he found the first plate versus when he found the seventeenth plate, several generations in.
You took a fraction of the J - 180 - L - 9177 cells and placed them into a brand-new Petri dish, covering them with warm liquid media. This new plate, you decided, would be labeled as 029-2. The name was just vague enough to avoid suspicion while still following a naming convention you recognized: "2nd generation of stolen cells." There was no mako currently allotted to your lab, and so you couldn’t dose them without arousing suspicion.
You grabbed a clean tube. Within it, you mixed a second portion of the thriving J - 180 - L - 9177 cells with glycerol, producing a viscous back-up culture that could be frozen in cryo until you needed to regrow them again. You placed the tiny tube in the storae tank, hidden amongst your other, older samples that no one ever touched.
The original J - 180 - L - 9177 (still in disguise as 029-1) went into the biohazard, like 029 before it.
---
On New Year’s Eve, you stayed home. Somewhere in the middle of the night, you received a single text from Sephiroth: his gloved hand holding a sparkler in the dark. You tweaked the brightness on your phone. Barely visible in the background was a bustling SOLDIER encampment. Sparklers dotted the grassy landscape like stars.
You smiled, cheeks growing hot, and typed out a reply:
>> :)
Later the next morning, Sephiroth sent another message.
>>Missing you fiercely.
You fell asleep that night wondering how it would feel to kiss him as the clock struck twelve. Like sparklers, you thought: like stars of hope against the dark.
---
It was hopeless, you thought to your reflection in the barracks elevator. No matter how gentle you tried to be with the eyeshadow, you still put too much on. You groaned as your index finger came away black with mascara. At least you chose a skirt that fit a little better this time; you felt less like an overgrown toddler and more like Sephiroth's equal.
As the elevator climbed to the 43rd floor, you thought back to the last message Sephiroth had sent you that afternoon: come hungry. That didn’t sound like someone who was apt to kick you out Saturday morning. Then again, you could never tell.
The elevator chimed quietly and opened up to that sleek white hallway. Snowflakes clumped against the window at the end. Below, Midgar twinkled in the fog. An overnight bag thumped against your left arm as you walked; even someone who hated their partner liked them to at least spend the night. Your medication rattled inside.
You didn’t understand what “come hungry” meant: was it literal (as in, come hungry for food), or was it an innuendo? Despite yourself, you felt a little sick as you knocked on 4301.
How was it possible that you could fall over yourself to come here, could even look forward to this, and still feel like you were sticking your head in a guillotine?
He won’t hurt you, you thought to yourself, over and over. He won’t hurt you.
Sephiroth opened the door in an apron, his black shirt rolled up to his sleeves. “You’re just in time,” he sighed. “I’m just about done.”
The smell of spices and cooking meat hit you all at once. Oh, come hungry, as in, I am going to feed you actual food, not my dick. You were right to skip dinner before coming up. The nervousness began to ease, as did the nausea.
Sephiroth walked into the kitchen as you were kicking off your heels. “You hungry?” he asked. Over the bar top, you could see a tall pot steaming on the stove, which he was peering into like it was a scrying pool. A strainer full of egg noodles sat on the countertop nearby. Next to the strainer sat two gleaming bowls, illustrated with a lush forest; if you squinted, you could make out a black bear peering out from the trees. The apartment was warm to the point of being uncomfortable.
“Very,” you said.
He came over to the counter. "Take your coat off. Sit. Get comfortable." He gestured to the bag on your shoulder. "What's that?"
You looked down at it and shrugged it off of you, as if you had casually forgotten it was there. "An overnight bag," and, oh damn it, your voice cracked. "Just like, some clothes? And my meds?"
You watched as the corners of Sephiroth’s lips twitched upwards in response. He was wearing jeans this time: a worn, acid-washed pair that looked a decade out of fashion. "You came prepared." There was a different kind of breathlessness to his voice this time, and it sounded suspiciously like excitement. You felt yourself smile and hid it against your shoulder until he had returned to the stove.
Whatever he was making, it smelled incredible: savory, burning hot, and perfect for a snowy night in January. You pulled yourself up onto one of the bar chairs. From here, you could watch Sephiroth over the counter as he spooned a dark red soup into each bowl. The front of the refrigerator was a mess of magnets, photographs on film, and souvenirs.
As he topped each bowl with a generous heap of noodles, he spoke again. “I’m realizing now I didn’t ask if you had any allergies. Or if you ate meat.”
You shook your head. There was nothing in front of you you couldn’t eat, and anyway, you weren’t about to turn down a home-cooked meal he had clearly slaved over. “I’m good.”
He looked up at you as he opened the fridge. “Are you sure? I can make you something different.”
The idea of Sephiroth breaking himself over again, just for your comfort, at once startled and soothed you. He looked as if he’d toss the entire meal into the trash and start over again if you said the word. “I’m sure. I’m…really excited, actually?”
“Good.” You watched as he dug in the fridge and extracted two Chocobo eggs, larger than life and speckled with blue dots.
“Don’t SOLDIERs have a meal plan they’re supposed to follow?”
“They do,” said Sephiroth carefully. He cracked one egg into each bowl, tossed the shells into the sink. “This fits my macros.” He smirked and added, “Will you tell on me?”
You shook your head, grinning.
The meal he set in front of you was some kind of stew. The Chocobo egg, runny and perfect, steamed atop a red miso broth laden with vegetables and a dark, fatty meat.
You jumped as you felt a gentle hand on your back. Sephiroth had rounded the corner from the kitchen and had put a hand between your shoulder blades to warn you. He set his own bowl in front of the seat beside you.
“I’ve still got that Junon red left,” he said. “Do you want a glass?”
“Mm-hmm.”
He touched that space between your shoulder blades again as he passed you. You felt yourself melt into the touch, chasing it even though he was already back in the kitchen, rooting around for two wine glasses. When you picked up your chopsticks and poked at your meal, the egg yolk broke and ran into the broth.
The first mouthful was perfect. You happily tucked in to your meal, only looking up long enough to thank Sephiroth for setting a fresh glass of wine in front of you. The red miso broth mixed perfectly with the strips of beef, the bean sprouts, the egg, and the bok choy. He sat next to you, looking comically small for the bar chair when your feet couldn't even touch the ground. The two of you ate in content silence for a while.
When your bowl was half-finished, you took a sip of the wine: it was just as good as you remembered.
Sephiroth nudged your bare foot with his and leaned towards you. “Did you like it?”
“I loved it.” There was enough for two meals in front of you; you felt pleasantly sated. Sephiroth had already cleaned his bowl and was now eyeing yours with a slight tinge of envy.
You pushed your bowl towards him, and he shook his head. “No,” he said. “We’ll save that for next time.”
Next time? You two hadn’t slept together, had done hardly anything together, and there was already going to be a next time? You took a gulp of wine so you could hide your expression from him.
He stood. “You’re thinking again.”
“How do you know?” you said to the countertop.
“You get very, very quiet,” he said. “Well," and he tilted his hand this way and that, "quieter than normal.” His hand appeared in your vision as he removed your bowl. “And you suddenly look exhausted.”
You rested your chin on your forearm while you twirled the wineglass against the counter. The dark red liquid danced in the light. “I’m always exhausted.”
“I want you to feel relaxed while you’re here.” The remaining soup was sealed in glass containers, which Sephiroth then placed in the fridge. “Not stressed.”
“I don’t feel stressed now.” The nausea from out in the hall had abated. Maybe Sephiroth was good with working with traumatized people; maybe he was using some high-level magic on you.
Or maybe, you thought, you just naturally relaxed around him.
