#sephirothxreader

TW's for this chapter: A graphic nightmare in the first part, literally the first sentence. Beyond that, this chapter is explicit again! Very light, consensual dom/sub dynamics (if you squint).

—

“Doesn’t that,” said Sephiroth, blood spilling onto your chest, “simply,” he drove Masamune in deeper, “delight you?”

—

You screamed. Everything around you was pitch-black. You thrashed; something was tying you down. You had to get out. 

You had to get out. 

You had to—

Someone said your name sharply. A hand touched your shoulder. “Hey.”

You gasped for air. You sat up and stared out into the darkness.

Something moved next to you. “What’s wrong?” the voice whispered. “Everything alright?”

Though you still couldn’t see, the room smelled familiar. The hand squeezed your upper arm. The ground— no, you weren’t on the ground. You were in a bed. The covers were twisted around your legs; they pressed upwards on the balls of your feet, straining them, as if you had been running in place. The hand released your arm and touched its knuckles to your heated forehead.

“Where am I?” you choked out.

“You’re home,” Sephiroth whispered. “With me. You’re safe.”

Home. 

You tried to roll over, but the sheets caught on your limbs. Slowly, you extracted one arm, then another. You fumbled blindly until you found where the covers had curled around your ankles. Sephiroth’s hands bumped against yours as he helped you.

“Sorry,” you whispered. “Hogging the covers.”

“Bad dream?” His voice was bleary from sleep.

You weren’t able to answer before he pulled you into a tight embrace. You went limp in his arms, burrowing against his warm chest.

“I’m here,” he murmured. You heard his voice from far away; it lilted and faded around the edges of your consciousness, all soft little promises against your hair. You closed your eyes and breathed him in.

"You’re okay,” he whispered. “I’ll protect you.”

—

The morning sunlight beamed directly into your face. You groaned, turning towards the pillow and burying your face into it.

It took a moment to realize you weren’t alone. Warm breath tickled the top of your head. You put a hand over your brow, shielding your eyes from the blazing sun.

Sephiroth dozed next to you. He had tucked himself under the covers; only his plain gray shirt was visible. You weren’t sure when he had put it on. There was a paperback lying, face-down, on his stomach. One hand pinned it in place, squishing the spine flat: The Vampire of Misty Moor. The vampire in question- with his hair slicked back and mouth open in mid-bite— held a swooning, scantily-clad woman in his arms. Sephiroth’s other hand lay just next to your thigh, as if he had tried to reach for you and fallen asleep on the way there. One of his long sleeves rode up; the sunlight caught the fine silver hair dusting his forearm.

You reached out and, as tenderly as you could, brushed your fingertips against his chest; it rose and fell steadily, lifting your fingers with every inhale. His eyes moved slightly behind his eyelids: he was dreaming. What of, you wondered? He looked so peaceful.

You thought about Sephiroth as a small boy, holding that woman’s photo tightly to himself. It had been folded carefully into quarters, over and over again, in so many different places: he must’ve taken her everywhere. Wish You Were Here; postcards; photos; unfolding and re-folding her so many times that the film started lifting at the creases. How young was he when Shinra forced him in front of a camera? Was it before or after they placed a sword in his hand?

What was it like, being in the business of violence? When did he decide he wanted to kill? When had this gentle creature become something so frightening?

Sephiroth inhaled sharply. He turned his head away from you, brow furrowing. You snatched your hand away— did you wake him, he needed his rest, you’ve done nothing but bother him— and he groaned. He turned to look up at the ceiling. Even in profile, his confusion was visible. He frowned and pawed at his eyes. 

When he finally looked down at you, where you were lodged firmly against him, he raised both eyebrows, a silent question: Where am I?

“Morning,” you said up at him.

He blinked owlishly at you. Slowly, his expression went from bewildered, to wary, to—

Pleased.

He rolled towards you. The book slid off of him and thunked in the valley between your bodies.

Sephiroth made a surprised little oh. “Sorry,” he whispered. He picked up The Vampire of Misty Moor and set it aside on his nightstand.

You rolled onto your back. “Light reading?” you asked.

Sephiroth rubbed the back of his neck with embarrassment as he turned back to you. “Now you know,” he murmured. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “Guilty pleasure.”

You placed your hand on his chest, rubbing gentle circles above his heartbeat. Sephiroth reached to your right side, pulling himself on top of you and trapping your hand between your bodies. You smiled up at him. “You’re allowed to have those. You’re only human.”

He smiled back. “Only just,” he replied.

“Did you train this morning?” You winced. “Sorry about waking you up last night.”

“Well…” His mouth twisted, and for a moment, you worried he was about to tell you off. “One, you have nothing to be sorry for.” Maybe not, then. You breathed out a sigh of relief. “Two,” he said, “Yes, I went in.” Sephiroth tilted his head. His bangs whispered against your cheek. “Didn’t I wake you?”

You drummed your fingers on his chest. “Not this time,” you said. “Must’ve slept through the alarm.” How strange, that his life was already becoming so intertwined with yours: the morning alarm situating itself, without fanfare, into your weekend mornings.

Sephiroth settled his weight on his forearms. “You made a little noise in your sleep. It was very endearing.”

You hazily remembered your dreams: something terrifying. Something involving him. You stopped drumming your fingers. “Do I…” You hesitated. “Talk in my sleep?”

“Nothing so coherent.”

Part of you wanted to ask what he had said to you in the middle of the night. Hadn’t you woken up screaming? Every time you tried to reach for the dream, it slipped further and further away. All you remembered was him gathering you to his chest afterwards: his heartbeat, his voice, his smell. Home.

With your free hand, you traced his bottom lip. His lips parted; his eyes flashed with obvious excitement. You smiled.

“I didn’t kiss you yesterday,” you said softly, breath hitching as he kissed your thumb.  “Should probably fix that, right?”

“Hm.” He looked up at the ceiling, mouth twisting, like he was deep in thought. After a moment, he shrugged, smirking down at you. “Probably.”

