By Lena ban Obsidian
Something about it, the danger. Heat and sweat. Being beaten; oh, the possibility of falling from grace.
It made his body scream for touch, any touch, his own, the wall, anything, just to be touched.
He had grown up separate from things. Apart from the world, distant by right of who he was, by right of what they wanted of him. It had hurt him, as a child; to be torn away from Nibelheim, to be dragged from the place where life beat chill under the breastbone of the Planet herself. It had made him want to tear at his skin with his fingernails, just to feel something pulsing, even if it were his blood, his life's blood pooling with every throb of his heart.
It had hurt.
He had grown up knowing that he liked himself. He liked to talk to himself. Not...not talk to himself. He wasn't crazy. Everyone-- he could hear them, their thoughts, even, sometimes-- everyone thought....everyone thought he would go crazy. He wasn't crazy. They were the ones who...with their...god, their needs and their lusts. They were crazy. Even if they couldn't close, he knew, he knew how they wanted him, and he learned to appreciate himself. He was so strong, so strong, they couldn't touch him. There was something...deeply pleasurable about that, about being something to conquer.
He wanted that. Himself. His own surrender. He wanted that like they wanted that.
But in Midgar he couldn't hear the heartbeat of the Lifestream and even though he remembered how it felt, to be touched with every exhalation of life and death, to be slave to that sensation, it was beyond his strength to reach out and touch it back. He was cut off, he was choking on a collar he hadn't realized until much too late that he had. In a twisted way, he loved his father for that, for choking away what little of him could hear the Planet's whisper-soft caresses. He loved the chains that bound him to Midgar, trained him there, beat him into the shape ShinRa desired.
Then they had given him freedom, the intricate play of asphyxiation and breathing room making him giddy with the sudden rush of life that he'd felt when he went to Wutai. He razed Wutai in an excess of glory and sex, raped her land and some of his soldiers, though they never seemed to mind his touch, no matter how violently the throbbing ache behind his ears-- so long empty-- made him treat them.
He made friends in Wutai. He was ruthless. His friends were ruthless; all others were subordinates, slaves to his will. Not a man in the world could stand against him, and it simultaneously thrilled and frustrated him, made him desperately hungry for the one who could break him, take him. Made him feed, in return, upon the innocence of all those too weak to stop him, who invited him into their beds with wide, unknowing eyes and made soft cries of anguish as he took them, sometimes tore them, made them his, all his.
When they tried to call him back to Midgar he fought, not because he wanted to fight them but because he wanted them to tame him. They tried, and he was alive, alight with anticipation, but their victory never came, their leash too loose to choke him into joining them at their sides.
He returned to Midgar of his own free will and began to search.
He could find them. The pretty ones, the ones meant for him. He could mark them, but he did not wish to leave a trail, nor did he wish to have many of them. He marked them off in his mind, investigated the promising ones.
And then. Then he had found Cloud.
He was worthy of adoration. He had known this from early in his life, and never doubted it. He was worthy of praise, he dreamed, he dared to dream, to know that he could be, should be a God.
Had he ever understood this before, he would have known that to take Cloud Strife would be the one thing that could ruin him; and he was quite sure that, regardless of whether he'd known or not, he'd have taken that child anyway, again and again and forever, worshipping the wailing body beneath him as surely as he was worshipped with every breath that Cloud took.
It was this, this trembling, fragile boy, this that tamed him, that turned him on that tore at his mind with so many conflicting needs that he knew himself to be as much a possession as the one who possessed. It was the way that Cloud cried when he stole the child's virginity; it was the way that Cloud whispered his name like a prayer, clinging to him when morning came. It was Cloud's eyes, always trusting. It was Cloud's body, always smooth, free of scars.
And it was Cloud's mind, that he could feel, and touch and probe, more clearly than any of the indistinct feelings that hovered in the air when ordinary creatures, ordinary humans were in his presence. He could violate Cloud's mind as surely as his body, blinding him, touching him without ever touching him, from all the way across the room.
He touched himself, trembling, his forehead leaned against the cool metal wall of his quarters, his breath coming faster as he thought of the terror, the simultaneous pleasure that flared in Cloud's eyes when he realized that Sephiroth wanted and would not ever, EVER take 'no' for an answer. Images of wide blue eyes, so trusting, so confused, so...so Cloud were in his mind, behind his eyes as he mouthed the words he would have said, had Cloud been near enough to ravish in person.
He stifled a groan, his naked body radiating the heat of arousal as he knelt in his bed, leaning against the wall, fucking his hands, fucking his hands and dreaming of Cloud, silky and smooth and sweet and so much his, always his, marked as HIS and no one else's, no one, never.
It was becoming more difficult to silence himself, his mouth moving, his voice giving rise to soft whispers of lust, of 'mine, mine say you're mine, you want to be mine, always, always, love me, Cloud, love me' that he would not have dared to let anyone but the boy himself hear, because.
And he was thrusting into his hands and oh, fucking Cloud's mind even while the boy slept in the lower levels of Midgar, tossing and turning, unaware of what his General was doing to him, of what his General was begging of him, just coming as Sephiroth came and he knew, he knew, he knew when Cloud came, he knew. There was a moment when Cloud came and he could HEAR.
The planet was screaming. He was raping her. Oh, he was raping her, he could feel the throb of her heartbeat.
His hips still thrust into his hands, Cloud's body so many miles away shuddering in sympathy to the motions, as if he was inside more than the boy's mind, until the power of his own orgasm released him, his weakness exploited, sated for the night, for now. He leaned more heavily against the wall, gasping for breath, his hands a mess of semen, his pleasure all in himself. He was loved, feared by all, he was worshipped by the one who mattered he was a God.
He was a God, Cloud's God, oh, oh, god.
Dizzy with his own weaknesses (he didn't have weaknesses, no, of course), he shuddered in sudden realization of the temperature of his room, of the sweatsoaked sheets rucked up around his knees, of the wall he rested his face against. He missed the cold, the cold, Nibelheim. He needn't think of the boy who owned him. He missed Nibelheim. His room wasn't cold enough.
And the falling, that turned him on too. Choked him, reeled and swirled around him, trying to frighten him back into line, but oh, oh.
The falling turned him on.
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