CHAPTER WARNINGS: Graphic sexualized violence, gore, murder (dream sequence)
Sephiroth stirred when he felt the feather-light press of lips against his own, and the warmth of a body that hadn't been there before. It should have jarred him, but the kiss was so familiar, the mouth so gentle as it moved over every curve of his lips. He felt… safe, and at peace.
Had he ever felt truly safe before? It seemed such an unwise thing. But all concern was lost to the pleasant haze clouding his mind and permeating every inch of his small room. It was his room, wasn't it? Something about the bed seemed off. The mattress was unforgiving, even for him—stiff and plastic—and the sheets scratched at his skin regardless of how still he lay, harsh like sandpaper. Still, he couldn't recall ever feeling quite so comfortable.
Sephiroth touched without sight, finding a slim shoulder, smooth and naked. He moved his hand further down, over the subtle ridges of prominent ribs and sharp hips, eyes still closed, taking his time. Down a thigh and up again, back into the waist. He pinched lightly, toying with the flesh, such soft skin over such hard bone. The lips trembled, breathed a little gasp into his mouth, and pulled away.
Sephiroth tried to chase them, but was met with nothing but air. He could feel the body slipping out from under his hand. A chill settled over him. Something was dragging it away from him. No… someone. And not just from him. Warmth was being sucked from the room as if the air had split open, into a gaping, black maw prepared to swallow that body into nothingness, as if it had never been there at all.
Anger pierced the fog. Sephiroth lunged. He caught the body around the waist, fingers gripping too tightly, pressing too harshly into those defined ribs. He forced it against him and then under him, easily manhandling it into vulnerability, blind with fury.
And then there were soft hands on him. They moved up his neck to stroke his face, several fingers slipping behind his ears and into his hair, making him shiver. A forehead was pressed against his own, and then a mouth. He felt his chest constrict with affection, aggression bleeding out of him as quickly as it had come. This body… this person. They were here with him. They were safe.
Sephiroth opened his eyes.
I know you.
He touched the young man's face, resting his thumb against a pale cheek as he traced the edge of an ear with his fingertips. Not just a body. Sephiroth wanted to kiss him again—his hair, his eyelids. He couldn't make sense of the desire to be so tender with him. It wasn't in him. Not for this boy. Not for anyone. The thought alone should have incensed him. But something was urging him not to hurt this one, even as he began to ache with lust, watching lips part and remarkable eyes gaze up at him in adoration. No, Sephiroth didn't want to hurt him. He knew him. He knew him.
Sephiroth was so enraptured with the strange boy spirited into his bed, that he utterly failed to grasp the wrongness of it all, his hands moving blindly over stark white sheets spotted red.
He gave in to temptation, easily covering the young man's mouth with his own, which opened to him without resistance. Yes. Sephiroth wrapped a greedy arm around that slender waist, coercing the young man into arching up against him. This time, he left his lips flushed red before moving fervently across his cheek and down his jaw—wet, sucking kisses. He pressed his lips to a frantic pulse, rabbit-like. The young man squirmed, writhing against him in a horribly enticing way. Sephiroth wasn't sure if he was trying to escape him or roll up into him, but found himself too possessive to entertain any attempts at escape. His arm became a vise around the young man as he kissed back up his neck and over his chin, pausing to listen to his desperate little intakes of breath before taking his mouth again.
The young man tilted his head to the side so Sephiroth could deepen the kiss, one thin-fingered hand hesitantly touching Sephiroth's chest. Sephiroth whispered approval against his lips. That's it, little rabbit. Perfect boy. The surrender only made him more aggressive, more insistent in his seduction. He let his knees support his full weight so he could take the young man by the hip and work that lithe body even harder against his own. The young man was responding beautifully, gripping the back of Sephiroth's neck so he could keep their mouths pressed together, kissing back enthusiastically as he let out soft sounds of pleasure. But it wasn't enough, and Sephiroth was losing patience. When he wanted something, he wanted all of it.
He dug his thumbs into the back of the young man's knees, forcing his legs against his chest, manipulating him into a position only meant for one thing. And then—
And then the strangest thing happened. There was a whimper of protest against his mouth. The young man was attempting to move his legs back down, pushing Sephiroth away with his hands. Unbelievably, he broke the kiss. Confused, Sephiroth tried again, more forcefully. Again he was resisted, the young man struggling to move upwards and out from under the larger body. No?
Sephiroth let the word sit heavy in his mind for only a moment, and then grabbed his prey by the waist and pulled him back so violently their flesh met with an audible slap. The young man immediately stopped struggling, folding his thin arms tightly over his own chest as if to hide from him. Sephiroth leaned down to kiss him, but he turned his head away.
Fury flooded his veins, the intoxicating haze that had so easily ensnared him dissipating in an instant. No one said no to him. No one. What right did the young man have to refuse him? How stupid could this boy be, how impudent, to think he could trifle with a murderer? There were consequences for resistance. Someone had told him that once, someone who also took what he wanted. Sephiroth felt entitled to the young man, and if he needed to be taught a lesson to understand that, then so be it.
