"I want your body," he said, with that voice so deep, so immeasurably deep. It rushed like a rapid tide at my feet, cold, then warm, on the skin he sought to claim.
"I want your body," he said again. Words washed over me like small waves, fluid, warm, cresting with points of roughness from the strain my most beloved bore.
"I must have you," he insisted. My angel had a tongue to charm the wings off his own kin. He spoke and his deep voice flowed so soft around me. What could I do but sink into it? An endless fall into warm, slowing waters, his voice cushioned me, caressed me and drew me down, further down.
Warm breath ghosted on my body. Velvet strength held me still. I felt him pushing, reaching, touching. I drifted in the soft streams of his voice. His insistent pleading rose and fell, wide and soft and slow. I rocked in the swell of a deep, green ocean, like his eyes and mine.
I never thought to refuse. That he should want what I could give was a wonder, a blessing. If there was sin and wrong in this, it was that a noble archangel be reduced to this. The world was his for the taking. Why should majesty stoop to ask for one such as I?
He was everywhere, all around and deep inside me, and still his voice was there. I was aflame, needed to respond. My body, the body he desired, was so slow. I struggled against the current. He needed. He needed me and I would give.
It was not lack of will that slowed me. Will there was aplenty, fierce, desperate. Heart and mind and soul I would give him, they were already his, but body, beautiful body, it heeded not the Master's call. Treacherous body.
I quivered in the current of his streaming pleas, ashamed that languor was taken for aversion. Abomination, the thought that any could refuse his will. Such favor he showed me. Glory and grace for the deepest inner mystery of my form. What right had this body to refuse? Selfishness had been no greater sin than here. I wept to hear my angel begging entrance at his own abode.
The deep ocean voice turned to praise, delicate and fleeting, foamy ocean spray that bathed my pale skin, entrancing my flesh, winning over what was already his. Soothing, beguiling, coaxing, cajoling, inviting, entrancing, devouring, defiling…
My heart, his, soared with his praise of my shining hair. I felt it whip around me in the stream of his swirling voice. Our blood beat the shores of our being when he sang of the beauty of green eyes.
"I need you, lovely one," he said. "You are rightfully mine. No other will suit me so well. No other will do." His voice was heavy with strain, weighing down on me like miles of deep sea on a grain of oceanbed sand. "Let me in, love, let me in. You are already mine."
Body heard the call, felt the strain, saw the rightness of it all. Such relief when it relinquished itself to his desperate need. He was already so deep inside me. It was only right that he fill all of me. He came inside, stretching me, pushing me to the edge of myself. He claimed me wholly and I let him. Heart and mind and soul were already his. He took hands and face and hair and eyes, hips and throat and pulsing heat… He took them all. My spirit flew, my joy spilled over when he did.
He had never mentioned, not once in all that deep green wash of beautiful pleading, that were I to let him fill me so, there would be no space left for me.
I hover outside now, beyond the body that was his, that was made mine, that he made his again. For all his sweet, sweet, devilish distortions – no, I cannot call them 'lies'- I cannot abandon my angel. He took only what was his by right.
My shining hair was not always mine. My pale skin, slender fingers, they had been his once. Our shining eyes, they were his first. What I was before, I scarcely recall. I float in the green bereft of the borrowed glory, the grace that had only been entrusted to me till my most beloved should call for it again. He had need. I answered. He took my body. It was more his than it had ever been mine.
I am cast adrift in a wide green ocean, steering only by a longing to bask in his radiance, drawn to the body that was never mine. High waves batter me without his shelter. The current is cold, fast and strong. It is as it should be.
If there is sadness, any hint of regret, it is only for his sake. For the way he stares at his fingers in the darkness as if to reassure himself that they truly are his. For the way he scratches at the dark line on the back of one hand. The flesh I wore was not mine, but that inked scourge should have no place on him.
Had I lips to speak, I would beg his forgiveness for letting his proud flesh be so marred. If he would look at my floundering soul, I would show him my regret that it was done even before I could recall waking as keeper of his glory. If I could, I would plead to be granted the words of absolution in that voice like the deep, deep ocean. It would still me, it would soothe me, it would thrill all that is left of me. It would be more than I deserve, to feel his steadying presence around me once more. I long to hear my angel's voice, but he will not speak to me anymore.
A.N: In the midst of late night work and low blood sugar, I apparently did not make things quite as obvious as I thought I did and the fic is just a oneshot, so for the curious, the narrator is Clone No. 1 speaking about Sephiroth. Thanks for the comments!