He chuckled as he loaded the dishwasher. “Well, good.” He turned to face you, leaning up against the counter with a smile. You stared at his exposed forearms, the way the muscle stretched taut to accommodate his weight. “Then I’m doing my job.”
You looked away from him. There was still that bowl of clementines on the far counter, next to an espresso machine. In the corner of the kitchen was a stacked washer and dryer, both Shinra-co. branded and featuring more dials and knobs than you had ever seen in your life. In fact, everything in his kitchen was from Shinra: the fridge, the dishwasher, even the espresso machine.
You turned back to Sephiroth, who had already removed his apron and was hanging it on the wall next to the fridge. “I did it again. The, uh, the thinking? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” he said gently. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
You stared into your wine glass as he rounded the corner into the living room. He hesitated next to you.
“If I may,” Sephiroth said quietly.
When you looked up, he shifted from foot to foot and cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. He looked so shy again. How did he do that, you thought, oscillate from confident to shy and back again?
You set the glass back down on the counter and inclined your head. “You may,” you said.
“You look…” He took a deep breath, eyes roaming the length of your body. “Absolutely, astonishingly beautiful.”
Your breath hitched. “Wait, you…?” You sat up. “Are you serious?”
He gave you a withering look, the inquisitive tilt of his head asking if you had bumped yours on the way in.
“Seph.”
He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I mean it,” he said. “I wouldn’t say that if it wasn’t true.”
“I…” You blinked hard and looked down at your feet. That tender, oozing feeling was back in your belly. You smiled at the floor. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
A tense silence descended upon the two of you. You rubbed your calf with your heel and looked up. Sephiroth was studying the hallway off to his left, as if it was suddenly the most interesting place he’d ever seen.
You slid off of the bar chair. Sephiroth looked back to you.
You shuffled forward and tentatively placed a hand on his chest, at your eye level. For a while, you stood there, Sephiroth watching you as you felt his heartbeat under your palm. He seemed so patient, the look in his eyes hopeful. You felt small around him, but it was beginning to feel less like you were prey.
No: you felt small in a good way, more like a cherished object on a shelf, or like a well-loved pebble in a child’s pocket.
When you touched your forehead to his sternum, he sighed as if he had been waiting for you. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders. The two of you stood there, holding each other in comfortable silence. You pressed your cheek to his chest and closed your eyes. The soft fall of his hair brushed your back, your face, as he bent down and pressed his nose against the top of your head, breathing deeply. He smelled like the flowers he had given you.
You spoke up first, quiet like you two were in a church. “You feel nice.”
“So do you.” His voice was equally hushed.
You craned your neck to look up at him. “Would it hurt you to kiss at this angle?”
He crinkled his nose at you when he smiled. “Why? Do you have something better in mind?”
You walked your fingers across his pectorals. “We couuuld…sit down?”
Sephiroth let go of you and beckoned you to follow him with a smile. You wordlessly trailed after him, helpless to his pull, like he was one of those burning sparklers in the field on New Year’s Eve: warm and bright and inviting against the backdrop of snow falling over the city. When he sat down, you settled on the couch next to him, and before you could say anything, he teased, “This won’t hurt either of us,” and leaned down to kiss you again. It felt every bit as wonderful as the first time, just as you remembered it: he was passive, letting you surge up into the kiss and press up against him. His fingertips danced along your spine, and you shivered with pleasure.
He pulled away. There was already a cramp in your neck from the odd angle, but, you thought, better uncomfortable than sorry. When he had laid you down against the couch, you had dissociated on him. Better to keep sitting up. You brushed the hair out of his eyes, and to your amazement, he leaned his cheek against your hand, chasing the touch, like he couldn’t get enough of you.
You rubbed the side of your neck. “Can I...can I sit in your lap?”
“Please do,” he responded.
You swung your leg over his lap and straddled him. Sephiroth’s eyes flashed with glee as you settled on top of him to kiss him again. He honest-to-God moaned against your mouth, sending a hot rush of arousal through you. He seemed hesitant to move his hands past the small of your back.
“Seph,” you murmured.
“Mm?”
“You can, um.” You took a deep breath and steadied yourself. “You-y-you can try touching me.”
“On one condition.”
You scoffed. Of course there's a catch. “Alright. What is it?”
“Call me Seph again?” Sephiroth said it quietly, almost under his breath, as if he was embarrassed to ask you.
You felt a surge of protectiveness over this man, locked away in his gilded cage at the top of the world, waiting on pins and needles for the chance to touch you again. You held his face in your hands, watched his eyes flash with that boyish hope again. “Seph,” you whispered against his mouth, and he leaned up to kiss you again, fierce and hungry.
“I’ve never had a nickname,” he said when he pulled away.
You rubbed your thumbs against his cheeks. Everything about him was so soft, so unbearably good. “Do you like it?”
“I do,” he purred, and he tilted his head, leaning in towards you, seeming to say without words, please kiss me again, that question in his eyes as to whether you’d actually do it, and God, you wanted to. You indulged him and leaned down to his lips.
Finally— blessedly— his hands fell to your ass, pulling you against him. He didn’t grab or drag you, you noticed with relief; in fact, he seemed tentative, his fingers dancing up and down your back again, like he wasn’t sure where to touch first. You cupped the back of his neck and sighed into his mouth. You felt like you were going to burst into confetti.
“Is this alright?” Sephiroth murmured.
“It’s great,” you breathed. “Keep going.”
His right hand broke away and wandered curiously up your thigh, darting under the hem of your skirt. You tensed, but he didn’t go further, instead resting his palm on your leg near your hip. You gently stroked his hand and, when he didn’t move, lifted it and placed it on the small of your waist. He kneaded the soft flesh he found there, making you gasp and buck your hips. Judging by the way he kissed you harder in response, he liked how it felt, too.
You counted your limbs. Yes, you had two hands on his shoulders, and your legs were folded underneath you. You took slow inventory of yourself: your hair in his fingers now, your ass sitting firmly in his lap, your knees on the couch cushions, your heart racing in your chest.
But then he pulled away and murmured, “Show me where.”
You took a deep breath. There was a right answer and a wrong answer to this; you knew as much from other partners. “Anywhere,” you whispered. “Anywhere you’d like.”
He shook his head. “None of that. I want to know.”
You hesitated. Held this close, there was nowhere for you to hide from him, but the idea of begging for what you wanted from him was mortifying. Your voice was soft as you settled for, “I don’t know what I want.”
“You don’t know?” He shifted your weight on his lap. “That makes two of us.”
You snorted. “I—“
“You’re sorry. I know.”
You covered your face; your cheeks were burning. “You’re terrible.”
He reached up to your cheek, brushed a thumb against it. You followed his touch like a moth following the flame. “Are you shy?”
“More…embarrassed?”
He laughed and closed his eyes. His thumb passed over your cheek again: affectionate, apologetic. “So you do know, and you’re not telling me.” When he opened his eyes again, you squinted against the mako glow. “Do you think I’ll judge you?”
The joke fell out of your mouth before you could stop it. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone did.”
His face fell. He brushed his knuckles against your cheek. You moved your head out of his reach. He said, “That won’t do,” and you weren’t sure what he was referring to.
You shook your head. This conversation (the “my life is a terrible daytime soap you’d see on Channel 6 and I’m real fucked up about it” conversation) was always uncomfortable; at worst, it would sound a death knell for whatever good thing this was. No one wanted a fuck-up in their bed.
Fear welled up from deep within you. You looked down at his chest, watched it rise and fall— it was unsteady, you realized, because he was just as aroused and nervous as you were. You picked at a loose thread on his shirt.
Out of the corner of his eye, you saw his head tilt. “We could talk about it.”
“There’s a lot,” you said softly. Oh, there was the lump in your throat, right on schedule. The tears were fast approaching. “Maybe another time.”