You slid your hand along his jaw, moving to grasp the back of his neck, and Sephiroth’s lips met yours halfway. He was far more gentle than you remembered: a whisper of skin-against-skin, a tender response to an invitation, a soft breath against your tongue. It made you fall open to him all over again. You couldn’t believe this was the same man had you cowering from him just the night before— in your apartment, in his bed— when he already seemed so familiar to you.  His thumbs dipped behind your earlobes, pushing gently into that soft, secret flesh, and you sighed with pleasure. He smiled against your mouth. You slipped your thumb underneath his sleeve and rubbed his wrist, making him sigh.

You wanted to see what he’d do, now that you understood what he was capable of. Perhaps he’d do away with the gentle words and longing looks and tentative hands, all that romantic tenderness a disarming guise. But all Sephiroth seemed to want to do was kiss, lazily, in the morning sunlight. 

You slid your trapped hand out from under him, hooking your arms under his to embrace him properly, and he broke the kiss long enough to watch you. His eyes were already closed when he leaned in to your lips again: a given thing, that you would kiss him back. It had always been a given thing. 

Trailing your foot up his leg opened your body to his, inadvertently pressing yourself against his hipbone: not enough to tease, not even enough to stimulate, but an inviting motion nonetheless. Sephiroth sighed into your mouth. It would be easy enough to push him away, to kiss down the column of his neck and suck bruises into his collarbone until he was a flustered mess, to let him take you however he liked.

Sephiroth broke away, but it wasn’t to undress you. Instead, he leaned away to catch your eye again, smiling when he did. He stroked your cheek with his thumb.

“Look at that face,” he said. “So cute.”

You turned your head, just enough to nuzzle into his palm. He chuckled above you. 

“You’re being sweet,” you said. “I…” You swallowed. “I missed you. A lot.”

He scrunched his nose. “Aww. How adorable.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so mean.”

“Oh, come now. Don’t be that way.” Sephiroth leaned to one side and, effortlessly, rolled you on top of him. The switch was disorienting; you wobbled, and he pressed one wide palm into the small of your back to steady you. “For your information,” he said, “I missed you, too.”

You rested your cheek against his chest. “You’re forgiven,” you mumbled.

“Don’t forgive me just yet.” He tilted his head and smirked. “I wanted to tell you how good it is to see you up there again.”

You smiled, lifting your head. Ah. Maybe he did understand how to initiate. You brushed his hair out of his face.“Go on.”

The smirk faded. His eyes shifted from yours— just the tiniest bit, a hint of nervousness that he quickly smothered. “About?”

“About…what you want with me? On top of you.”

Sephiroth raised his eyebrows. He opened his mouth, shut it. He looked away; his eyes darted back and forth, like he was thinking. He shrugged, or braced: the mechanical action of pulling his shoulders up to his ears. He sighed. He looked back to you, swallowed hard. He smiled nervously. “What should I do here?” he asked.

You shrugged back at him. “Whatever you want.”

“But what do you want?” he asked. He drummed his fingers against your back. 

You reached towards his face. “I want you to…” You ran your thumb over his mouth again. When you chewed on your bottom lip, his eyes snapped down to your mouth to watch. “Just…do whatever feels natural.”

He turned his head to leer at you. “Yeah? In what way?”

You laughed and folded your hands under your chin. “No! No no no.” You shook your head slowly. “Mm-mm. I asked you first.”

“I…” Sephiroth grinned at the ceiling. “I’ve dug myself a hole, haven’t I?” he muttered.

You leaned in for a brief peck, hoping he would take it as encouraging. “I want to hear you say it.” You wanted to hear it: what he thought of you, why he was being so affectionate and generous towards you, why he came right home and waited for you to wake up. Why he was already hard underneath you. Why he was being shy.

Sephiroth’s cheeks were a healthy shade of pink; even his mako-bright eyes seemed greener than usual. “I was hoping…” He cleared his throat and looked away. “That maybe you’d like to make love with me again.”

Sweetheart, you thought, unbidden. Nothing to be afraid of. “I’d want that too. Wait,” you added, when Sephiroth was just starting to lean up for another kiss, “Do you want my outfit from Friday? The one I meant as a surprise?”

He leaned back against his pillow, returning your smile. “Sure. Let’s see it.”

You slid off of him and onto your feet. “One second,” you said over your shoulder. “Let me get dressed.” 

Sephiroth sighed as you left his bedroom. “I wish I didn’t say yes,” he groaned. “Come back here.”

You rushed to your bag on the couch. “I said give me a second!” you laughed.

“I don’t want to!” he yelled back; you could hear the smile in his voice. “I changed my mind!”

You yanked back the zipper. “Just be patient!”

Sephiroth made a disgruntled aaaagh sound. 

At the top of your bag, placed on top of your neatly-folded clothing, was a small postcard: Gongaga, said the script, floating over a tropical beach. You flipped it over: no address, no name, but packed with Sephiroth’s handwriting all the same. Just as you started to read it, you heard aaaagh again: louder, this time, and calibrated to draw your attention.

“There’s a postcard in here,” you called.

“Read it when you get home,” was the reply from the bedroom.

You tucked the postcard further into your bag, right next to your folded clothes. Everything was as crisp and as neatly-categorized as his clothes drawers; he had even folded the tights for you. “So impatient!”

Sephiroth laughed. “I am impatient,” he said. “Of course I’m impatient.” His voice briefly strained as he, presumably, sat up in bed: “I want to see what was worth missing for fifty troopers locked at the bottom of a reactor.”

“Fifty?” You stripped off your sleep shirt and tossed it aside. You picked up your bra and hesitated. Best for him to get the whole picture, surely? You put it on. “Did no one have a key?”

“Power failure,” said Sephiroth. “The doors lock automatically. Roving monsters, mako sickness— you get the idea.”

You pulled on your blouse first. “Why were they all the way down there?”

“That’s classified. Are you done yet?”

You had just taken off your sleep shorts. “Can you wait?” you laughed. You sat on the grey carpet to tug on the tights. 