Sephiroth backhanded him hard, taking no small pleasure in watching that pretty face distort in pain. He was a brutal man; a blow delivered with half the force should have been more than enough to bring the young man to heel. It should have had him begging Sephiroth for forgiveness while he spread his legs like a dutiful little bitch. And Sephiroth, merciful god that he was, would have granted it. But the young man just took the abuse with a grim sort of resignation, not at all the reaction Sephiroth had hoped for. It was almost insulting, that the boy would prefer violence to being with him. So he struck him again, and then again, and again, until the young man began to cry. But Sephiroth's cruelty won him little more than a bruised, tear-streaked face that wouldn't even look at him. Stupid boy, do you want it harder?
Sephiroth moved to hit him again, but was unable to bring his hand down. Something was holding onto his wrist. Crushing and icy cold, and invisible but for the indents in his flesh. Then the pressure lessened, and ghosted intimately up the back of his hand until it encompassed each finger. There were whispers in his head now, a single malevolent voice coming at him from all sides. He tried to grasp at it as it slithered around the periphery of his mind, just out of reach. Distracted, he was pliant to the force that moved his hand downwards, unseen puppet master curling Sephiroth's fingers one by one around a slender throat before withdrawing.
The young man froze, tearful acceptance turning to surprise as he stared up at Sephiroth as if he were only just now truly seeing him. Sephiroth considered him for a moment, relaxing his fingers, adjusting his grip. He squeezed experimentally, listening as the young man choked a little, feeling the contractions against his palm. If felt familiar, doing this to him. It felt right.
Sephiroth increased the pressure, leaning down so he could look at the young man more intently. There was an expression of disbelief on that sweet face, strange eyes edged with panic. Sephiroth smiled. The young man opened his mouth as if to say something, but Sephiroth pressed even harder, cutting off his speech. His lower lip wobbled. It was such a pitiful sight Sephiroth laughed. Now you want to beg, you little cunt?
It was quickly becoming more than just a cruel game, a lesson learned. Already the young man's thin frame was beginning to jump off the bed in a curious little dance, inadvertently bringing his lower body in contact with Sephiroth's. It reignited his lust in an instant. Sephiroth couldn't quite decide what to do with his other hand. He could use it in tandem with the one already around the young man's throat, or he could use it to satisfy himself. He contemplated how wonderful it would feel to push inside him as he struggled to breathe, what effect the constriction would have on his body. If it would feel anything like the spasming windpipe Sephiroth could so easily crush beneath his palm.
Do it. Do it, Sephiroth. Do it, little one.
The voice washed over his ears like hot breath, equal parts alluring and repulsive. He wanted to, so badly... but something in the back of his mind was twisting painfully, dampening his pleasure. Sephiroth tried to focus on the vulnerable, unwilling flesh in his hand, how powerful it made him feel, but that desperate, writhing thing was clawing at his insides, rising in his gorge like nausea. It was trying to push the intruder out. Sephiroth faltered, stunned by its ferocity. His grip slackened.
But don't you love me, Sephiroth?
The young man was still pinned to the bed by the hand around his neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he took in what little air he could. His lips were pale and trembling, and there were strands of hair stuck to the wetness on his cheeks. Sephiroth pushed them away. Watery eyes looked up at him, a few blinks enough to push out two more tears. Sephiroth watched them disappear into glossy, black hair.
The whispers had been forced from his head, but still licked at his ears, seductive and deafening. And that thing inside, that wretched, screaming thing… it was somehow so quiet in comparison, even as it continued to twist in his throat and his mouth and his brain. Sephiroth knew war so intimately, but did not know what part he was meant to play in this one… if he should side with the voice that spoke so indulgently to his most sadistic desires, or the force that sought to suppress them.
Maybe he was nothing more than a battlefield.
The young man reached up with one hand, hesitating—once, twice—before touching Sephiroth's cheek. Sephiroth could feel how badly it shook. He let his free hand close around the young man's wrist to steady it, avoiding the eyes that searched his face, confused and afraid. He held it a little closer. The young man's fingers uncurled, palm flat against him. It seemed to chase away the whispers, ease that terrible twisting inside. Something in Sephiroth let down its guard. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to rest his head there, in that pale hand, those gentle fingers. But then he looked down at him.
Sephiroth could see it in his eyes, how wide they were. How the gentle slope of his eyebrows softened his face.
Hope.
There was hope there. The hope that pain, like all things, had its end. The hope that cruel men could change. The foolish presumption that hurt could be undone and evil unlearned. And it was there, in that single, benign expression, that Sephiroth saw it: a perfect reflection of the child he used to be.
The young man's wrist made a terrible crunching sound when it snapped.