“Would you like to stop?” His voice was gentle; you wished it wasn’t. It was somehow worse, you thought, when the other person was actually listening. You stopped picking at the thread, put your palm over his heart instead. When you didn’t respond, he traced a finger up your spine.
You cleared your throat, but the lump wouldn’t leave. “I just don’t like being asked,” you said, “what I like.”
“Okay.” He didn’t sound upset; if anything, he was still being gentle (too gentle) with you. “Why?”
“No-no one ever really wants to know.” Tears pricked at your eyes. “I th-thin-think they do it to feel, like, better about whatever comes next.”
He pressed a warm palm against your back. “I do want to know.” He sighed. “I…don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to do anything about it.”
“No,” he said. He hesitated again; when you looked up, he was looking away. He knit his brow: the expression of frustration was so naked, so childish, that you sat up straight. “I mean, I’m not sure how to touch you.”
“Like…?”
He tilted his head this way and that. The hand at your back fluttered. “I don’t have much experience with women. Or…” He flicked his hair out of his eyes. “Any experience with women.”
The shock hit you all at once. For a moment, you stared at him in silence.
A blush started from his nose and spread across his face.
“Oh my God,” you said softly. “Not at all?”
He leaned back against the couch and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Do your worst,” he sighed.
“You…?” Sephiroth wandered Gaia looking like that and had never once found a woman in his bed? The sheer number of members in the Silver Elite suggested he was not without options. To think, you had been so fearful of him rejecting you for someone prettier, more experienced, when all along he had been frightened of you. All you could do was stammer. “Seph, seriously? Never?”
He spoke to the ceiling. took a deep breath; it sounded like he had rehearsed this many times in his head, waiting for the day to tell you. “Once you best them in training enough times, everyone stops talking to you. You’re just competition after that.” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “By the time I made 1st, I became untouchable. Everyone“Fooled around a few times in training,” he said, “But only with other male recruits. Lockers, the showers, dorms. Always in secret. I never got very far.” He ’t help that I don’t look right.”
You toyed with the ends of his hair. “That’s terrible.”
“I’m well aware.” The bitterness in his tone was palpable. He added, “It doesn’t help that I don’t look right.”
Had the elevator taken you to another planet? “What do you mean you don’t look right?” You gestured at him with his free hand, feeling helpless. “You’re….you.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Come on. Don’t say that.”
He scoffed.
You busied yourself with working out a knot from his hair. The silence in the room felt heavy.
Here was a fresh slate for the both of you, an opportunity to sow something new: no bad habits for him to unlearn, no desire to force you or take what he wanted out of expectation. You let go of his hair, braced your hands against his chest. You wanted to be good for him, and not just to sate him: to give him safe harbor, the same as he had offered you.
“I’m honored to be your first,” you said.
He wouldn’t look you in the eye. That faint pink tinge hadn’t left his cheeks, so vivid against his pale skin.
You leaned down and caught his eye. He looked up at you with surprise, like he had forgotten you were there.
“It’s not hard,” you said. “I promise. I’ll help you.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips: self-deprecating, shy again. “And here I thought you’d leave.”
You grinned. His eyes lit up with delight. “I’m a good teacher.”
“I know you are.” He gently pulled your forehead down so he could kiss it. “Shall we move to the bedroom?”
This was it. Don’t, the voice in your brain pled. You won’t be able to come back from this. You won’t be able to stop him.
But that wasn’t right. He had had every opportunity to hurt you the last time you were here, and instead he had stopped what he was doing and put a blanket over you, held you while you cried, sent you flowers. He had told you something you weren't sure he told anyone before.
He’s trying to show you that he likes you, you thought. This is how he’s doing it.
So you took a deep breath, slid off of his lap, and said, “Sure.”
He stood and took your hand. You let him lead you past the couch and down a sharp left turn into that narrow hallway. The kitchen was open to you on your right; on the wall ahead of you hung a painting, showing lush, rolling fields. “The Western continent,” Sephiroth said when he followed your gaze. There was a small white door off to the right; presumably the bathroom, because Sephiroth turned left instead and led you into an enormous bedroom.
The walls of his room were a dark cream color, like coffee made with too much milk. Unlike the rest of the apartment, the floor was covered with a white, fluffy carpet that felt soft between your toes. Those same floor-to-ceiling windows from the living room made up the far wall again. Sephiroth walked over and drew curtains across it, hiding Midgar's skyline.
An old, well-loved leather armchair sat in one corner near the windows, along with a matching leather ottoman. The leather had already cracked around the chair's arms. A smaller wooden bookcase, stuffed with books, climbed the wall beside it. Sephiroth had piled yet another stack of books on a small wooden end-table, well within reach of the chair. An enormous, if shallow, closet took up the wall to your right; shuttered wooden doors had been pulled across it, hiding its contents from your view. You could see yourself, hunched over and meek, in a long mirror hung beside them.
Sephiroth’s bed dominated most of the room. It was a size you didn’t think possible to manufacture; you could’ve laid in the center, stretched all of your limbs out, and still not have touched the edges. It was neatly made, with a plain, cream-colored comforter tucked neatly into the mattress. Four fluffy pillows lined the dark wooden headboard. You looked down at the floor; there were a few books Sephiroth had hastily kicked under the bed when you walked in. Their covers peeked out from the white bedskirt. Does he not want me to see those?
You sat on the edge of the bed, facing the door. The mattress was sinfully soft. There were matching wooden bedside tables, each kitted with a single drawer, on either side of the bed. The one on your side was bare; you looked over your shoulder. Sephiroth rummaged in the opposite bedside table’s drawer. On top of it stood a few other books and an empty water glass; clearly, that was his side of the bed.
Here you were.
What were you going to say to him? What if you had another episode? You pressed your palms against the comforter. What if you were bad?
Your voice shook when you spoke up. “I just, um.”
Sephiroth looked up from his rummaging.
“I just want to warn you,” you said. You gathered the comforter in your fists. “I’m—I’m—I’m kind of a hard s-s-sell.”
“A hard sell?”
“I don’t really, um, come with partners.” The words came out all in a rush. Deep down, you knew why: you were too keyed up, too uncomfortable, too afraid to let go and show yourself to the many people who had ended up in your bed. That vulnerability would be yet another weapon used against you later. You remembered the anger and frustration in one boyfriend’s voice: You need to relax, said like an insult as he rolled off of you. You’re impossible. You smoothed out your skirt and turned away. “Like, ever. It, um, it makes people m-mad? So please don’t be upset if, um, if-if-if I don’t, like, finish.”
“Well.” He set a few items on the bedside table: a box of condoms, lubricant, a hair tie. The mattress dipped as he crawled over to you. “Can I try to get you there?”
You sat as still as possible. If you moved, you were afraid the entire room would come crashing down, falling forty-three stories to the streets, to your unheated apartment in Sector Eight, to your empty twin bed and your alarm clock startling you awake.
You whispered, "It’s really not a big deal."
“It is,” he replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “I want you to feel good. Let me try.”
The warm little flame in your belly, the one you had pushed down in the cell culture room so long ago, flared up again. You ducked your head in embarrassment when he sat cross-legged on the bed in front of you.
Sephiroth leaned down to catch your eye. “Shy again?”
“A little.”
“You can tell me to stop anytime you like.” His hand landed on your thigh. The heat of his palm was like a brand, even through your black tights. It was the best pain you’d ever felt.
“You can tell me to stop, too.” You fiddled with the hem of your blouse and looked up at him. “I want you to be comfortable.”
He was so close you could feel his words on your lips. “Shall we go slow, then?”
“Mm-hmm.”
