Author's Notes: This is a story that I've promised to a friend...a looooong time ago...ehehehe... XP The premise was: Father!Vincent/Son!Sephiroth incest. So yeah, please read the tons of warnings before continuing :P
Hope she likes it. ^^
Disclaimer: Square Enix owns everything in Final Fantasy VII. I've only temporarily kidnapped their characters for fun and entertainment, I make no profit off them, and they will be shortly released back into their original homes in more or less good condition :)
Warning: In accordance to the rules of Fanfiction . net, only the tamest part of this story is and ever will be uploaded onto this site. The rest of it can only be found on AFF, which strictly enforces adult readership...and with good reason... =D Implied incest, implied corporeal punishment, mentions of non-consensual sex, mentions of child abuse, some depictions of violence, blood, minor character death...heck, even with everything just implied or mentioned, this still fully deserves its M rating... But if you are of age and are crazy enough to seek out the full version, this is where it is: http:[/][ff.]adultfanfiction.[net/]story[.php]?no=600083198
Wordless Lessons
The sound of water splashes echoed through the sparsely furnished room. Sephiroth tightened his jaw and firmly sat his resolve, determined to not give Vincent the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Oh he knew what the older demon was doing. He knew it very well. Even though he could not see him from his position. And he knew that Vincent was taking his sweet time making his preparations on purpose, out of sight but within earshot, drawing it out, making more noise than was necessary, just to goad the silver half-angel. Instead Sephiroth choose to focus on the cool, smoothness of the tabletop that his naked torso was resting upon, the chill of the damp air wafting across his bare buttocks, and the hardness of the ground beneath his bare feet. He refused to picture in his minds eye, Vincent sitting beside a sink behind him, near, very near, enough that Sephiroth could hear each and every one of his quiet breaths. He refused to picture those pale, graceful, callused fingers running along the dark, firm surface of the older demon's weathered, heavy belt, as they ran it slowly, patiently through ice-cold water. He refused to dwell on his own knowledge of the cruel sting that said water adds to the already formidable belt. He refused to allow Vincent the satisfaction of knowing how much his psychological game was working.
Ah but Vincent would have that look on his face, that little frown, those gathered brows, the water reflecting the candlelight into his beautiful, brooding crimson eyes. He would be in his black leather work attire too, his favourite, and also Sephiroth's favourite. It had been with Vincent through many battles, big and small, and now fits him and moves with him like a second skin. Its well-thought-out design both providing secret pockets within which he hides the deadly tools of his trade, and accentuating the lethal grace of his tall, lean, work-hardened, body. In it, Vincent would glide through shadows, walk with darkness, and deliver silent judgement upon those misfortunate souls chosen to be his targets by the Archdaemon of Hell, Lord Chaos. And now this dark punisher was sitting behind the bent angel, silently and solemnly preparing his instrument of pain as he contemplated the pale canvas upon which he was to strum.
Sephiroth knew he rightly deserved what was coming, he'd been reckless, careless, and sloppy, and had likely caused his beloved father a hornet's nest worth of trouble. But he'd be damned if he showed any weakness, especially to him. If Vincent expected an easy submission from the young, headstrong, obstinate silver angel then Hell knows he had another thing coming.
—
Vincent resisted the urge to sigh as he looked over the prone form of his son, bent over the table before him. The young man had become quite good at concealing his nervousness in anticipation to his punishment. His breathing was calm, his heartbeat barely faster than normal, his muscles relaxed, and the slight goosebumps on his bare skin could easily have been passed off as the result of the cool air of the room. His hands were free, as were his feet. There were no tethers binding him down, for none was needed. The young man was far too proud to show pain and cowardice in trying to escape. Instead his defiance would come in the form of feigned indifference as he lay unmoving and unresponsive—as much as he could manage—through his ordeal.
If only he displayed such discipline and self-control in other parts of his life too. Vincent bit back another sigh.
He could not dismiss the fact that he was also partially responsible for Sephiroth's misbehaviour. Sephiroth has had to fight for his right to live since the very beginning, and one can't expect it to be easy to tell someone to give up those very behaviours and instincts that they had relied upon for their very survival for so many years.
And it was the older demon's fault, his careless that had caused the young half-demon such strive. Back then, he was young, arrogant. The group of angels—of which Sephiroth's mother was a member—were mere scholars, collecting various samples of flora and fauna for their research. But they in their passion for knowledge, forgot their surroundings and made the innocent yet fatal mistake of breeching the border between Heaven and Hell. Had no one seen them before they realized their mistake, they might have just ran back across the border safe and sound. But they were unfortunate.