When Sephiroth spoke again, he was near his bedroom door, as if he was seconds away from poking his head out. “Would you like help? I’m very good at helping others.”

“Don’t look!” You wrestled the tights onto your legs. 

“I’m not,” he said, but his voice was so clear, you looked over your shoulder to make sure. 

“I’m serious!” you laughed. “Go wait in bed!”

Sephiroth huffed. “Yes, Professor.” You saw a flick of silver hair before you heard his footsteps within the bedroom. So he was waiting in the doorway. Cheat. The mattress creaked as Sephiroth settled onto it again.

You stood slowly, fiddling with the waistband, making sure the embroidered hearts sat evenly on your belly. They clashed, ever-so-slightly, with your tattooed roses, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Seeing your legs enveloped in nylon again made your heart race. You thought of his expression last night— the slow realization, that longing in his eyes— and tried to take deep breaths. Safe, you thought. Home.

Sephiroth called out again: “Ready?”

“Almost,” you called back. Your voice was unsteady. “Stay there?”

He grumbled something that sounded like the death of me as you pulled on your skirt. With the fireplace off, you could see yourself in the glass. Your hands shook as you fastened your earrings: tiny, gold-plated hoops, with small rose charms dangling off of them. Store-bought: a guilt-ridden indulgence with your graduate school stipend. 

“Now?” Sephiroth asked.

“Almost!” You put the matching necklace on: a small, gold-plated rose that sat just in the divot of your collarbone. Watching your reflection, you fussed with your hair, made sure you looked put together. “Okay,” you sighed, more to yourself than to him. You were sure he’d be able to hear you from the bedroom. 

You took a deep breath.

Tightening your fists at your side, you marched yourself over to the bedroom again. Sephiroth was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands. 

You stopped some distance from the bed. “Here I am,” you said.

Sephiroth looked up. He started when he saw you, as if you had surprised him. Couldn’t he hear you come in the room? 

Which meant…

His eyes traveled down your neck, across your blouse, over your skirt, until, finally, they landed on the tights. He sucked in a small breath.

“No makeup, but…” You felt strange standing in place, so you did a slow turn for him. “You get the idea.”

Sephiroth whistled and shook his head. “Fifty troopers were not worth missing this.”

“What would—” You cleared your throat. “What would be the…um. Ideal number of missing troopers?”

“Fifty-one,” said Sephiroth immediately. His eyes were fixed on your legs, constantly moving up and down, like he was trying to process what he was seeing. You watched his fist tighten around the comforter.

“Don’t say that,” you sighed, slouching. “I feel bad for them.”

“Don’t feel bad. It was a full recovery.” He stood up from the bed. “Maybe next time they’ll position men at the generators.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you waited. Sephiroth put his hands in his sweatpant pockets as he admired you. When the attention became too much, you looked away, at the mirror: at yourself.

Steeling yourself, you said, “I bought them for you.”

“For me?” His eyes were wide as he looked up at you. “Why?”

You were done lying to yourself. You turned back to him. “Because I wanted you to like them.” You hesitated. “Wanted you to…like how I looked in them.”

His lips parted. You were reminded, not for the first time, of his expression at the holiday party, with the honeybee charm in-hand: plain disbelief. Wonder.

“I…” You backed up and held out your arms. It took all your resolve to keep your voice steady. “I want you to touch me. Like you wanted to last night.”

“Are you sure?”

You bit your lip and looked down at the carpet. “Maybe just… go slow. And don’t stand behind me,” you added. “It makes me nervous.”

“I’ll stay in front of you,” he said. “Okay?”

“Okay.” You nodded at the floor, for lack of something else to do. “Okay,” you whispered to yourself.

His bare feet stepped into your periphery. You stood there, staring at them, until you felt his fingers brush against the sides of your neck. You sighed and closed your eyes.

His fingers drifted up your neck until he had cupped your jaw in both hands, gently tilting it back. He traced two fingers down the center of your throat, all the way down to the divot of your collarbone. You listened to his breathing: in, out. In, out. You found yourself lulled by it, like you were listening to the ocean waves, and you swayed towards him a little. It was so easy to lose yourself in him, and wasn’t that what you came here for? In, out. He traced up your neck again— and then his other hand dipped just past your blouse collar, stroked your bare shoulder under the hem, and you made a soft noise of pleasure. In, out.

Sephiroth leaned down and, ever-so-gently, kissed your neck. You startled. He mouthed at your pulse for a moment, and you melted into it, sagging against that warm hand under your blouse collar.

He pulled away and hesitated. “You can touch me too, you know.” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh.” You opened your eyes. You could see the top of his bedroom window over his hunched shoulder: that faint sliver of white light over an expanse of grey shirt and laundry detergent and warmth. “Sorry.” 

Sephiroth smiled against your pulse. You cupped your hand around his bicep. A shame about the shirt: you wanted, with violent desire, to feel his skin on yours again. You watched your own hand with wonder, trailed your fingers up and down his arm. It felt like a small miracle, the way you liked him. Your other hand squeezed the small of his waist; he sighed sweetly against your skin and squeezed your waist in return.

And then you heard a familiar voice at your neck: your own.

“‘Sorry,’” he said in your voice. “You’re so cute.” He did it again: “‘Sorry.’”

You wrinkled your nose. “Ugh!” you said at the ceiling. “Seph! Don’t do that here.”

“And why not?” He pulled you closer, resumed kissing your neck. “It’s adorable.”

You threaded your fingers through his soft hair. “Glad my guilt is adorable,” you huffed against his shoulder.

“Didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “Just teasing.”

“I know.” You rubbed the small of his back, closing your eyes. “Maybe I shouldn’t have taught you. How to do it, I mean.”

“Mm. Too late.” He nipped your throat. You tilted your head back, giving him room to kiss down your neck and to the collar of your blouse. You drifted your fingers to his sweatpants. When you pulled, inquisitively, at his waistband, he startled. Was he still shy of you? You slid your hands up and under his shirt instead.

Sephiroth hummed with pleasure. “Cold hands.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his shoulder. “I think you just run warm,” you replied.