You craned your neck upwards to kiss him again, syrupy-sweet and gentle. He broke away from you long enough to tug on your wrists, and you climbed gratefully back into his lap as if you had always belonged there. He was already hard, just from kissing you; you couldn’t suppress the small noise of disbelief you made.
When you pulled away, Sephiroth looked you up and down like he was trying to decide what to do first. “I’m going to kiss your neck now,” he said finally. “Would you like that?”
You nodded.
He leaned down and pressed a wet, warm kiss to your pulse. His mouth was clumsy, unpracticed against your skin. You relaxed as he meandered kisses down your neck, across your collarbone. He felt impossibly warm, his hair soft between your fingers.
“Good?” he whispered against the divot of your collarbone.
“Mm-hm.”
“What else?”
Your breath caught in your throat. The hesitation must have shown to him, because he prompted you again, gentler this time: “What else?”
“I want—I—“
Your breath hitched again, unable to voice what you actually wanted. This felt indulgent, somehow, like you were staring down the opportunity to eat an entire cake by yourself. Sephiroth nosed inquisitively at the juncture of your neck and shoulder.
You finally said, “I w-w-want you to…to k-kiss me again?”
“I can do that.” He resumed his clumsy kissing across your neck, up the column of your throat until he reached your face again. You caught his soft lips again, and when he kissed you back, it was hungry. Needy.
His tongue was hesitant against your bottom lip. You opened your mouth in response, and he gasped as if you had told him a secret. The sound went straight to your groin. You felt like you were floating, but in a good way: this time, your body was coming with you, tethered only to the bed by his warm hands over your shirt, the gentle rub of his cock against your tights.
You couldn’t stand the tender way he looked at you when he pulled away; you squeezed your eyes shut from shame.
“May I touch you again?” he whispered.
“Yes,” you whispered back. “Please.”
His fingers met the small of your back, where they ducked under the hem of your shirt. He traced a path up and down your lower spine again, not daring to go higher than what you’d permit.
You would permit him anything.
You wanted to sink your greedy hands into the cake and shove fistfuls into your mouth.
You wanted to gorge yourself on him, on the feeling of being wanted and cared for.
He said, "I’m here. You don’t need to ask for what you want.”
You nodded frantically. His touch made you shiver. “Okay.”
“Are you afraid?”
You answered without thinking: “Yes.”
Sephiroth’s hand stilled. “Of me? Of this?”
“This,” you squeaked, and despite yourself, you felt yourself tearing up. You could barely remember the last time someone was this gentle, this permissive. You opened your eyes.
He drew back and eyed you with concern. “It’s too much,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“It’s…” You took a shaky breath, trying to focus on his face. “I d-don’t remember the last time someone was…this nice.”
He reached out a thumb and wiped your cheek. You were crying, and you hadn’t even realized when you’d started. “You don’t need to ask for anything,” he repeated. “Are you enjoying it? Is this bad?”
You laughed and swiped a hand across your cheeks. “I’m really enjoying this.” Why did you feel like you were admitting something terrible? You looked down, found the juncture of where you had pressed yourself against him. You blushed and looked away. His walls were so plain: no artwork, no photos. There was nothing to distract you from how hot you felt just from being kissed. The last time you felt this way was…
Never.
“It’s not going away,” he murmured, bringing you back to him. His hand found the back of your neck, massaging the tension he found there. “I won’t take this from you.”
You felt so tender it hurt. “You won’t, um.” You looked up at him. “Think…?”
He tilted his head when you trailed off. “Think what?”
“I always thought I was…ugly, somehow? When I was, um. Enjoying m-m-myself?”
“Who told you that?”
Who didn’t? You held on to him so tightly that your nails dug into his back; if he noticed, he didn’t seem to mind. You willed yourself to relax, not wanting to hurt him. When you replied, your voice was soft, halting. “Just…past…partners?”
He said your name gently. “They were wrong,” he said.
You looked up at the ceiling, at the bare walls, at the books on his nightstand. “You don’t know that.”
Sephiroth leaned to one side, catching your eye. He half-laughed as he said, “Do I get to find out for myself?”
You couldn’t help but laugh, even as a few more tears escaped your eyes. You made to wipe your cheeks, but he beat you to it, wiping your tears away. You whispered, “Damn it.”
“If it helps,” and here Sephiroth’s voice became soft, hesitant, like your own, “I’m afraid, too. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
It did help. You brushed his hair out of his eyes, only for it to fall back into place. Now you know why he wore his hair long: he was remarkably expressive around you, the hesitation written plainly on his face. He was twice your size and wielded a sword you couldn’t even carry, and yet he seemed so small, innocent in his own way, a young lover trying his damndest to care for you. Suddenly, all of this didn’t seem frightening anymore.
“No one does,” you said.
“Will I hurt you?”
“I don’t think so.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, tilted his head just so as he winced. “That doesn’t reassure me.”
“Do I get to find out for myself?”
He scowled and caught your answering laugh on his lips. Your cheeks were still wet, but that little flame of desire welled back up in you as you kissed. His hands were firm on the small of your back, keeping the two of you pressed against one another. Your face hurt from smiling.
Sephiroth pulled away and pinched the side of your waist, just firm enough to make you yelp in surprise. He grinned. “Brat,” he growled under his breath, and the term of endearment made you feel dizzy.
“First-Class,” you replied.
Hir as he guided you back against the pillows. You stretched against the soft mattress. He rolled over to sit up on his edge of the bed and reached towards the nightstand. “Let’s leave work out of this,” he said over his shoulder as he picked up the hair tie, which he promptly stuck between his teeth. As he shook out his wrist and began tying his hair up.
You watched with fascination as his muscles pulled and stretched under his shirt. Soon, you thought, soon you would get to touch them. “Some people like that,” you said.
“And you?” He pulled the elastic onto his wrist and began tying his hair up.
“I think I like ‘brat,’” you said quietly, still staring at his back. Even from this short distance, you could still feel how warm he was. Or was it just you?
“Ha. Come on.” Sephiroth shook out his ponytail and leaned over you from the edge of the bed. Even now, he didn’t overwhelm you, choosing to stay on your left. From where he was, you could easily roll away from him and reach the bedroom door if you wanted to leave. The courtesy wasn’t lost on you.
He drew a slow finger down the bridge of your nose; you went cross-eyed trying to follow it. With his bangs pulled away from his face, you could count his freckles. “You’re not a brat.”
You could see his face now that he had pulled his bangs out of his eyes. You reached up and cupped his face, swiping your thumbs against his cheeks. To your wonder, he closed his eyes and leaned hard against your palms. You wanted to count every single one of his freckles, his lashes; you knew he would sit patiently as you categorized every cell, right down to the beauty mark near his upper lip.
Your voice was hushed when you finally spoke. “You’re very pretty.”
He opened his eyes, scrunched his nose as he smiled. “So are you.”
You tilted your head towards him rubbed your nose against his. He let out a trembling sigh and lowered his body onto yours, grinding slowly against your right leg. Of course, you thought; here you were, being romantic, and you were keeping him waiting.
But when you sat up and reached for your blouse, Sephiroth gave you a startled look. “Something wrong?” he asked. He backed away on the bed to give you space.
You raised your eyebrows. He had wanted to stay like that? “No,” you said, letting your hands fall into your lap. “No, I…” You wiped your sweating palms against your thighs. “I thought you were getting bored?”
“I could never be bored of you,” he replied, reaching inquisitive hands towards you. “You have a strange definition of ‘bored.’”