Vincent had slaughtered them all. It was only expected. After all, they were angels who had trespassed into Hell, they would have been equally doomed had they ran into any other demon.
Well, except in the case of one small female.
Vincent could still remember vividly, how his younger self relished the carnage; how sweet to his ears were the sounds of those angels' terrified, gurgling screams, how easily their civilian flesh gave way under his savage claws! And when he looked upon the big frightened eyes, the long, rich, chestnut hair, and the soft ivory skin peeking out from the tattered white coat of the only female angel in the company, his blood pounding with the thrill of the kill, he did not hesitate to claim his prize. It was his right after all. The male angel with the oily black hair and the round spectacles was evidently her prospective mate. Rather a weak choice by his reckoning. And having dispatched of him so easily and savagely before the little female's eyes, surely she would welcome the embrace of such a stronger, more dominant male. And yet she didn't. She sobbed and screamed and even, in his slight distraction in his moment of bliss, punched him square in the nose. Dumbfounded and stunned, he could only watch as the small female somehow managed to put forth a burst of magic that bounced off his chest but knocked her quite a bit of distance away from him, and then scrambled and tumbled on her trembling limbs and disheveled wings across the border back to Heaven.
And Vincent could only scratch his head in confusion, and file away her strange behaviour into the back of his mind as another quirk of angels that he probably should investigate if he wished to become one of Chaos' elite Shadow Walkers, and then he went on with his life. It was not until several years later that that incident came back to bite him in the ass—HARD.
Chaos had sent him to investigate some suspicious activities of the angels living in the mountains close to their western border, and his investigations led him to a small orphanage that sat some distance away from the main angel town. At first the building seemed nothing extraordinary, but Vincent's sharp eyes and sensitive, well-trained ears soon picked up telltale signs and sounds, and easily uncovered secret passages and doors that led into a dark, fortified basement.
And there he saw him. Silent and hidden in the shadows among the ceiling supports, Vincent found himself looking down into the haunting bright green eyes of a child—his child. Though the child's eye- and hair-colour matched neither Vincent's nor the small female angel's, Vincent instantly recognized his son for who he was. And the boy too, was staring right back at him. How the boy had sensed the elite assassin's presence, Vincent did not know. But he knew that the boy had also sensed the bond between them, even though he was likely too young and too inexperienced to recognize what exactly was it that he felt.
Given how much the angels despised half-bloods, for they considered them a unforgivable stain on their holy purity, Vincent was amazed that they'd have allowed one to live—and for so long. But then again, angels were notorious in their stubborn insistence to preserve 'life', all life, however illogical it seemed to demons. Demons highly valued strength and competence. Useless or destructive burdens on their society were spared no coddling. If a demon mother were to find a serious defect in her newborn, then she herself would deliver the swift end to the seedling life even as the afterbirth still lay drying on the ground. Angels however, will go to great lengths to preserve the lives of even the most hopeless, catatonic infants; willing to feed huge amounts of resources into the weak, flickering embers of life, practically forcing them to keep on existing, all the while knowing full well that the dim, dying sparks will never grow to give back the warmth they received.
Keeping the children alive, however, didn't always mean alive and well—as evident by the scene before Vincent's eyes. Right now, his son was being held down on a metallic examination table with thick leather belts around his arms, legs, torso, and head. Around him, adult angels in lab coats tinkered with machines and sharp medical tools. Along the far wall, heavy cages were stacked upon each other and tucked into the shadows; and suspicious, smallish forms quivered and spasmed within them.
A cold, tapping sound quickly brought the young half-angel's eyes away from Vincent and towards one of those lab-coated adults, who was brandishing a large needle filled with some kind of glowing green liquid, and was slowly advancing towards the helpless child. Goosebumps rose on the child's too-pale skin as the muscles beneath it tensed and stiffened. Though the child remained still, the demon assassin could not have missed the silent fear and despair in those bright, green eyes. Nor could he have missed the sadistic glee in the angel scientists'. And that was the first time in his life that Vincent had so completely and utterly lost control.