He let go of your waist. His hands wrapped around yours, guiding them to the bottom of his shirt, and he leaned back just enough to give you a long look. 

You took a deep breath, and— with his help— you pulled his shirt up and over his head. He had to let go of your hands to pull his hair through, scrunching his nose and shaking his head, like a dog, to free himself from the collar. He tossed his shirt onto the bed behind him.

You began to remove your blouse by yourself, but he pushed your hands away. “Arms,” he said, and you obediently held your arms straight over your head. It felt good to let him undress you: he did it with the utmost tenderness, rolling your blouse up as it traveled up your body, past your shoulders, up and over your head. He let it drop at your feet.

You were just about to undo your bra when he made a noise and reached for—

The necklace. He was looking at the necklace, fiddling with the chain at your breastbone. Hadn’t he seen it before, when you were clothed? Why was he slowing down?

“Pretty,” he said. He had used that word in the elevator, so long ago. “Did you make this?”

“Not this set.” You touched the backs of your earrings. “Bought it a couple years ago. On sale,” you added, with not a small amount of guilt. “With gil I didn’t have.”

He brushed his thumb against your earlobe. “Why don’t you wear your handmade jewelry here more often?”

“Because it—” Because it looks childish. It looks unfinished. It looks unsophisticated. “It doesn’t match?”

Sephiroth tilted his head. “I don’t—” He let go of your earring, but not before gently nudging the flower charm, causing it to swing back and forth. “I’m not about to tell you what to wear, but it would—” 

He cleared his throat; discomfort flitted across his face.

You raised your eyebrows. “It would…?”

“—look—” Sephiroth cleared his throat again and looked away. “—fetching on you, with nothing else on.”

You grinned. You took his hand in both of yours. “I’ll wear some next time.” 

He barely acknowledged you. His bangs hid his expression from view, but he coughed quietly, and when you brushed past him, you felt him trembling. Be gentle, you reminded yourself. Remember to be gentle.

You sat down at the edge of the bed. He looked behind himself, at your hands clasped tightly over his, and you gave him a little tug. You tried to sound encouraging: “C’mere, Seph. It’s okay. Keep touching me.”

Sephiroth turned, fully, to face you. You released his hand and spread your legs just the tiniest bit, just enough to make him look down at your skirt. He put both hands on your knees. His sweatpants were thin; you could see his erection straining underneath. You sighed, feeling warm and affectionate, and you rested your hands over his. When he didn’t say anything— when he continued to stare at your skirt with wide eyes and parted lips— you leaned up and kissed his cheek. He sighed and leaned into it. “You okay?” you asked.

“I am—” He raised his eyebrows at your skirt and nodded. “—very okay.”

“Not too fast, right?”

Sephiroth chuckled and shook his head. “You can’t see how excited I am?”

“I can,” you said, “but I wanna make sure.”

You reached behind you and unhooked your bra. At the sound of the clasp, he looked up at your chest. The sunlight had made his pupils into thin little slits, barely visible against the mako-green. When you tossed your bra aside, the pupils grew wide. 

Touch me, strange boy, you thought. You guided his warm palms to your breasts. Touch me.

The feeling seemed to snap Sephiroth out of whatever torpor he was in. His eyes traveled up to your face, looking up into your own eyes with wonder, and he brushed his thumbs against your nipples. It was just enough pressure to tease, and you arched your back into his touch. 

You braced your palms against the comforter behind you. “More?” you asked.

“I can do more,” Sephiroth breathed, and he leaned down to kiss you again. His hands opened, kneading and caressing your breasts. You squeaked into his mouth, and he squeezed harder—

You grabbed his hands. “Gentle,” you gasped, and he relaxed his hands again, kissing you chastely on the lips.

“Sorry,” he said. “I forget myself.”

“Yeah? Distracted by something?”

He growled under his breath. “My little tease.”

“No teasing now,” you whispered back, and you reached for the zipper of your skirt. “I’m all yours.”

His hands met yours at the zipper, and the two of you worked your skirt off and to the floor. Sephiroth fell to his knees at your feet. You parted your legs invitingly, and he shuffled forward—

Only to lift one of your legs to his face instead. He kissed the inside of your knee with an open mouth, eyes sliding shut. He let out a satisfied hum, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric at your calf. 

Oh, you thought, dizzy with pleasure and disbelief. He did like them. 

He loved them.

Suddenly, all that gil seemed decidedly worth it, especially when he turned his head and kissed your clothed thigh. You leaned back on your hands, watched his hands trail over the fabric to where they opened up, halfway up your inner thighs. Sephiroth ran a thumb over the hem there, and then, sighing, he slid his fingers between your skin and the fabric. You saw the outline of his fingers underneath the cloth. 

You stroked his hair. “How’d I do?” you asked quietly.

He removed his fingers; you missed them until he leaned in and mouthed at the hem instead, just at the intersection of fabric and flesh. “It’s like you read my mind,” he whispered.

Relief flooded through you. You couldn’t do much right, but this? This, you could do for him: letting him discover what it was like to be wanted by someone else, without expecting anything in return. As you stroked his hair, he worried the hem between his teeth, his eyes closed in bliss.

“What do you like about them?” you asked.

“How they feel,” he said, without hesitation. He opened his eyes. His pupils were fully dilated now, all full and wanting. You bit your lip, and he chuckled, leaning back on his heels to look up at you. 

“I like how you look in them,” he continued, his fingers drifting tenderly up and down your thighs, “But something about how they feel…mm.” He shook his head slowly, closing his eyes. “Perfect,” he said to himself, and you didn’t know what, precisely, he was referring to.

You cleared your throat. “I…tried to get nice ones—”

“For me?”

“—yeah, for you, like...I felt like the ones I had last time weren’t nice enough—”

“Oh.” Sephiroth’s face fell. He reached out a hand. “Hey—”

“No,” you said firmly, “Let me finish.” 