You laughed under your breath and put your hands around his wrists. He was thwarting you at every turn: you knew the rules of this game, you had played it dozens of times, and here was Sephiroth, telling you to throw away the rulebook and enjoy yourself. You pushed your thumbs under his sleeves, felt the soft skin there; he turned his hands palm-up, watching you touch him. The man in your bed now spoke like the partners in your most shameful, secret dreams: understanding, patient, submissive. The green and blue veins you had tried so hard not to look at in the clinic— miniature strands of the Lifestream, full of blood you had analyzed a hundred times over— were now yours to admire. His flesh was yours to touch, kiss, dote on.
“Can I,” you started, then hesitated. “Can I see you with this off?”
He reached for the hem of his shirt. “You may,” he said, and he pulled it up over his head.
This wasn’t the first time you had seen his chest exposed to you, but it was the first time you had seen him without a stitch of clothing on his torso at all. Sephiroth somehow looked broader, bigger, without the shirt. He was just as solid and well-built as you expected. As you stared at him, his chest rose and fell with those deep, uneven breaths. He was still so nervous.
You exhaled and looked up at his face. “I am going to rip you apart.”
He chuckled and looked away. “Is that so?”
“I mean—“ You gestured helplessly at his torso. “Not, like, literally. Come here.”
In your dreams, you had imagined he would fall to his hands and knees, crawl over you on the bed with a devilish grin. What Sephiroth actually did was scoot awkwardly forward on his ass until he was within touching distance.
You pressed your palms flat against his torso and gasped at the warm, solid muscle you found there. Sephiroth shivered as your hands drifted across his pectorals. This close, you could see and feel dozens of different types of scars: cuts, bullet wounds, all manner of minutiae telling the tale of his years in battle. There was white hair, soft as down, everywhere: on his belly, the divot of his chest, his forearms. You trailed your hands down his chest and paused to touch the pink, gnarled flesh of a past burn. You could almost see that medical report in your head, pointing out the same burn on that blank body outline. Sephiroth’s hands settled in your hair, stroking it, curling a stray lock around his finger; the casual intimacy of it comforted you.
When you leaned forward and pressed a slow kiss to the old burn, he let out a sharp exhale through his nose. When you looked up, his eyes were closed, his brows furrowed as if he needed to focus on not moving. You knew that look: the face of someone trying to preserve a good thing in amber. This was a memory he wanted to keep close.
You whispered against his skin. “You like that?”
“Mm.” His entire body was tensed under you, like he was trying not to frighten you away.
You trailed open-mouthed kisses against his skin, relishing the way he shivered and panted under you. There was so much you wanted to look at, linger on: a scar from an earlier surgery, an old bullet wound that was almost gray with age, the way silver hair gathered below his navel, leading down past his belt, past where you could see. When you kissed his way up his sternum, he began stroking your hair again. There was not a single person on the planet who didn’t like to be worshipped, you thought— not even this young god, brought low and submissive with only your mouth.
You pulled his left nipple into your mouth and sucked gently. Sephiroth murmured, “Yes,” above you, sighed it like a prayer, tightening his fingers in your hair as you grazed your teeth against the sensitive flesh there. Time seemed to slow down; the room was silent like a cocoon as you kissed your way to his right nipple, drunk on the way he moaned when you rubbed his neglected nipple with a thumb.
You chanced a glance upward. He was watching you, a look of awe on his face, like he couldn’t believe you were there. His heartbeat thundered somewhere under your mouth.
He pushed your hair back so he could see your eyes. “So pretty,” he said quietly. “Can I call you mine?”
You nuzzled his chest. When you thought about it, weren’t you always his— from the second he laid eyes on you?
And based on the way he was looking at you now, he had always been yours.
“Yes,” you said against his skin.
His eyes fluttered shut, and he tilted his head back. “Mine,” he sighed.
You kissed the space just above where his heart was: where he wore your charm, your favor, against his skin. You pressed your forehead against his chest and trailed tentative fingers down his belly, down to his jeans.
When your hand brushed his cock through the fabric, he gasped and jerked his hips. He was big, you thought. Was he right: Would he hurt you? But no, you thought, as you rubbed him through his pants, listening to the way he groaned and mumbled your name, he wouldn’t dare, would sooner leave himself unsatisfied than hurt you for his own pleasure. Even through his clothes, he was white-hot in your hand.
You started when he tugged on your blouse sleeve. Sephiroth’s voice was rough with want. “May I take this off?”
“Oh.” You were still clothed. You reached your arms over your head, letting him remove your blouse for you. He let it fall on the bed.
When the tattoo came into view, he let out a low whistle.
You reached behind yourself and unfastened your bra. “Here, it’s better— it’s better when you can see the whole thing.”
Sephiroth’s hands were on your chest the second the bra was off: tracing every bumpy line in fascination, eyes roving over your exposed chest. You tossed your bra on the floor. “How long did this take?” he breathed.
“Like, hours?” You puffed out your chest in pride. “I can’t even remember anymore.”
“It’s…” He trailed off as he found the roses growing in the center of your belly. His finger traced a path to where the Lifestream sprouted like weeds among them. “The Ancients believed in this.”
You smiled when he glanced up at you for confirmation. “It’s, um. It’s why I got it.”
“Tell me what it means.”
“It…” And before you could finish the sentence, he had resumed kissing your skin. “It’s the Lifestream,” you said, and he trailed kisses across your belly, along the waistband of your skirt. “It’s the lifeblood of the planet,” and he kissed up your belly, up over your sternum. “And I wanted to make….m-make my body a, a happier place? One that I rec-rec-recognized?”
He looked up from your chest.
You wrung your hands. “I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”
“You didn’t,” he said gently. “It’s a beautiful tattoo.” He was gripping your hips, brushing his thumb over your skin. You wanted to burrow in him and let the world turn around you.
You brushed a spare lock of hair out of his face. “Will you keep kissing me again?”
“Mm.” Sephiroth nosed the side of your breast. “Now that you ask…”
When he took your nipple into his mouth, you gasped and arched off of the bed. His lips were just as gentle as the rest of him, kissing your breast over and over again.
“Harder,” you gasped, and he complied immediately, sucking on your hardening nipple like his life depended on it. His tongue deftly flicked it, once, and you gasped again. He opened his eyes and tilted his head so he could watch you with that gentle interest. You looked over his back, towards the wall over the closet. There were patches of paint there, like he had taken something down and hastily spackled the wall in its place. What was there before?
He released your nipple with a pop and nuzzled your sternum. His eyes fluttered shut. “Still good?” he murmured.
“Very good,” you replied. Too good, is what you wanted to say. It felt almost awkward, being cared for and attended to.
“Then I’ll continue.” He covered your breast, now wet from his attentions, with one hand, idly rolling your oversensitive nipple between his fingers. Sephiroth’s hands were just as big and broad as the rest of him, you thought, covering and kneading your entire breast like it was nothing. As he kissed his way to your other breast, he looked up at you again.
Your voice was hoarse as he took your other nipple into his mouth, still watching you. “Hi.”
He crinkled his nose, still sucking on your nipple. “Mmf.”
You snorted and covered your mouth with your hand.
He let out a hard exhale, breath ghosting over your skin, and released you. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t talk with my mouth full.”
“I forgive you,” you said around your palm.
“You know,” and he began to unzip your skirt, and you lifted your hips to let him, “you have a charming laugh.”
“Come on. I sound like a pig in heat.”
“You do not.” He pinched your waist; you let out a squeak and smacked his hand away, causing him to laugh in turn. “Stop that. You sound like you.”
You were about to reprimand him when he hesitated, eyes focused on your underwear through your tights. He gathered your blouse and skirt in two hands and tossed them over the side of the bed.
“Wow.” He hooked a finger under the waistband of your tights. “I wish I could have you through these.”
A thrill ran through you at the idea of him bending you, still fully-clothed, over one of the counters in his kitchen. “Maybe next time?” you murmured hopefully.
