60/100: Blood. Sephiroth/Genesis
Yes, I am spamming you with Sephesis. Love it. This is technically a sequel to a fic I'll put out next week, but can be read on its own.
Disclaimer - Characters are not mine, unfortunately.
Blood
Vices
His greeting was the cold, unfeeling kiss of Masamune against his neck where his collar and turtleneck failed to protect naked, pale flesh. He felt it cut, gasping at the sensation, enough magic channelled into the blade to make it tingle. Genesis turned around.
Sephiroth was smirking but did not lower his sword to its resting – but ready – position, angled down to the floor in his left hand. Green eyes betrayed no exhaustion from a two-week long 'search and destroy' mission in the south. Only his joy for being home again, in the company of his favourite prey, was shown.
"I was wondering when you would show your face again," Genesis said, lips tightening to bare gleaming white teeth in a sneer as much as it was a smile. Relief could not be concealed in his deep blue eyes. Though it was not from concern and worry for his lover's safety – simply a self-centred content that he would finally be able to fight an equal again. Angeal was too occupied with his puppy now to spare a fleeting glance; too wrapped up in a sycophantic romance to spare a wandering hand. Genesis had to rely on Sephiroth.
It wasn't so bad after all. There were things that Sephiroth did that Angeal wouldn't even dream of doing. Like playing with swords simply to wound. It may be irritating and uncomfortable, feeling his own blood ooze from his neck whilst the mako within began to heal him, but he could not deny the sudden tightness to his uniform leather trousers.
The General's expression remained the same, if more smug at the words spoken. With a flick of his wrist, readying his Masamune for combat, he started the cycle that would guide the pair through a violent obsession, reacclimatizing to each other through near-insatiable sex when off duty, and teasing glances whilst. And then the period of comfortable, in all of its awkwardness, attempt at a stable relationship until Sephiroth stepped on a landmine (the fights were never Genesis' fault, even when they were) and they erupted into fighting, as verbal and cruel as physical and wounding; fuelled by their passion and the anger that the time of sweet peace had been forced to end. The mutual feelings did not quell the opposition.
Genesis raised his left hand to press his fingertips against the shallow scratch to his neck. Red leather came back moist, glossy in the overhead lights. "So that's how it's going to be, hmm?" His right then joined at head-height. And, with a swipe of a palm down the scarlet blade, drawing on both its invested power and pouring his own into it until the force became a visible, smouldering white fire, Genesis was set, eager to please and be pleased. Whose blood was spilt was inconsequential.
Their every meet was momentary; a cascade of fading sparks left where they had clashed. The times, as minute as they were, when they were stood across the room from each other, catching their breath – though not due to the effort of their spar – was spent on glances. Goading, teasing; squaring each other up and assessing the next lunge and what direction it would come from. Which side would the sword strike come from? Magic or no?
Their fighting was amazingly divergently matched in techniques and styles, though their tactics differed greatly. Both used short frenzies of attack, Sephiroth strictly eight composed strikes of Masamune and Genesis a mixture of blade and body. Their speed harmonized perfectly. The General's experienced footwork was challenged by Genesis' light-footed grace, giving a teasing glimpse of the fact that he was trained in all the arts since childhood. There would always be some element of surprise in their spars. Sephiroth could vanish without warning to reappear across the field, or immediately behind his partner to make the winning attack – without the sword being involved. Genesis could attack with magic equally as stealthily on the offence. Without magic there was no glow, no sensation of drawing power from the planet. Just the orange flame to his left hand. It kept them on their toes constantly, never falling into the trap of complacency.
They stared at each other with appreciative eyes, daring the other to drop the sword and bridge the gap between them and make them really sweat. Both were too busy enjoying the dance to cease for what would inevitably come later anyway. Mako green was coldly confident, calculating a sure way to cut through flesh; leaving Genesis driven and bleeding. It made him easier; more enjoyable to tame when spitting curses and glaring, too occupied with bitterness to fight back against Sephiroth's demanding hips.
The redhead was not so fervent on being felled, however, hating as much as he loved the fiery, passionate nature that he possessed and that Sephiroth was only too willing to exploit. But he was the only one that could sate Sephiroth in mind, body and – excuse the sentiment – soul. It was just one more silent, mutual agreement between them; why Genesis always turned to the General whenever he had a thirst, to be pained to be pleasured like this. There were some things that Angeal, sweetly afflicted as he was, would never do.