He closed his mouth, and you pushed forward: “You seemed to— to really like them, and I…wanted to treat you to the good stuff, I guess. I— I know what it feels like to be— feel like, left out of things. Like I got…” Your voice became small. “Left behind. By everyone else. So I wanted... you know. To— to give you some, um.” You gestured helplessly. “I want you to…feel wanted. Because you are, and you deserve it.”

Sephiroth blinked owlishly up at you. He parted his lips, and for a moment, you thought he was going to reply. He looked down and leaned back on his heels instead, his hands trailing absentmindedly down your thighs, towards your knees. 

“That’s very sweet of you,” he said to the floor.

“It’s not sweet,” you said insistently. “It’s true.” You stumbled over your words when he looked up again. “I— you should—” You returned your hands to the comforter behind you, squeezing the fabric hard, like you were trying to hold on. “I know you haven’t tried any of this before, and it’s…I want to give you everything you missed out on, because you—” You couldn’t meet his eyes; you focused on his left ear instead, the shell of it just visible beyond his silver hair. “It’s like you taught me I could— feel beautiful again, doing all this. I want…you to feel the same, because—I—I just…do.”

He stared at you. There was more you wanted to say— the stories pressed against your tongue, crowding there, I was raped, I don’t know how many times, I lost count, sometimes I don’t think it ever happened, maybe that’s just what sex is, I get the feeling I’m not human, I only feel human with you, it feels like I’m almost me again— but you squeezed the comforter and looked at his ear and said nothing.

Sephiroth shifted backwards. His hands trailed down your calves, where they lingered around your ankle. You thought he might be pulling away from you— too much, always too much— until he cupped one of your feet in both hands. 

He bowed his head and kissed the top of your foot, right up against the nylon. Your breath caught. 

He drifted to your other foot and kissed that one, too.

You watched, helpless, as he trailed kisses up your shin. He kissed all the way up your knees, all the way up to your thighs, and when the tights ended— when they opened to reveal you to him— he switched sides, kissing from your ankle all the way up to your thigh again. You wrung your hands in your lap.

“You are really special.” He said it so softly, pressed up against your leg. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I—I hope that made sense.”

“I understood what you were getting at, yes.” He closed his eyes, mouth still against the nylon. “I feel the same,” he whispered, with a fondness that felt like glass around the edges, and it made your chest ache.

“God, I…” You laughed again, leaning back on your hands. “I was— so nervous—”

“Why?” He kissed up your thigh again.

“Just— didn’t think you’d— wanna see me again.”

He opened his eyes and smirked up at you. “What gave you that idea?”

“Just, like—” You brushed his bangs out of his face so you could see him properly. “—the leading me on thing—on Wednesday. I thought you were making fun of me.”

Sephiroth hummed. “Maybe I just wanted to save you for this weekend.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have visited me,” you fired back. “You’re so— distracting.”

He held your eyes as he leaned his cheek against your thigh. With one finger, he stroked your wet cunt, top to bottom. You gasped and canted your hips— only for him to withdraw his finger and hold it just out of reach.

“Ah,” he said, “So you do want me.”

“So bad.” You tried to spread your legs further, but you couldn’t stretch that far. What did he say last weekend— don’t ask, just tell me what you want? You licked your lips nervously. “Thought about your mouth on me,” you said quietly. 

Sephiroth’s eyes flashed with excitement. “I thought of that all week,” he breathed. “Thought about it yesterday.” 

“Want you to do it again,” you whispered. The admission felt good.

“You were my favorite daydream.” He kissed up your inner thighs: first one, then the other. You marveled at the sensation of his lips through the nylon, the thrill of that warm flesh meeting yours where the fabric gave way near your hip joints. Warm kisses, too: sweet, fluttering, worshipping, nervous things. “Every second brought me closer to you.”

“I wanted you with me,” you whispered. “I put your postcards by my bed.”

“Mm.” He swiped his tongue along the gap in the tights, making you shiver. “Did you?”

“I want to think about you when I go to sleep.” Perhaps you shouldn’t have told him this— perhaps you ought to have played it cool, be like the women in the romance novels. “You make me feel—” 

You gasped when he leaned in and nuzzled your pussy. He mouthed at the wetness by your entrance. 

“Go on,” he whispered, and you felt the words rumble against you.

“You make me feel beautiful.” Your voice cracked on the word beautiful. “I— you—”

“You are beautiful.” He traced his tongue up and down your vulva. With every pass, the tip of his tongue just whispered over your clit, before it was over too soon, and he licked his way back down. “Can’t get enough of you,” he sighed.

You groaned with frustration and looked up at the ceiling when he did it again. “You’re teasing me,” you whispered.

“Should I make you wait?” He looked up at you, eyes bright and focused and alive under his heavy lids. “Tease you like you tease me?”

“Seph—”

Sephiroth brushed his lips against your clit: the tenderest of kisses, a whisper of tongue. You shivered. He nuzzled your folds again, breath ghosting over your skin, like he was holding himself back. You didn’t want him to hold back. 

“Keep talking to me,” you whispered down to him. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“You taste so good,” he breathed. You felt his middle finger prod gently at your entrance. You canted your hips towards him, savored his satisfied groan as his finger sank in to the knuckle. “You feel even better. Better than I could’ve imagined.”

You rocked your hips, undulating them with the rhythm of his thrusting finger. “Did you?” you asked. “Imagine this?”

He kissed your clit again with a soft, wet smack. “You have no idea.” He opened his eyes and looked up at you, eyes wide and wondering. “Did you?” he asked, and the question was soft. Shy.

You let out a nervous laugh. “Yes,” you gasped. “I didn’t— I didn’t think you’d—”

Sephiroth crooked his finger. “Deeper,” you grit out, and he went deeper still, down to the knuckle again. The next thrust left you breathless. You arched your back to chase after the dizzying pleasure his hands offered.

“Didn’t think I’d what?” His voice was rough, and his face was so sweet, so open, that it made you feel shy of him.

You closed your eyes. “Feel the same,” you whispered. “Didn’t think you liked me.”