He nodded once, the same definite nod he had given you in front of the elevator. “Next time. Maybe tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“Tomorrow? Like…?” You lifted your hips so Sephiroth could roll your tights and underwear down your legs. “This weekend, tomorrow?”
“You’re funny.” He briefly glanced up at you with a smile before returning his attention to removing one leg, then the other, from your underthings. “You brought a bag, didn't you? I was hoping you’d stay through the weekend.”
You watched, dazed, as he began to undo his belt. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d love to.”
There was an odd sort of calm that washed over you when you were both naked. Sephiroth was still nearly twice your size, broad and muscular; you were a soft little thing compared to him. Even so, when he laid you down on the bed and put his lips to your breast again, he seemed so delicate. You sighed as he sucked on your nipple; he hummed in response. His free hand trailed down, down, down, until it settled between your legs. You lifted your hips to try and encourage him to touch you.
“So wet,” he murmured.
“Sorry.”
He raised an eyebrow and looked up at you. “Why are you sorry?”
“I don’t know.” You sighed when he slid one finger easily into you. “I just…”
“Shhh.” He kissed the delicate skin between your breasts. “I like it.” He pumped the finger into you, withdrew it slowly. You shivered.
“Here, let me…”
He raised himself up on one elbow to watch you, and you guided two of his fingers to your clit. You asked, voice soft, “Can you press hard and rub in a circle?”
You didn’t have to ask twice. Sephiroth curled over you as he touched you, like he was trying to protect you from all of Midgar. You squeezed your eyes shut; he kissed the bridge of your nose. When he lifted his hand away, you let out a frustrated sigh and dug your nails into his thigh. He laughed, that same gentle laugh he had given you at the holiday party— and really, you were beginning to take tally of all the little things he did, because he was not going anywhere, and you couldn’t believe your luck— and he pressed your clit twice as hard. You jerked your hips upwards with a sigh.
“Feel good?” he whispered.
You nodded frantically, your eyes still shut.
He let out a low hum. “Good.” You felt him draw his tongue over the sweat gathering between your breasts, slow and filthy. You tried your best to make a sound, wanted him to know how much you were enjoying this, but all that came out was a sharp exhale through your nose. He resumed kissing all over the tattoo: every strand of the Lifestream, blessed with his soft mouth and tongue, trailing down, down, down, past the flowers sprouting over your belly. You shivered as he nuzzled the damp hair between your legs, kissing your lower belly like he wanted to leave tribute to you there.
You remembered how stressed you were the night before, plucking and shaving and trimming every inch of your body. You had been trying to get away from any awkward moments, the sideways comments of "I like it better when you..." How you wished you could go back in time and shake yourself: he won’t care, you wanted to scream at that frightened girl from before, he likes you, he won’t care.
You sat up. He had settled between your legs, eyes roving over your cunt as if he expected to find the secrets of the universe there.
The intensity of his staring made you feel warm, even uncomfortable. You shifted on the bed. “Everything okay?” you asked.
He started and looked up, as if you had snapped him out of a daze. Sephiroth blinked, and before you could say anything, he laughed. “Yeah.” He shook his head. “Sorry. I’m overwhelmed.”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
He turned back to your exposed cunt and continued his study. You had done the same thing the first time you had had sex with another woman: just stared at how she had laid herself open in front of you, feeling frightened and aroused in turns. He reminded you of you: wide-eyed, unsure, wanting.
You reached down and patted his hand. “I’m serious.”
“Can I—actually.“ He looked up at you, and his cheeks flushed scarlet. “Can I taste you?”
Your breath hitched. There was vulnerability there, as if he expected you to push him away for his inexperience. And when was the last time a partner had eaten you out?
“Yeah,” you said. “Please?”
He ducked his head, and you felt his tongue probe you gently: just the very rim, barely penetrating you, as if he was truly tasting your cunt. You shivered. He made a soft, satisfied sound under his breath, and his tongue delved deeper inside of you: impossibly close, lapping at the wetness he found there.
You let out a soft huff of pleasure as his nose bumped against your clit. “Can you….?” you started, and his eyes opened and swiveled up to yours. You gestured with your thumb, jabbing it towards the ceiling. “Higher up?”
“Anything you want,” he said against you, and you shivered.
When he pulled back to examine you again, you pointed to your clit. “Here,” you said, and your voice was rougher than you expected.
“Okay,” he said, and then his lips and tongue were there. A warm wave of pleasure rolled through you. You sighed; without thinking, your hands went to his head, pushing him closer, silently urging him to be rough with you. Sephiroth complied, pressing his tongue flat against your clit, where he rubbed it in slow circles.
“Good,” you gasped, and he opened his eyes to watch you. His pupils were fat with desire as he fucked you with his tongue, and when you looked down the length of his body, you saw his cock was leaking onto the sheets. You looked to your left, towards the curtains, trying to escape how close he was to you, how wonderful and hot and wet his mouth felt on your clit. You tugged on his ponytail, and his answering growl was so deep and feral that you bucked your hips in response, feeling at once afraid of him and like you needed him to open you. His nails dug into your hips briefly: a warning, maybe, or no, when you looked back towards him his gaze on you was lazy, even amused. He’s happy.
Sephiroth’s teeth brushed your clit— too close, he’s going to bite you, he’s going to hurt you.
You yelped and scrabbled backwards on the bed, causing him to lift his head and stare at you in alarm.
Your voice was high and afraid: “No teeth! No teeth.”
“No teeth,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”
An innocent mistake, then. You began to relax. “No, it’s okay.” You waved a hand, and he sighed with obvious relief. The care he took in pleasuring you wasn’t something you were used to. “You didn’t know.”
He pressed a kiss to your belly in silent apology. “I’ll be careful.”
You sighed as he returned his mouth to your clit. It was difficult to believe he hadn’t done this before: his tongue was just as deft as it had been on your nipples, his breath coming in short bursts. You dared to look down again, and you tried your damndest to take a snapshot for your memory: Sephiroth’s nose pressed to your pubic hair, the serious furrow of his brow, the way his eyes were closed like he was trying to focus. While you watched, he rocked his hips once, twice, against the comforter: he was getting off of this, on how you tasted and felt on his tongue. When he pressed his middle finger to your entrance again, you sighed, “Please,” and then he was sliding it in you again.
You spoke up. “You can do a second.”
“Mm?” He looked up at you.
You held two fingers, palm up, at his eye level. “Curl them,” you said, and made a beckoning motion. “Like this.”
He pressed a second finger to your entrance and slowly slid it in next to his middle finger. When he beckoned, once, twice, nothing happened.
You said, “Pull them out a little first.”
He did. Nothing.
“Further.”
Nothing. He gave you a desperate look.
“Further.”
He lifted his head so he could watch, and when he beckoned again, you yelped and arched off the bed, a shot of pleasure running like lightning from your cunt to your brain.
The two of you cut each other off: “There—?“ and “Yes—“ and “Okay, good—“
He returned his mouth to your clit with renewed fervor, his fingers working inside of you. It didn’t take him long to discover that you liked when he thrust upwards, grinding his fingers against your rim. You covered your mouth to muffle your pants; you tried to moan for him again, and it came out as a soft wheeze. Noise, perhaps, was still out of reach: it had been beaten out of you from unsatisfying sex and living in an apartment with thin walls.
There’s time to learn, you thought, dizzy from pleasure. There’s so much time.
You looked down, and Sephiroth’s eyes were bright between your legs as he watched you. His fingers filled you so perfectly: as if he was made for you, as if he had waited his entire life just to please you like this.
