Summary: If Sephiroth wanted to know, to be sure, Cloud would oblige him. In every way.
Warnings: Kinda vague, kinda OOC. Not-beta read and written in about 1 hour...like getting film developed, only...not really at all.
Author Notes: A fic written for the new group, Final Fantasy Yaoi Heaven (Based on the juicy picture of Sephiroth on the group front page.
"I'm not a boy, and I'm not weak," Cloud screamed, throat hoarse from it. And perhaps the wooden walls of this little hotel heard the words, mulled them over, and decided they weren't worth the trouble of absorbing or silencing for they seemed to linger heavy in the air like fog. When the finally faded away, it was as if they had never been at all.
The silence that followed his outburst made Cloud regret having said anything at all. But hadn't he been quiet for long enough?
Even when it felt like he had been screaming for days, he had been silent. Even when his looks — from eyes glowing with more than stolen energy — were ignored, no matter how full of longing or desperation. At those times, even the smallest, unseen parts of him had roared with this need while his lips stayed shut like iron gates. How long had he wanted to rip the word "boy" from this man's lips, throw it away, and put new words inside, words that didn't sting. How long had he wanted to say these words? And now they came out, shot into the air by his impotent anger and impossible to catch and hold back.
Sephiroth heard now, had understood all along. He stood through the outburst, his face painted with unimpressed. It was in the way his back was stiff and his sneer twisted like a knife in Cloud's chest, turning, turning until the little blonde felt like a toy soldier, gutted.
Hair as long as the rope he had given Cloud to hang himself by tumbled over Sephiroth's armoured shoulder as he cocked his head to the side to take in the size of the youth before him. The boy was shaking with rage. Every muscle in his slim body rose to the surface of his skin like hills from the land untouched by Midgar's sprawl.
He was drawn taut, every line clean with anger. Sephiroth wondered what would happen if, like strumming a bowstring, he reached out and plucked. Pulled that simmering tension to the limit. Would the boy snap clean into two useless threads?
Or would he be the bow, the quiver, the true, straight aim that brought the world to heel?
Sephiroth doubted that.
Yet doubt was only the product of curiosity untested. And he would know. He would test.
Like an archer, he reached out a slender, gloved finger, wrapped it firmly around the thread and drew it towards him.
"Not a boy, hmm?" he asked, his voice full of condescension.
Cloud stood even straighter. Would his hands ever uncurl, or were his fingers dug so deep into his palm that they would never come free? "I told you already: I'm not!"
The corners of Sephiroth's mouth lifted up, challengingly. The bow was quivering with the strain, wasn't it?
Before Cloud could speak again, Sephiroth was moving. Sure, crisp movements that spoke of the soldier he was. His fingers found the clasp of a buckle, then another. The sound of heavy fabric hitting the floor synchronised with the widening of Cloud's eyes as he watched, watched, and couldn't turn away.
The tension drained from his body, his hands falling limply at his sides, and now he stood dumb, mesmerised.
The last scrap of clothing joined the others on the floor and Sephiroth stood there, no less imposing for his nudity. Every muscle harmonised with those around it: a crescendo into hip, a slow ripples of mellow trills into thighs and a broad sweep of baritone into a chest carved of perfection.
The heat of his blush had crept inside Cloud's mouth and melded his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He couldn't speak. All he could do was agree with his mind as it told him that no one, absolutely no one, could be this perfect.
This was not a man. This was some god dragged from the heavens by the eyes and greedy hands of worshippers. Because everything about him was like a treasure: green eyes like jade, skin smooth like pearl, hair like silver, a voice like molten gold. A prize. An unobtainable prize.
And he knew it. How he knew it. Cloud hated him for that.
"Not weak?" Sephiroth whispered, lifting his arms in a gesture that might have been welcoming, but seemed more as if he was lifting a wall around him, keeping everyone away. Everyone not worthy of looking at him, touching him.
And when it all came down on him, weighing his shoulders down with the pressure of finally taking what he had thought he wanted; of being in control of how much he took and if he took, Cloud found the strength after all.
His feet at least, were sure. His hands followed their lead. After only staring until his eyes were sore with it, after so long of letting his head turn wherever a silver and black billow of hair and cloth went, Cloud finally touched.
He touched and couldn't stop. His fingers were drunk on skin and hair and ridges of bones tucked beneath it all. And when he tasted, he felt as if his mind had floated away, leaving him only nerves, and fingers, and lips that wanted and took.
When his mouth was full with heat and a foreign pulse beat against his tongue, it wasn't enough. When his nails scraped down flawless skin as he tried to dig himself deeper into this man, it still wasn't enough.
And even after they had tumbled onto the bed and finally found each other's lips, Cloud only cried for more and then seized. He had only himself to blame when he found that it was perhaps more than he could take, after all.
His hands were pinned, his hips adjusted like tools meant to be used. He couldn't really move, didn't know if he wanted to.
Cloud bit into his lip and let his head fall back. He tried to untangle his legs from the sheets. He tried not to squirm helplessly around the fingers inside him that explored deep and then deeper. He tried to spread his legs wider for Sephiroth. He tried not to scream.
But it hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it burned.
Only he heard himself whisper "I'm not weak" as he took more into his body and shut his eyes against the tears.
Sephiroth, for his delicate face and crystal eyes, was not gentle. Cloud found his body bent double, his hips bruised, his nipples bitten sore and the muscles inside him straining to take every thrust. The pain never stopped, even when pleasure stained its corners red and then black as his mouth ripped wide around a scream and his body was slicked with his release. Unconsciousness teased him like a light flickering just outside his vision.
But Sephiroth was not finished. He was roused again, made to perform again. Cloud learned so many ways to spread his legs to take a man inside his body — on his knees, on his back, on his side, spread out on his stomach like a feast. He learned that Sephiroth moaned when he flexed his muscles to choke the heat inside him. He learned that if Sephiroth twisted his hips just so, he'd black out instantly and wake up what seemed like hours later only to find Sephiroth still inside him, tireless.
He learned that letting go hurt as much as holding back. And that he loved it, loved every scratch and rip of his flesh and stain of blood on the sheets.
When he was finally allowed to rest, he doubted that he would ever move again.
Sephiroth left him there, curled beneath the dampened blankets, sleeping soundly. He stood and looked down at the boy —a child really —with his blonde spikes that had fallen around his face with the sweat, and the force of having his face forced into a mattress for so long. His innocent, wide eyes, and sin-tortured body a beautiful contradiction. The purpling bruises around his bleeding nipples were like art.
As were the red stains from tears flowing down his cheeks and a scab forming on his lip where both he and Sephiroth had bitten into them over and over.
He gathered up his clothes and dressed, sliding his gloves on last. He did so slowly, smoothly, and the smirk followed soon after.
"Goodnight, boy," he whispered and then stepped into the hall, leaving Cloud and the room in darkness as if only he carried light within him.