He didn't scream. He needed air to scream, and Sephiroth had cut off his lungs the instant bone had surrendered to the strength of a SOLDIER First Class. Jagged and splintered, it pierced through the young man's skin and cut Sephiroth's palm. He tossed the arm carelessly to the side, wrist bent at a gruesome angle and fingers twitching helplessly, and returned to his task with renewed fervor, caught somewhere between hatred and lust.
Sephiroth didn't need the help of his unseen ally to defeat what was inside. He did it himself, forcing it further and further down until it was lost to a place where there was nothing to scream at but the black. It would scream and scream until it couldn't scream anymore, and then it would whimper, and then it would die. Another corpse in the mass grave that had lain to rest every other part of Sephiroth that had known mercy.
Don't hurt him. You didn't want to hurt him.
Sephiroth had both hands around his neck now, smearing it with blood. The young man dug into one of them, leaving behind little, red, crescent moons as he scrabbled up Sephiroth's arm with his uninjured hand, and in a final, desperate attempt to save his own life, raked his nails down Sephiroth's face, hooking two fingers in his mouth. Sephiroth bit them off, teeth cleaving cleanly through the joints, and spat them out onto the bed. Blood spurted from the stumps, coating Sephiroth's lips, before the hand fell away. The young man stopped fighting.
His image rippled and swayed, and Sephiroth thought for a moment that he might have got blood in his eyes. He shook his head, blinking furiously, but nothing changed. And then he watched, fascinated, as bruises rose to the surface of the young man's pale skin like oil from water, in places Sephiroth hadn't beaten him. Flesh sunk into the dips and hollows of his body until his ribcage bulged, and his short, black hair slithered and grew, as if Sephiroth had spilled a bottle of ink over the sheets.
Every part of him was dying.
Sephiroth's chest swelled with pleasure. This felt so much better than fucking. Murder was so clean-cut, so simple. There was no room for misinterpretation, no inconvenient aftermath. No time wasted manipulating stupid little boys into believing the act was about anything other than Sephiroth's gratification.
It would all be over soon. Sephiroth was reaching that state of euphoria that blinded him to all but the transcendent rapture of ending a life. He could hear the young man's heartbeat, feel it, frantic and deafening. And then quieter, replaced by a ringing in Sephiroth's ears that grew louder and louder. The image of that broken little wraith was fading, too, blurring into a warm, white light.
Yes.
Then there was nothing. Sephiroth came back to himself in pieces. Everything warm and good had fled the room, leaving behind only stillness and all-encompassing silence. There were no more whispers, no more screams. There was nothing at all. Sephiroth just sat on his knees, staring at the white wall behind the head of the bed, until his ears picked up a faint gurgling.
The wraith was gone, replaced again by the pretty young man Sephiroth had wanted so badly to possess. He lay unmoving, his eyes half-closed, although his eyelashes were so thick and black there was little to be seen of them at all. His neck looked horribly wrong—bent somehow, dark and mottled and stretched out.
Sephiroth ran a thumb over his delicately parted lips. Still so warm. Blood was bubbling up from his throat and pooling in his mouth, enough to trickle from the corners. Sephiroth resisted the urge to kiss him again.
He looked at him for a long time. Cradled his cold, ruined hands in his own, toyed with his severed fingers. He folded the young man's arms over his stomach and laced what fingers he had left together, straightening his head and legs as if he were lying in a coffin. The young man looked perfect—a perfect little cadaver, all the more beautiful surrounded by the evidence of the brutal act forced upon it, one that really ought to be preserved if for that beauty alone. He pushed the young man's hair back, and kissed his forehead.
That's a good boy.
But then, finally, Sephiroth truly looked beyond what he'd done. And in an instant, everything turned wrong.
This was not his room.
He could tell it wasn't a large space, but the blindingly white walls—which on closer inspection were spattered with old, faded marks—stainless steel flooring, and high ceilings made it seem so much bigger than it was, and Sephiroth was now distinctly aware of the haunting little echoes that accompanied his every movement. Adding to the overwhelming sense of emptiness were the sparse furnishings. The single bed he knelt on was bolted to the floor, and four heavy shackles hung from its corners. A short distance from the bed was a horribly uncomfortable-looking chair, similarly fastened down and fixed with cuffs for wrists and ankles, and hanging from the wall was a longer chain attached to a particularly cruel-looking iron collar.
And then there was the enormous mirror next to the sliding, mechanical door, built into the wall like a window. Sephiroth was positioned too low to see his reflection in it, still hovering over the dead boy, but the thought of it filled him with dread.
He stared at the floor as he carefully detached himself from the body on the bed, the metal painfully cold against his bare feet. Slowly, he walked towards it, grasping at the chair with blood-slicked hands, stumbling forwards until he could feel its smooth, glass surface against his palm. With ice in his limbs and his heart in his throat, he looked up.
Smiling back at him was not his own wicked, self-satisfied face, but Jade's.