You trembled, and suddenly, your orgasm hit you before you could anticipate it or warn him. You closed your eyes and thrust your hips against his mouth, shivering head to toe, panting with the intensity of it. You felt yourself clench around his fingers, taking him deeper still.
When you came down, he was still going at you with the same intensity. You squirmed and pushed his head away. “Ow. Ow. Seph, stop. I finished.”
His fingers stilled. He lifted his head just high enough to speak to you. “You came? From that?”
“Yeah,” you breathed.
And then you started to laugh, trembling with relief and oxytocin and the pure joy of finally, finally orgasming in someone’s bed. “I did.” You covered your face, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt and your eyes watered. “I did!”
“There you go.” There was a satisfied tone in Sephiroth’s voice as he gently removed his fingers. “That wasn’t hard at all.”
When he climbed back up the bed to hold you, you giggled against his shoulder, hiccuping with joy. The orgasm had been so easy, so natural. “I did it,” you said over and over, the excitement overwhelming your senses. “I did it. I did it. Thank you.”
Sephiroth’s laugh was right near your ear when you threw your arms around him. “You’re sweet. I told you I’d get you there.”
“How are you so confident all the time?” you gasped.
“I’m not,” he said over your shoulder. “But I’m not satisfied until you are.”
You pressed your mouth to his shoulder and fell silent.
After a while, he gave you a final squeeze and leaned back to take his hair out of its ponytail.
A sigh left your mouth. “I, um.”
He tilted his head in a silent question.
You continued, “I w-want you inside me. Like, now.”
“Are you sure?”
You had never been surer of anything in your life. “Mm-hmm.”
He shook out his hair and placed a reassuring palm against your sternum, right over where the Lifestream split in two to curl over your breasts. He leaned over to his nightstand.
“How do you want me?” he asked.
The question made you feel fuzzy, cared-for. You brought your knees to your chest and hugged them. “I think…you lying on your back. Do you need help with that?” you added as he settled on the edge of the bed with a condom.
He frowned and shook his head as he set the bottle of lube on the comforter. “No.” When he looked over his shoulder at you, he had a mischievous glint in his eyes. “I practiced before you got here.”
You giggled despite yourself.
“What?” he laughed. He ripped open the condom wrapper.
“Nothing.” You leaned over and traced mindless shapes on his back as he rolled the condom onto himself. “You’re just…cute.”
“Cute,” he scoffed, but he was still smiling. “The most feared man in the three continents is cute.”
“You literally cooked for me. Like you’re my little wife.”
“Hush, you.” The condom now on, Sephiroth turned to you and nudged you aside. “Let me lie down.”
You put some lube on two fingers as he settled back on the bed. It still shocked you how relaxed you were, how ready you felt for him; two fingers slid inside of you easily. He placed a warm hand on your hip as you straddled him.
You whispered, "I'll go slow, okay? Just hold still."
His lips parted when you sank down on top of him. You couldn’t stop staring at his face: awestruck as you slowly took all of him. You waited for the sting of pain, the moment where you’d have to grit your teeth and force yourself down, but when your hips connected with his, you realized that moment would never come. This won’t hurt either of us, he had said on the couch.
Your voice was hoarse. “Okay, you can move.”
“You sure?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Still think I’m cute?”
You laughed and covered your mouth. “You’re still stuck on that?”
Sephiroth squinted when he smiled up at you. “I am not cute.”
“Okay, fine. You’re not cute.”
He rolled his hips. You let out a small gasp.
"Like that?" he whispered.
You nodded silently, not trusting your voice. He felt impossibly big inside of you. When he thrust into you again, you cried out involuntarily from the jolt of pleasure that went through you: a tiny moan, a sound you didn’t think yourself capable of making.
You immediately covered your mouth and looked away.
He put a reassuring hand on the small of your back and thrust again. You grit your teeth behind your palm to keep from crying out again.
Sephiroth spoke up. “It’s okay.” Another thrust, and when he spoke again, there was a breathlessness to his words you hadn’t noticed before. “You look beautiful.”
“So do you,” you sighed, and it was true. His hair fanned out against the pillow in a brilliant silver halo; his chest rose and fell with each deep breath he took. That flush had returned to his cheeks again, climbing down his neck to paint his chest a brilliant pink. He grabbed your hips and set a steady, punishing rhythm.
His touch felt like heaven; like the sunshine, like heat, like lazy honeybees circling the flowers. This was a familiar place, warm and inviting: a home. You felt sated while you rode him, as if the city outside of his room had vanished, and there was no longer any place you two had to be. His hands were tender at your hips, keeping you rooted as you chased your pleasure. You waved your hands towards him, blindly grasping for something, anything, and you felt his hands in yours before you could speak up. He tugged you towards him, just so, and the pleasure from the new angle was so intense that you turned away, hiding your face against your shoulder.
“You—” he choked out, voice ragged around the edges, and he rolled his hips so violently that you gasped. “Beautiful.”
You squeezed his hand in reply. He raised his hand to caress your breast, rolling your nipple between two fingers. Your breath came as steady, halting pants: something between a moan and a sigh.
“Please,” you murmured, and when he sped up, you dipped a hand between your legs to touch yourself. You were on fire.
“That’s it,” he groaned, and you shivered at the vulnerable tone in his voice. “Take me.”
“Mine,” you whispered back.
“Yours,” he sighed.
You seemed to stay there forever, hovering on the edge of some invisible cliff. You were the one receiving him, and yet, it felt like you were taking him in, holding him close, and he was giving himself over to you. There had never been a time you felt like you had control in bed; now, you realized, you held him close in the palm of your hands, and when you opened your eyes, he was staring at where he was joined with you, eyes flicking between your pussy and your gently-bouncing breasts, tracing the lines of the tattoo in haunted fascination.
Sephiroth had never wanted to hurt you, you realized. He had only wanted to please you.
And he was succeeding.
The thought made fresh tears well up in your eyes. The flowers, the gentle touching, the way he was fucking you now, was not out of a desire to own you, to dominate you; it was out of affection. You had thought for years that loving sex was for other people, other people who weren’t traumatized and who didn’t cry themselves to sleep at night because they had been raped. This wasn’t an exchange; it was talking without words, as playful and gentle as the way you two had spoken to each other earlier. You had been so worried about paying some invisible debt, but all along, you owed him nothing.
Had he lain awake in this same bed, miles from your apartment, dreaming of you?
He met your eyes with alarm. “I’m close,” he panted. “W-what do I…”
“Come for me,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”
“I can— please,” he begged, his thrusts becoming harder, more irregular. “Please. Say that again.”
You placed your free hand on his bare chest. “Come for me.”
“I’m c—I can’t—“
“Seph,” you whispered. “Please, I want to see you.”
“I can’t, I—“ He sighed your name, and a beatific expression crossed his face. His mouth opened in a silent gasp as he spilled into the condom, his eyes on yours: searching for permission, for forgiveness.
You cupped his cheek as he rode through the aftershocks. You couldn’t imagine he would need you for anything, certainly not for intimacy, for cradling his heart close as he came. It was a heady, sensitive feeling.
Sephiroth stilled under you, panting. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side, visibly exhausted.
You leaned over him, staring down at his face in wonder. His cock twitched inside of you as you stroked his face with your thumbs.
He reached up and wrapped a gentle hand around your wrist.
You spoke up first. “That was beautiful.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Thank you.” When he turned back to you and opened his eyes, they seemed brighter than before. “You’re incredible.”
“Can we…?” You felt almost embarrassed to ask. “Like, stay here? Like this?”
The smile on his face was lazy, shy. You felt your cheeks warm. “Sure,” he murmured.
The two of you sat in silence, watching each other. He felt so perfect. His hands fell to the insides of your thighs, stroking them gently. You set to categorizing the scars on his chest again.