“You have no clue how much I like you.” When you opened your eyes, he was lining up another finger. His other hand lifted your trembling leg and planted your foot against his shoulder. “I thought, someone like that must be taken,” he said. Both of you watched as he sunk in two fingers this time. “Intelligent. Kind.” He worked you open slowly, gently. “Aren’t I lucky?” He touched you like you— mattered. Like he wanted you to take your time and savor everything.

“Not fair, Seph.” You carded your fingers through his hair. He leaned into your palm. “You’re being so nice, and I— I can’t even compliment back?”

“Go rough,” Sephiroth said against your inner thigh. “I can take it.”

“Don’t wanna be rough.” You watched, hypnotized, as he traced the tender divot between leg and thigh with his tongue. You tilted your head back, rolling your hips, riding his fingers. “Wanna be good to you. Wanna be yours.”

He sighed your name in frustration. “You still don’t get it.” Sephiroth looked back up at you,  still thrusting his fingers in and out of you. “I’m selfish,” he breathed. “You will always be mine.”

A little much, maybe, but you were too far gone to correct him. You couldn’t stop smiling at how eager you both were. “Kiss me again.” You shook your head when Sephiroth withdrew his fingers and made to stand. “Ah-ah. No.” You pressed your heel against his shoulder, coaxing him back down. “Bad boy. I didn’t mean my mouth.”

He shook his head, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “Where did you come from?” he asked, sounding dreamy and far-away.

You grinned and looked away. “Too much?” you asked.

“Not enough,” he said, and then he leaned forward and took you into his mouth again, and everything became warm and soft and tender and more and too much. Your other foot was in reach of his dick, where it stood proudly against his sweatpants. Inquisitively, you nudged it with your toes. He moaned against your clit; his hips thrust upwards, trying to rub his cock against your foot, only to miss. You pressed the ball of your foot into him, rubbing gently. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest. It was surprising that he liked being on his knees for you— for you.

“Seph,” you sighed. “So sweet.”

His lips quirked upwards into a smile. “Mm-hmmm.” 

You pressed down on his cock again. Sephiroth made a quiet noise against you— ahh, open-mouthed, brows furrowed— and you drew your foot over his length. His fingers stuttered. When you curled your toes against the head of his dick, he thrust again, and this time, his cock bent against the arch of your foot. He made that sound again— ahh-haaah— and rolled his hips, his entire body leaning into your touch. His tongue curled in that way you liked, and you arched your back and said his name, and he curled his tongue again, laughing gently as he did.

Oh, you definitely had it bad for him. You wanted to stay here, forever, just teasing him like this. Sephiroth opened his eyes and looked up at you, all wide eyes and a smug smile and a clever tongue, and you smiled back at him. What would it feel like for him to have you on top? You were hesitant to push him too far: to shred the edges of his boundaries, like peeling film from its paper backing.

You said, “I have a suggestion.”

Sephiroth looked up from between your legs. “Shoot.”

“So…” You shifted. “About the, um— ‘being on top of you’ part.”

“I’m listening.” He rested his cheek on your thigh, looked up at you from under his lashes. His fingers slowed inside of you.

“Do you…” You took your foot off of his erection. How to ask this? Suddenly, you felt self-conscious all over again, and you looked away from him, at the nightstand to his right. Your nightstand. “Do you maybe want to— uh. Lie down, while— while I—?”

The second half of the sentence came out as one garbled phrase: “Whileisitonyourface?”

Sephiroth blinked at you, his face falling. For a second, you weren’t even sure if he had heard you at all. When he removed his fingers from you, you felt shame, burning hot, creep up the back of your neck.

“I’m sorry?” he asked.

That… was not the answer you expected. “Sorry,” you said, and you waved your hands. “It’s—” You giggled nervously. “Sorry—”

“No,” he said, holding up his free hand. “Don’t apologize, I misheard you. Can you repeat that?”

You covered your face and groaned. “Please don’t make me ask again.”

He reached for your face, but you stubbornly shook your head and turned away. “How am I going to know what you want if you don’t tell me?” he laughed—

No, not laughed. Giggled. The bastard. You groaned into your hands: “Mmnh.”

“Go on,” he wheedled. 

You yelled into your hands: “I want to sit on your face!”

“That’s…” He laughed again. “What I thought you said.” His voice dipped into something tender, soft: “Really? You’d like that?”

“I…” You looked at him through your fingers, at his raised eyebrows and hopeful smile. “Yes?”

He planted a wet kiss on your inner thigh. “Nothing I’d like better.”

That was…easier than you thought it would be. He stood up between your legs. 

“Wait,” you said up at him, “Don’t you want to…are you sure?”

Sephiroth was already climbing onto the bed beside you. “It seems self-explanatory.”

“But—” 

“But what?” He moved his gray shirt and lied back against the mattress. Your stomach turned. What if you hurt him by sitting on him? You could see the headlines now: FIRST-CLASS SOLDIER’S NOSE BROKEN— IS IT AN EPIDEMIC?

“I’m sorry,” you gasped.

“Why?” he laughed. He folded his hands in his lap, smiling innocently up at you. “Go on. Sit. I’m waiting.”

“At least…” You swallowed and gestured to the pillows. “At least put something behind your— behind your head— are you sure?”  you added, voice cracking on sure.

Sephiroth rolled his eyes. He mimicked your voice:  “Are you sure?” And, when you glared at him: “Couldn’t resist. Yes, I’m sure.”

You inched over to him. “Move your hair, I don’t want to— yank it, or— hurt you.”

He huffed with impatience, but he sat up to sweep his hair to the side, out of your way. “You can’t hurt me,” he said. 

Yes, you thought, with terrible clarity. I can.

You helped him put a pillow underneath his head. When you swung your knees over his neck— resisting the horrible thought of your knee pressing into his windpipe, at that gentle face becoming angry and those broad arms hurling you across the room— he smiled up at you. In the next instant, he was under you, and you couldn’t quite see his expression anymore.

You stared at the plain wall in front of you. Sephiroth’s hands steadied you at your waist.

