Warnings: Aaaaaangst. This is a dumb angst-fart of a mini-fic and not a healthy relationship. (It could be, cause I'm pretty sure Seph does care, but Cloud's too wrapped up in his own angst to realise or accept that.) BDSM themes, including bondage, whipping and knife/bloodplay.

And I don't even know what to warn for with Cloud. His attitude to the BDSM stuff is all wrong… like he's using it as a form of self-harm, almost. (Which is totally unfair to Seph, but see 'unhealthy relationship'.) And some of his thoughts get pretty morbid. Just be aware that there is a lot of angst and some of Cloud's thought patterns could be pretty triggering.

Seriously though, who the fuck start imagining their own death and funeral in the middle of having sex? Cloud has issues.

Also, attempted new writing style! Present tense feels really strange for me to be writing it, I'm not sure I've got the hang of it yet. Ehh.


"Hurt me," Cloud begs, and Sephiroth does. Sephiroth always does.

Cloud's hand are tied, his legs spread. His skin is bruised and raw where he writhes against his bonds. And he can't help but fight them, every time Sephiroth strikes the riding crop against him, against his ass and the back of his thighs. The skin there is bright red and stings with the slightest touch. Cloud whimpers as Sephiroth runs the end of the crop over the bruised flesh.

"What do you want, Cloud?"

"Hurt me," Cloud sobs. That's what he wants. That's what he needs.

A hand tightens around the back of his neck, pinning Cloud to the bed. Cloud trembles at the feel of cold, sharp steel pressing into the small of his back, and cries out as the first cut is made.

Sephiroth cuts shallow, meaningless patterns into his skin until Cloud's back is slick with blood.

"S-sir, please…"

He eases the plug out of Cloud's ass. Sephiroth's hand fists into Cloud's hair, pulling his head back as his cock thrusts into Cloud's hot, tight little ass. His lips brush against Cloud's shoulder, smearing the blood there.

Cloud shudders as Sephiroth fucks him hard. The hand pulling his hair moves down to his throat and squeezes, but all Cloud knows is the feel of Sephiroth deep inside him, impaling him on his cock over and over and over.

His breathing rasps in his own ears. He knows how long Sephiroth can hold out like this, and Cloud begins to see dark static creeping in on the edges of his vision long before he shows any sign of slowing.

Cloud's body is a dead weight. He can't move, can barely breathe, but he doesn't say the word to stop. Not even to slow down. It's blood and pain and just enough pleasure to make it bearable. Cloud welcomes the darkness as his vision fades out completely, sensation dimming after it.

Distantly, absently, he wonders if it's possible to die like this. It would be a nice way to die, as far as his options went. He would actually die in someone's arms, even if those arms only held him out of lust.

But he knows he isn't going to die here. He's going to die on the battlefield, sooner or later. Because he's still in the infantry, and the infantry are cannon fodder. That's all that ShinRa sees them as, and there isn't anyone who's seen action who will deny it. They're disposable, until promotion and proving their worth returns their value piece by piece. SOLDIER is the pinnacle.

Cloud's failed the SOLDIER exam three times now.

So, he's still in the infantry, and still cannon fodder, and worse than that because he's already missed his chance and failed to prove himself worthy of anything. He'll be on the front lines when the spray of bullets cuts them down. His body will collapse down into the mud, broken and bleeding, and no one will notice because no one ever notices in the heat of the battle, and he can't hold that against them.

They come to clean up the bodies and Cloud is just another faceless, nameless corpse. The others are mourned; friends, family, members of their unit, people who respected them, cared for them, all gathered around to grieve and say goodbye.

No one comes to Cloud's funeral. His mother lives too far away to make the trip from Nibelheim, and there's no one else who even notices that he's gone. Faceless, careless men lower his coffin into the dirt because it's their job and they're paid to be there. The grave is marked by a plain headstone. Nothing but a name and a date that fade away in a few years of neglect. That's all that Cloud is worth.

He can feel tears wet against his face and against the covers when Cloud comes around again.

"Cloud?" Sephiroth asks. His fingers are on the ropes, beginning to untie them.

"Don't stop." Cloud's voice is distant, hoarse. "Don't stop. Hurt me."

The pain in his body is so much better, so much easier to deal with than the ache in his chest. Sephiroth is hesitant, but he gives him what he asks for, and Cloud screams until his throat is sore.

He's a trembling wreck long before it's over. Sephiroth undoes his bindings and leaves a glass of water at the bedside. He lingers in the doorway, but Cloud shakes his head and Sephiroth closes the door behind him.

Eventually Cloud lurches over to the ensuite bathroom, his fingers fumbling with the shower controls. The cool water is soothing against his overheated, over-sensitive skin. Cloud takes his time, washing off blood and sweat and Sephiroth's come from between his legs.

He redresses himself in his standard infantry blues. When did it get to the point he couldn't stand wearing this thing anymore?

Cloud doesn't bother to cover up the marks. They're still vivid against the pale skin not covered by his uniform, mottled in shades of purple and dirty blue, and his whole unit will see them the next day. But none of them will care, because none of them will realise they're not bruises that they give Cloud themselves with fists in the locker room or kicks behind the gym.

Sephiroth is in the living room. He stands when Cloud enters, meeting him halfway.

"You're leaving." It isn't a question.

"Yes. Thank you for tonight, sir," Cloud says.

Sephiroth lifts his hand to cup Cloud's jaw, thumb brushing across Cloud's cheekbone where no trace of tears remain. "Will I see you again next week?"

"Yes, sir."

Sephiroth doesn't try to correct Cloud for calling him 'sir' while off duty anymore. He drops his hand. "Good night then, Cloud."

"Good night."

Cloud retreats from Sephiroth's apartment. He stands alone in the elevator and brushes his fingers against his cheek where Sephiroth had touched him. Cloud had though, just for a moment… he was going to kiss him.

Cloud was glad he hadn't. Kissing was for people who care about each other. For people in love. For anyone to be in love with him, he would have to be worth loving.

It was probably fucked up that he's done all the things he has with Sephiroth, but still hasn't even had his first kiss.

Normally those sorts of thoughts would make the piercing ache in his chest flare up again, but Cloud doesn't mind it so much now. He has everything he deserves. Being with Sephiroth always makes him feel calmer, as if the emotional pain could be drawn out and turned into something physical for the night. He revels in the burn and lingering ache in every muscle. Maybe he'll even be able to sleep for once.

The elevator judders to a halt. Cloud bows his head and puts his helmet back on, another faceless, empty, replaceable cog in ShinRa's machine. Another dead weight.

Cloud returns to the barracks, wearing his marks with pride and a bitter smile.