It was an extremely foolish and impulsive thing to do. Had his presence in Heaven been exposed then there was a lot more than his life that he could have lost. And had he said that he had torn through all those angels like so many old rags, while suffering nary a scratch on himself, then it'd be a boastful lie. But he was not one of Chaos' elites for nothing. Even in his rage he took care to make sure that there wouldn't be any evidence left that pointed to a demon's doing. Luckily it wasn't very difficult, with the angels "helping" him with the fortification and soundproofing of the basement and their dirty little secret lab and all. And he made doubly sure that every last person in the building was well and truly killed.
Well, every person except for one.
And there the Shadow Walker stood, face to face with his son, unsure of what to do next. The most logical choice would be to kill the boy. He was the only witness left. And what records Vincent could find in the building all stated that the boy's mother was long dead. Even if she were alive, it was not like a demon could just comb through Heaven for one single woman and hand the child back to her. If he tried that, the most likely scenario would be he getting himself and also the little angel killed, and the boy getting stuffed back into another institution just like this one. And the boy was just as likely to die if he took him back to Hell with him. Demon society had no trouble accepting half-bloods—they considered new blood in the gene pool to be a source of renewal and strength. But for one who had lived in Heaven since birth, and for so many years, no doubt many will question his loyalty to Hell and his ability to fit into demon society with demon instincts and demon values. Chaos may well judge the boy to be too much a liability and order his execution anyway.
Yes killing the boy right here, right now, quickly, efficiently, and painlessly, would be the most logical, most sensible, and most merciful choice. Yet the demon assassin found himself rooted to the spot, unable to carry out the kill. And the boy, still strapped helplessly on the examination table, surrounded by the savaged remains of what had just moments ago been his entire world, only silently stared at the dark grim reaper before him. In the boy's eyes Vincent had expected to find tears, or fear, or resignation, or even hatred. But to his amazement, none were present in those hauntingly beautiful green eyes. Instead, those eyes burned with defiance—defiance in the face of his would-be executioner, defiance in the face of fate. And that was the second time in his life that Vincent had utterly lost control of his better judgement.
His claws flashed before him, cutting away the boy's leather shackles almost as if they were controlled by a mind that was not his own. And he bent down to the boy's eye level and gave him a choice: die right here—and Vincent swears that he will be able to make it quick and painless, or live with Vincent in Hell. If he chose to go with Vincent, his life and his safety, and his happiness, can not be guaranteed. But Vincent would give him the highest oath that a demon can give that he will not allow him to be locked up and experimented on ever again.
At first, uncertainty flashed in those young, green orbs, and the demon assassin thought the young boy might choose the easier path. Heaven and Hell had been at war with each other for a very, very long time. Even trapped in this dark, stoney basement, the boy was sure to have heard many things about Hell—none of it good, Vincent would wager. And the dark, crouching specter reflected in those mirror-like green eyes, clad from head to toe with black and crimson, leather and blood—his own included, was certain to be a most comforting sight. But when a small, thin, pale hand reached forward and grasped his offered, bloodied claw, Vincent knew in that instant that his own fate had been sealed. From this day on he would never, ever be free of Sephiroth ever again—not if he could help it.
It didn't mean the ride afterwards was smooth of course. Although Chaos took a quick liking to the boy and accepted him into his realm easily enough—much to Vincent's surprise and relief—Sephiroth had had a lot of trouble staying out of trouble at first. Obstinate wild-child former lab-rat that he was. And Vincent had never entertained any delusions that he might one day win a Father of the _ award. But years of hard work on both their parts was now finally seeming to bear some fruit...and then the impulsive brat just had to go and stick a sword through Old Shinra's back!
Vincent tested the wet, heavy belt in his palm with a resounding SMACK!
It's not that he regretted the old pompous bastard's passing one single bit. Not many people did. And that was the only reason why Sephiroth was here, free, sentenced to submit to his Shadow Walker father's disciplining by order of Lord Chaos, instead of being trussed like a pig and locked in some dungeon somewhere—or worse.
He was truly angry this time, like he hadn't been since the first time he disciplined Sephiroth this way, the first time the stubborn, headstrong boy had put himself in such mortal danger. But he was only a child then, and Vincent had held back then, and also every time since then. But now, Sephiroth was an adult by Hell's standards, and Vincent could not tell whether he was more disappointed at Sephiroth, or at himself as a father and teacher that the stubborn half-demon would do something this reckless, this stupid again. He would not hold back this time. This will not be a lesson that the impulsive young man will soon forget.