“What are you waiting for?” he asked, voice rough.

“I don’t— don’t let me hurt you—” You braced your hands on the headboard. “Should we have a hand signal, for if you— or—” You yelped when Sephiroth’s hands dug into your hips.

“Get down here,” he growled, and he pulled you down onto his waiting mouth. You gasped, sinking gratefully onto his lips, his tongue.

You tried, weakly, to protest: “But—”

He hooked his index finger under your waistband and snapped it against your skin. You yelped. Something rumbled against you: something low and lilting, a familiar sound.

“Are you laughing at me down there?” you asked.

“Mm-hmm.” Sephiroth flicked his tongue deftly against your clit. You started. His hands became gentle across your lower back. He did it again, and you rolled your hips into it, despite yourself. He rested his elbows against your thighs.

You traced your fingers down his arms. Some of the track marks you had seen last week were gone, but new marks had sprouted up in their place, like weeds. A track mark, looking angry and fresh, sat in the middle of a purplish-yellow bruise. Possessiveness flared in you again. What phlebotomist had been rough with him? You touched the bruise as tenderly as you could. Was it Sully? Was it some other nameless cog in the machine, one you didn’t even have the security clearance to meet? They had no clue how lucky they were to touch this man.

How dare they?

“Mine,” you growled.

Sephiroth gasped against you in response. This was not the time to ask about the bruises— not the time to think rationally about anything— and you let your hands drift away. He was so strong; you didn’t think you’d ever get over the size of his arms, his shoulders. You wanted to tell him this, but then you remembered how shy and closed-off he became last night (“I’m not much of a compliments person,”), so you settled for carding your fingers slowly through his hair.

Both of his hands slid to your front. They traveled up the Lifestream tattoo, up towards your breasts. He squeezed them again, gently this time; you sighed. His thumbs rubbed your nipples in slow, reverent circles. You loved the feeling of his hands exploring your skin. Not for the first time, you wanted to shake yourself: his touch had brought you nothing but pleasure. Why had you ever been afraid of him?

I’m afraid of this, said a voice in the back of your mind. Maybe you’d always be afraid of this; afraid of him. Maybe that was meant to be the fun part: the thrill, like sinking into a pool full of sharks, like running barefoot through the woods. Danger, when he was so near you; trust, when he was under you. The way the danger and the trust sank into each other, slow and sweet and undeniably human, like blood cells drifting to the bottom of a tube.

You leaned back and balanced your weight on your hands, presenting more of your body to him. You pushed his head up, listening to his desperate growl below you as he chased you with his mouth. The new angle forced him to lap at your clit instead. His arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you in place. Your arms trembled. 

When he circled the point of his tongue around your clit, just teasing you, you gripped the sheets on either side of his body and made an involuntary moan: a real one, a sound of pleasure you didn’t even know was hiding somewhere inside of you. Sephiroth laughed, the sound a huff of air against your skin.

“Just like that,” you sighed. “So good.”

He leaned up and kissed your clit with slow, aching tenderness. “Good,” he murmured, barely able to move his lips from your wet heat. 

You rolled your hips forward, forcing his head back onto the pillow, and he laughed again. "Keep going," you breathed. His tongue flicked against your clit; he groped at your thighs, weighing them in his hands, bringing you impossibly closer.

You looked over your shoulder, where his erection was flagging inside his sweatpants. He must want to be touched, you thought, wincing. He’s been so good. You reached behind you and tenderly brushed your fingers against his cock. He moaned under you. It was a good thing that he couldn’t see your face: how you loved seeing him fall apart for you, how you wanted to hold him this close forever.

“I know,” you whispered. “Good boy.”

Sephiroth gently took your wrist. You froze; did you do something wrong? But no, he merely guided your hand to his hair, set your palm firmly against his head, and left it there. You ran your fingers through his hair, rocking your hips gently against his mouth. His left hand disappeared from your thigh, and you were left to wonder where it had gone until Sephiroth sighed with relief, and you heard the wet sounds of him stroking himself. 

Your breath caught. You turned your head to watch. Sephiroth had shoved the waistband just enough to free his cock, as if he couldn’t wait to get his hands on himself. (Or as if he couldn’t bear to let go of you.) He pumped his dick into his fist: how torturously slow he went with himself. You rested your chin on your shoulder. “That feel good?” you asked.

“Mm-hmm.” The satisfied rumble of his voice against you made you shudder. It was hard to see his expression from this angle, but he sounded…happy. As if he wanted nothing more than to be under you. 

“My fast learner,” you whispered down to him.

His right arm tightened around your thigh. You could feel where his nose pressed against your skin. “Mm-hmm.”

You crossed your arms against the headboard and leaned against them. You rocked your hips against Sephiroth’s mouth in time with his fist, listening to the cadence of his breaths as you did. In, out— shaky now, and against your cunt. When you focused on his breathing— in, out, in-in-in, outttt, innn— pleasure and arousal crept through your belly, your chest: their warm, broad hands touching you all over. You thought about riding Sephiroth's cock, and how good that had felt inside of you; you thought of his laugh, his smile— and somewhere in all of these beautiful, pleasant, tender thoughts, you felt— good. Safe.

“Keep going,” you said. 

“Mm.” His hand sped up on his dick. You turned your head to watch him again. His fist was looser than you expected, looser than how you had touched him. He twisted his wrist near the head: a deft flick that had precome dripping generously from him. You heard him moan, and he lifted his hips into his fist, just as he flicked his tongue against you in a way that had you seeing stars. You pressed your forehead to your crossed arms, rocking hard into his mouth.

“There!” you gasped. “Don’t stop— fuck— Seph, please--”

He moaned desperately against your cunt, his whole body shuddering. You thought you might be hurting him until you felt his come hit your back. His nails dug into your waist, his hips canting behind you, making soft, pleading little noises through his orgasm. His release trickled down your fevered spine, and— you shivered with pleasure— directly onto the tights, marking them— you— permanently as his.

