I think this was originally meant to be a prompt from the kink meme, something about ritual scarification? Idk. I found it as a half-finished scrap in my old notebook, so I'd kinda forgotten what I was supposed to be doing with it. ;;
Summary: Sephiroth gives Cloud a number.
Warnings: Scarification and blood and stuff, with a healthy dose of zombiefied puppet!Cloud. Nothing sexy beyond a few kisses.
That smile on Sephiroth's face made Cloud shiver. It was the same languid, utterly detached smiled he had seen that day in Nibelheim as Sephiroth stood before Mother, the town burning to ashes at the foot of the mountain. That smile meant Sephiroth had won.
"Good puppet," Sephiroth purred. Yes, Sephiroth had won, and it was Cloud's fault. He'd given Sephiroth the Black Materia. "Good, puppet."
Sephiroth's arms were around him and Cloud could feel his breath - warm breath, alive - against his lips.
He clung to the embrace. Sephiroth was solid and real and safe when all the world beyond was endless mako green, the Lifestream pulling at the edges of Cloud's mind and threatening to tear it apart, piece by broken piece.
Sephiroth was all that held him together, gently stroking his hair.
"Good puppets deserve a reward, don't you think?"
Cloud raised his head sluggishly, just managing to meet Sephiroth's eyes. "Uhhn…?"
Sephiroth smiled again. "Would you like a number?"
A number. Because Cloud was a Sephiroth clone; a failed clone. But if he had a number… he would be one of them, part of the Reunion. Part of Sephiroth. Worthy of him. "Uhhn."
Fingers closed around Cloud's wrist, caressing the unmarred skin on the back of his hand. "Shall I mark you as mine? Something to remind you that you belong to me. Would you like that, Cloud?"
The cautious hope in those blank eyes was almost endearing. Belonging, acceptance… if that was what Cloud craved, for just once in his pitiful life, Sephiroth would gladly provide the illusion. He raised Cloud's hand, kissing the flesh that would soon bear his mark, before kissing the boy whose marred soul already bore it.
"Uhn…" Cloud breathed, eyes sliding shut as Sephiroth's tongue pushed into his mouth.
He thought, somewhere, somehow, distantly, that Sephiroth shouldn't kiss him so deeply or hold him so closely. But Cloud didn't mind. It felt good, warm and breathless and sweet. Cloud was disappointed when Sephiroth drew away.
Cloud blinked slowly. Sephiroth had a blade, small but beautifully crafted, and perfectly sharp. It seemed to be made from stone, but it was black and glassy and unlike anything Cloud had seen on the Planet. Because it wasn't of the Planet - it was Meteor-stone, shard of the original vessel that had carried the calamity from the skies millennia ago. The Ancients knew this and abhorred it, Cloud could hear them in the Lifestream and in his head.
Sephiroth's long fingers curled around Cloud's wrist again, holding his hand in place, and the blade kissed skin. Flesh tore beneath it, biting deep, and Cloud let out a small cry, attempting to twist away until Sephiroth held him tight from behind.
The pain was like a shock of ice cold water; terrible, but bearing a startling jolt of clarity.
He'd given Sephiroth the Black Materia. Meteor had been summoned. The Planet— Aerith, Tifa…
"Quiet, puppet," Sephiroth hushed him. He caressed Cloud's injured hand in a mockery of tenderness, smearing thick trails of blood across pale skin. His mouth pressed soft kisses and nips to the nape of Cloud's neck.
Cloud gradually relaxed, blank-eyed once more, into Sephiroth's embrace.
The blade cut into the back of Cloud's hand again. And again, deeper each time, retracing the shape Sephiroth was carving over and over into the flesh. Bone and sinew glistened white beneath the flood of red.
Cloud shuddered, swallowing his groans. It had to be deep; the scar wouldn't keep otherwise. There was too much mako in his system. Even now, when Sephiroth paused to allow Cloud time to breathe, to recover, the deep cuts slowly started to knit themselves back together.
Sephiroth's lips brushed against the rim of Cloud's ear. "Good boy, Cloud." He leaned over, pulling Cloud's hand up to his mouth. Slowly, deliberately, he trailed his tongue over the wound, lapping up the blood. Cloud trembled.
The scar was half-healed already, an angry-red raised welt. Cloud stared at it.
"There is your number, puppet. Proof for all the world to see that you are mine."
"Yours…" Cloud repeated in a dull, dazed mumble.
"Mine. Now and always."
The scar, the number, was a circle. Zero. Sephiroth had given him a number and it was zero. Zero wasn't even a real number, really, was it? It was and it wasn't, not quite more than a concept… yet the most important of all. That was what Cloud was.
Slowly, sluggishly, still barely in control of his own movements, Cloud raised his arm, the mark fresh and bright on the back of his hand. Sephiroth had given him a number, Sephiroth was holding him, Sephiroth was pleased with him. It still stung, but that didn't matter. Cloud smiled serenely.
Sephiroth returned the smile. He kissed him again, Cloud pliant and responsive in his arms.
He was still smiling when he drew back and let Cloud fall, relinquishing him into the unrelenting, drifting tide of the Lifestream.
Wide blue-green eyes stared back at him, confusion seeping into their open, trusting blankness.
"You have served your purpose, puppet. If I need you again, you will know, and you will come to me."
Without Sephiroth's protection, Cloud was at the mercy of the Lifestream. He clutched his hand, face crumpling with pain as Sephiroth grew distant and the voices grew louder, overwhelming, tearing into what was left of his mind. But he belonged to Sephiroth. The scar was his proof.
"Mine."
Cloud closed his eyes and let the Lifestream take him.
