A quick drabble to get my rusty fingers back into writing shape. I've always been dissapointed with the way Sephiroth and Cloud are portrayed in the fanon world.

Disclaimer: Obviously, I have no claim over anything produced by SquareEnix, and I am not making money by writing this. The day I get paid to write gay porn is the day I die.


The first time he saw Sephiroth, he knew how it would end. He had been a slip of a boy, with snot and blood running down his nose from a fight with the village boys. He hadn't wanted his mother to know, so he'd grabbed a newspaper from off the kitchen table in an attempt to swab the blood.

Sephiroth had been standing on a podium, lips slightly parted, as if he was about to impart some valuable jewel of wisdom onto the masses beneath him; or perhaps he was sighing, standing with infinite patience while reporters took photograph after photograph. Cloud stared at the man on the paper, as blood ran down his chin and onto the article beneath.

His mother had come home and yelled at the sight of her son's blood on the floor, his clothes, her kitchen. Cloud had gone to take a shower, but not before tearing the picture out and hiding it in his dresser.

Under the steamy streams of water he felt that familiar itch in his abdomen and he did what every young boy did, rubbing and biting his lip, but now he pictures a face with parted lips. Afterwards, Cloud felt tired and happier than he's ever been in his entire life. He goes to bed without any supper, just curls under the blankets and fishes the picture from out of its hiding spot.

The man that stares back at him isn't really a man, he's a boy too, slightly older than Cloud. But he looks so much wiser, as though he's lifted every rock and knows exactly what crawls underneath. He's beautiful, in such a raw, powerful way that Cloud feels compelled to move closer, until he can see the tiny dots of ink on the paper. This man is is Sephiroth, the war hero. He is only 18 years old. And Cloud can tell, just from a picture, that he is as alone as a person can be. In this, he and Cloud are similar. The young boy rubs a finger over the paper and wonders if Sephiroth would let him touch those lips in real life.

The thought makes him moan softly, and he feels warm and itchy again. Propped up with one arm, he reached down for the second time that night, fumbling with his waistband before wrapping a hand around his fastly growing erection. Now he doesn't need to imagine, because Sephiroth is staring back at him, luminous eyes unblinking, lips parted, Cloud's name on the tip of his tongue and it feels so good to have someone want him, someone notice him, to touch, and lick, and bite and oh...

Something warm fills Cloud's hand and he wipes it on the paper instinctively.

He's drowsy and empty now. He looks at the face on the paper again and knows that this beautiful man will never say his name, never even see him. The man with the wide, reflective eyes, Sephiroth, will never see anyone. He's just a picture.

But the spark that he felt in his chest at the first sight of those parted lips settles into the pit of his stomach and burns enough to never, ever let him forget.