“What’s this one?” you asked as you pointed to an angry slash near his collarbone.
He looked down, trying his best to follow your finger. “A sword got me,” he replied. “Training exercise.”
“You use real swords during those?”
“A better question.” He reached up and rubbed your bottom lip with his thumb. You kissed it, and he chuckled. “Do you want to keep going, or would you like to call it a night?”
To your relief, you felt sated. You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t been awake on the other side of the bed, staring at the ceiling and burning away with unsatisfied lust while your partner snored happily beside you. “I…you’re not done?”
He gave you a gentle smile. You could feel his pulse inside of you, like you were holding his heartbeat in your chest. “I’m done when you’re done.”
You smiled. “Well, I’m done.”
He inclined his head towards you. “Then let’s call it a night.”
The two of you set to untangling yourselves; you hissed at the bright shock of pain as he slid out of you. You put your hand on his chest and lied down on the bed.
When he removed the condom, he looked at you inquisitively. That was right: sex ed tended to focus on putting on the condom, not disposing of it. You had almost forgotten that it was his first time. Fresh affection welled in you again.
You made a looping gesture with your finger. “You tie it off.”
“Thank you.” As he tied a knot, he spoke to you over his shoulder. “To answer your question, yes, the 2nd-Classes are allowed to use real blades.”
“Doesn’t that get dicey real fast?”
“Yes, especially if your opponent has never lifted a sword.” He tossed the condom into a wastebasket by the door. “Are you thirsty?” He stood up and stretched, cracking his back as he did so. He seemed unashamed of his nakedness; a side-effect, maybe, of his strange upbringing. “Water, coffee, more wine…?”
“Water. Please?”
He looked over his shoulder and tapped the bedroom doorframe. “I’ll be right back.”
“Wait,” you said, sitting up. “Where’s your bathroom?”
From the kitchen beyond, he pointed wordlessly off to the left.
You sat up on the edge of the bed and stretched. A sink sputtered to life in the kitchen. Everything felt softer around the edges, luxurious, as if the two of you were truly in your own world. There was a light soreness between your legs as you walked into the hallway outside of the room. In front of you was that opening into the kitchen; to your left, as promised, was a white door.
The bathroom beyond was the same gleaming white as the kitchen. To your right was a long marble counter, cluttered with various items: a red toothbrush, a crumpled tube of toothpaste (sans cap), hair gel, aftershave. To your left stretched an old-fashioned, claw-footed bathtub. Beyond was the toilet and, just beyond that, a glass-walled shower. You examined the showerhead as you sat down to pee: it seemed to be one of the fancy waterfall ones you had always coveted. You’d have to take full advantage of it while you were here.
Maybe we could shower together, you thought, and the idea excited you. You felt almost giddy, the weekend stretching out endlessly ahead of you. Perhaps you could take a bath, too. Your tub at home was too small and cramped to take a real bath in; this one looked long enough for you to stretch all the way out. Sephiroth could easily hold you inside of it. You had the welcome image in your head of lying back against his chest during a bath, letting him finger you to orgasm.
Where had this confidence come from?
You finished and stood to wash your hands. It seemed like minutes ago, you were trembling in front of the elevator as he had asked you for a drink. Maybe it was the way he said mine when you kissed his chest, the way he seemed as happy as you when you came for him. Maybe it was that tender look in his eyes when he came for you in turn— for you, you thought, just you, when he was so handsome and you— you—
You looked up in the mirror to categorize your faults, and you stopped.
You looked…
Fine.
Your makeup was only slightly smudged, and it wasn't nearly as heavy as you thought it had been. Your concealer had stayed in place: not oxidized, not cracking, not patchy, just as smooth as when you first applied it. Your lips were swollen from kissing, a delicate flush darkening your cheeks. Your hair was mussed.
You squinted at the mirror as if it was tricking you. You expected to look different; prettier, somehow, after you two had had sex, as if his come had blessed you with whatever ethereal grace he had been born with. At the very least, you expected to see the same repulsive creature you saw in the mirror at home.
But no: you were perfectly fine, perfectly ordinary after all. Beautiful, even. There was no one else looking back at you from the reflection, no Not-You, no mousy scientist, no ugly fuck-up with too many notches in her bedpost.
Just you.
You had always looked perfectly, completely fine.
You sucked in a breath and ran a thumb under your lashes. You removed a stray clump of mascara. “Ready?” you said to yourself, and to your relief, the reflection’s mouth moved, too: ready?
When you returned from the bathroom, there was a glass of ice water on the nightstand nearest you— your nightstand, you realized. You actually had a side of the bed now. You finished the glass in a few gulps.
Sephiroth had already turned the bed over and was now sitting on the fitted sheet, just as naked as you. He was hunched over a book, cross-legged on his side of the bed. He was biting his thumbnail in concentration as he read. Ah, you thought. That’s where the hangnails come from.
You laid down sideways on the mattress and glanced at the pages. A massive diagram of a ribosome, churning its way along a length of mRNA, greeted you. Sephiroth had generously highlighted and annotated the text with notes in pencil. “Seph. Is that a textbook?”
He gave you a sheepish look. “I wanted to understand your work better.”
“When was this published?” You reached over and pressed a hand to the current page, keeping your place as you flipped to the front credits. To your shock, he leaned back to give you space to do it. “’97? Not bad.” You turned back to where he left off and patted the ribosome gently. “I can get you a more recent copy if you want.”
“I do.” He grabbed a battered red bookmark (PROPERTY OF SHINRA COMPANY LIBRARY, it said) and slipped it between the pages. “But I think,” he mused, as he closed the textbook and put it back on his nightstand, “that you are a more interesting resource.”
His flirting still made you blush, even after you had had sex. You shook your head. “They don’t pay me enough to teach. But for you? I’ll make an exception.”
When he leaned back on the bed, you rolled onto your side and intertwined your legs with his legs. He turned to face you, and he rested his cheek against his palm, his elbow on his pillow. He smoothed out your hair; you felt his foot trail over your calf. “Oh, I’m honored,” he purred. “Your only pupil.”
You smiled and laid your head against your pillow. “My best pupil.”
“I’d prefer to be the top of the class.”
“If it’s a class of one,” you said, “then you’re automatically at the top.”
He scoffed with mock frustration. “That's disappointing.”
“I told you, they don’t pay me enough to teach more than one person.”
“They should.” Sephiroth leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. You closed your eyes and sighed.
As you draped an arm over his side, he pulled the sheets and the comforter over the two of you. When he laid his head against his pillow, you two were nose-to-nose, like affectionate teenagers gossiping during a sleepover. His hand was warm and gentle against the small of your back, thumb brushing back and forth over your spine.
Mine, it seemed to say. Yours.
“Was it good?” you whispered.
“Better than good,” he whispered back. “It was perfect.”
“It gets better, you know.” You yawned and closed your eyes. “The more you sleep with someone, the more you get to know the person.”
“I just want to say,” Sephiroth started, and you opened your eyes in alarm, only to see him looking at you with that same lazy, affectionate smile, his eyes already half-lidded with sleep. “You did very well. Was that good for you?”
You smiled again and ducked your head, feeling suddenly shy at his compliment. “Yeah. I would say perfect, also? Yeah.”
“Okay. Good.” He shifted and sighed. “I’m glad. You deserve to feel safe.”
“I do feel safe,” you whispered. “I’m…” You hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I’m…actually really, really happy with you.”
He smiled back.
You felt butterflies in your stomach. They fluttered about in the warm sunshine of his attention; the flowers and weeds of a garden were slowly, gently, making their home in you.
Go to next chapter >>>
1 note
·
View note