Short and sweet, my first attempt at Sephiroth/Cloud.
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He came to him that first night, smiling and laughing, arms held wide. He had went willingly, longing to be enfolded in that loving embrace, longing to feel those wings gently shroud around them, to conceal them from the outside world. He longed for simply the two of them, embracing, loving, smiling and laughing.
But that was not the case. The smiles and the laughs were ones of dominance, of quiet knowledge that the other belonged to him; the arms had been too strong, too restricting, and too possessive. And Cloud had not cared. Let him know, only, that he adored him, that any touch, any look from him was everything he needed, for he worshipped him, and he was his all.
Cloud had wakened from that dream, drenched in a cold sweat, and had not slept again that night.
The next night had given him the dream of gently placing the heartless angel down upon silken sheets, eyes wide and adoring. He had lain on top of him, and made love, moaning and quietly panting his devotion, desperate to bring pleasure to this beauty, this god, and desperate for him to acknowledge that unfaltering flame from him.
But the beauty below him was cold, his gasps and pants muted, for he was not a creature of love, not even to those he knew loved him unfalteringly. His apparent submission to Cloud showed only his dominance; he could make him do anything, anything for him, make him pleasure and please him, making him beg for a sign, a smile, anything, and know that he would rejoice even if the smile did not show love.
Cloud awoke from that night, eyes glowing faintly in the dark, and wondered what was happening to him.
The third night and he was lain down on soft cushions and pillows. His eyes were half-lidded, and he could feel his god moving above him. A soft, velvet touch, and he was moaning softly, begging for more, begging for more honour. He, a failure, touched and caressed by him, a god. Touched by him, taken by him, he adored every second of it.
The lovemaking had been intense, passionate, and Cloud and barely seen through the sheen of tears in his eyes. He adored him. He worshipped him. He would let him do anything to him, anything at all, just as long as such honour would not stop, would never stop…
And Cloud had awoken that night, the faint sounds of laughter in his ears, and known what had been happening. His resolve was firmed, for he was no puppet, and even Sephiroth could not make him believe he was. The dreams he sent him meant nothing, for Cloud was his own person, not an ardent follower of the old General, of the failed hero.
But in those dreams, he cried and screamed his worship, his adoration, and Sephiroth knew that that was just as true.