“Seph, you’re—” Your nails scrabbled against the wall as you gripped his hair in your other hand. “You’re so good, I—”

His left hand, still covered in come, returned to your thigh. Wetness smeared over the nylon as he groped your legs in earnest. His come was still warm. There was no disgust this time, only a desperate, aching need to have it inside of you, instead. 

You fucked his mouth with desperate thrusts— certain, now, that you were being rough with him, but his hands squeezed your ass, pinning you in place on his tongue, he wanted you to be rough—  

And there, as obvious as the ocean drawing back from the shore: you were going to come, too, and every curl of his tongue brought you closer. “Seph,” you slurred against your forearms. “Almost—”

He hummed, sounding satisfied. You bucked against his mouth— too much too much too much, time splitting open and stretching, filthy and full of pleasure— and you lost his name to a sigh when, finally, your orgasm crashed into you, your muscles tensed, and warmth flooded through your body. Your thrusts became uneven. You shivered with relief.

Sephiroth’s tongue slowed, becoming lazy, until finally, he withdrew it. When you came back to yourself, he was kissing your clit, over and over, humming with satisfaction.

“Ssph—” Your voice was high and whiny. You cleared your throat and tried again: “Seph, let me get off of you—”

You braced against the headboard. You leaned forward, lifting your cunt from his mouth.

“Wait,” he gasped, and you did. Your thighs trembled from holding yourself above his head, but he insistently pushed you down to sit on his collarbone. You could see his eyes again, the determined furrow of his brow. Something batted against your back: it was his gray shirt, he was trying to clean you with his shirt. 

You pushed it away. “No! Seph— you’ll ruin your shirt—”

“I have a washing machine.” Sephiroth’s voice was hoarse. He returned the shirt to your back, wiping his come off of you. “It’s the least I could do.”

The orgasm hadn’t even waned; you still felt little aftershocks shuddering through your muscles. “What are you talking about?” you panted. “You just got me off.”

Sephiroth tensed. His eyes flicked over your thigh. You followed his gaze; he was looking at where his wet hand had pawed against you. “I finished too quickly,” he replied, voice all cold and strange. “I’ve been working on it.”

His using the shirt filled you with a wave of sadness. He had been teased as a trainee at least once: freak, at least, was the word Samuel had used. Freak. You thought about his meager sexual experience, whether the boys he kissed had made fun of him, too. 

You reached back and took his wrist. Underneath you, Sephiroth winced, shoulders going up a little.

“Don’t, Seph,” you said to him, as tenderly as you could manage. “I’m so glad it felt that good. Nothing to feel embarrassed about.”

He wouldn’t look you in the eye. “I didn’t—” He huffed.

“I promise. We’ll put a towel down next time. How’s that?” Slowly, you released his wrist. Sephiroth didn’t do anything at first, holding the shirt up to your back with that frightened expression, so you rose to your knees and dismounted from him. With you gone, he dropped the shirt and looked out of the window, clearing his throat. His face was bright red. His sweatpants and underwear had been hastily shoved down at some point; he tucked himself back into his clothes. 

You stepped off the bed to peel off the tights. “How did it feel?”

“Amazing,” he breathed, and his body melted a little into the mattress. He turned to look up at you when you climbed back onto the bed with him. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You laid down beside him, but his arm went up automatically to pull you closer. He coaxed your head onto his chest. 

You closed your eyes and snuggled into him. “Thanks for being with me,” you murmured.

He lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your fingertips. “My pleasure,” he said, and his voice was full of relief. You let the hand fall onto his chest, where he held it tightly against his skin.

Sweetheart, you thought again. Mine.

“Nylon’s your thing, huh?” You whispered the words into his ribs. “How’d you figure that out?”

“I’m not sure,” he whispered back. “I always thought it would feel nice.” He moved his hand to your hair, stroked it fondly. “I’m glad I was right.”

“Did you—?” You shook your head. “Never mind.”

“Go ahead.”

You looked down and traced little circles on his chest. “I was wondering if it was— like, a reciprocal thing. Like if you wanted to wear them.” 

“Huh.” His eyes scanned the ceiling. He shrugged. “I’ve never really thought of that.” His eyes flicked down to yours, and he, finally, smiled. “You’re a tough act to follow.”

You giggled. “Thanks.” You added, quietly: “I’d like you in anything. Just— for the record.”

Sephiroth chuckled. “If I change my mind, you’ll be the first to know.”

A helicopter circled lazily over Midgar. You watched it crawl across the sky for several minutes. Finally, somewhere over Sector Three, it turned to the side, and you caught its logo: it was a news helicopter, potentially a drone. They were filming the plate from above. You imagined it was for a weather segment, potentially a pleasant bumper for a commercial break. 

You furrowed your brow and looked up at Sephiroth. He had closed his eyes and looked to be drifting off again. You took a deep breath, then asked, “Does this feel good to you, still? Are we going too fast?”

He opened his eyes and looked down at you. “Feels fine to me. Why?” He tilted his head, studying your face with such tenderness that you felt yourself blush. “Does something feel wrong?”

“No!” you blurted. Sephiroth’s lips twitched up. You cleared your throat. “I mean— I don’t— don’t want to push you, or— make you uncomfortable. You know?”

His smile widened. “Mm.” He stroked your hair again. “I know how to say no.”

“I know you know—” You waved your hand. “I just mean— you can. And I don’t just want you to say no,” you added. “I want you to say yes. You’re not—”  

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “I’m not...?”

“I mean. I like you.” You looked away from him. “I really like you. I care about you. And I— I don’t want you to feel like you have to, you know…have to say all those nice things and do stuff just to—just to make me—” You sighed. “—feel better, I don’t know.”

“Hey. Look at me.”

You did. Sephiroth held up one hand, palm out towards you.

“Touch,” he said.

You brushed your fingertips against his palm. Sword callouses marked the skin under each finger. You hesitated and looked up at him, at those mako-green eyes that watched you with nothing but gentleness. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Take it.”

You laced your fingers with his. He squeezed your hand.

“This,” he said to your joined hands, “is real. This is not going anywhere.”