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makotuesday · 19 days

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Snakeskin (Sephiroth/Reader) (ch. 13/?)

AO3 / Pillowfort

Rating: Explicit

Chapters: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13

Tags: First Time, Reader-Insert, Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Frank Discussions of Past Rape/Abuse, Everyone is Queer, Canon-Compliant (if you squint), Pre-Crisis-Core Seph, Slow Burn, i continue to disappoint my friends and family, sephiroth is a virgin and in this essay i will, Reader is a Cis Woman, fluffy sex, Praise Kink, Gratuitous Biochemistry

Summary:

You are a young biologist, fresh out of graduate school, working in Shinra's R&D Division under Professor Hojo. You had long since given up on finding a partner and starting a family, preferring instead the company of your cell samples and your scientific instruments.

As the conflict in Wutai worsens, you strike up an unexpected friendship with a First Class SOLDIER.

(Sephiroth/Reader Slow Burn)

TW's for this chapter: Dissociation, trauma flashback, body horror/violence (related to the trauma flashbacks). Comfort and soothing comes with all of these events!

—

A door closed. You startled awake. How long had you been lying there? The water was still hot. Condensation dripped from the mirror. You looked down at your hands, where the water had wrinkled your fingertips into little raisins. When you sat up, the wine made your head spin.

Someone was in the apartment with you.

You held your breath, held very very still, and listened.

Did Sephiroth have cleaners or other people over? What if someone saw you? You looked desperately at the open bathroom door, wishing you had closed it behind you. The person (intruder, whoever they were) was humming to themselves and puttering around the main living space. You heard bags hit the floor, zippers and buckles being undone. A ghoulish image filled your head: a Turk, sent to fetch you, waiting to pounce just beyond the door. No touching, they’d say. The ethics board will be notified.

You drew your knees to your chest; the tub water sloshed violently.

The intruder called out your name. “Are you in the bathroom?”

Sephiroth.

Oh. You loosened your grip on your knees. “Yes,” you called back. When would you stop being so paranoid? Sephiroth had trusted you with a key, after all; it wasn’t as if he had people coming and going freely. You had almost forgotten he was due to return home.

“Everything alright in there?”

“Yes,” you called again, for lack of anything else to say.

There was a loaded pause. You could hear his footsteps in the kitchen.

When he finally spoke, his tone was breathless with laughter:“Did you fall in?”

Please kill me. You rubbed your face with your hands. “No, Seph,” you sighed. “Just in the tub.”

“Good,” he replied; you could still hear the laughter in his voice. “Because if I had to conduct another rescue, I would lose my mind.”

You smiled. When you relaxed your arms, you felt pain seep out of your muscles. You had been tense, holding in fear of—

What? Sephiroth being angry with you?

You thought back to your earlier worrying: it was so easy to disregard his feelings when the man himself wasn’t in the next room, unpacking from an arduous mission. You felt a little childish about how you had behaved the past week. He deserved so much better than your petulant attitude. It was his first…Thing. In the next room, Sephiroth began whistling. He should have an agreeable partner who didn’t think awful, mean things about him when he was away. His life was stressful enough.

With a jolt, you realized you had left the stockings in the dryer. So much for surprise: if he did his laundry, he’d see them, soft and wrinkled, in a sad little heap. You looked down at your knees, at your body tucked into a ball.

A dark shape appeared in the door. You shrunk away from it.

“Don’t get up,” Sephiroth said, one hand outstretched to you. He looked— excited? “I have a gift for you.”

“A…?”

Sephiroth turned and disappeared into the bedroom across the hall. “I was hoping to get your opinion on it,” he called. You heard him rummage in the closet; you craned your neck to try and see him. A few boxes thunked to the floor.“I get a lot of promotional material I don’t need, but this looked interesting. I wanted us to try it together.”

You swallowed past a lump in your throat. The images your mind conjured weren’t exactly welcome. “I’m scared,” you called.

“Don’t be,” he called back. “I think you’ll like it.”

More rustling. You sank into the water to your chin. You wished the water wasn’t clear: even curled into a fetal position, Sephiroth could see all of you. So much for the surprise.

Sephiroth was gone for several minutes, rummaging through his clothes drawers. You stared at the empty wine glass. Did he look at that framed picture in the closet every time he came home? Did he speak to it?

Who was she, exactly?

When he returned, he was dressed in a loose teal shirt and navy sweatpants. The shirt’s vinyl print was faded and cracked: Livin’ on Island Time, it said, the font a cheery purple, next to a glossy margarita.

His hands were cupped around something cylindrical.

You leaned back, away from him, but he didn’t seem to notice your hesitation. Or, for that matter, that you were naked. There was no snide comment, no leer, no raised eyebrow. You may as well have been meeting on the 64th floor.

Sephiroth nodded to the book on the side table. “Great choice. I find Becken’s spare prose masterful, especially during the lecture hall scene.”

You had fallen asleep around twenty pages in. “Oh.” You watched as he carefully set the wine glass, then the book, onto the bathroom’s marble counter. “Totally.”

“Let’s get this table out of the way.” He moved the wooden side table back into its nook. You didn’t understand why until he knelt next to your left arm, right where the table had been. “Here.”

The cylindrical object was a small amber bottle, nestled in his hands. He offered it to you over the lip of the tub; you picked it up, held it up to the light. The label was from a luxury beauty brand, one you could never afford, had its logo printed across the front. You sat straight up. This bottle held around fifty-thousand gil’s worth of product, and you were naked in a bathtub. The body oil inside gave off a faint aroma through the cap: something woody, floral.

Sephiroth crossed his arms and leaned them against the lip of the tub. “Apparently this is a warming massage oil,” he said, resting his chin on his crossed arms. “It’s supposed to be good for sore muscles.”

“Seph,” you breathed. You checked the back and scanned the ingredients. “They just…give you this? For free?”

He shrugged. “They usually want a sponsorship out of it,” he replied. “I turned this one down. But,” he said, his tone mischievous, “I don’t have to return what they give me.”

Suddenly, the cardboard boxes piled in the closet made perfect sense. You felt a pang of envy. Every paycheck you received seemed to disappear the second you got it. The tights, though in your price range, had been your “treat” for the week. An endless flow of free luxury products felt unreal, decadent. He had handed this to you as casually as a pair of chopsticks or a glass of wine.

You looked up at him, feeling unmoored. “You’re…giving it to me?”

He nodded. “Yes. It’s your gift.” He leaned his cheek against his forearm, looking up at you. “You want to try it now?”

“Yes,” you said. “Please?”

He scrunched his nose as he smiled. “‘Please,’ she says.” He gestured to you. “Go on.”

You could barely keep your hands still as you removed the cap. You broke the plastic seal and brought the bottle to your nose. A forest, tinged with citrus and juniper, filled your nostrils. It reminded you of a rainforest, somewhere far away, during a downpour: peaceful, as if you were bathing outdoors there, alone. It smelled expensive.

“Wow.” You offered the bottle to Sephiroth. “Smell!”

He took the bottle from you and inhaled. He coughed, turning his head away.

You grimaced. “That bad?”

“That is a lot,” he wheezed, holding the bottle at arm’s length. He blinked rapidly against the fumes. “We probably don’t need much.” He turned the bottle over and scanned the instructions, rubbing the back of his neck in thought. “It says a palmful. I’m afraid to use more.”

You offered him the cap, and he set it aside on the bathroom counter, right next to the wineglass. It wasn’t until he repositioned himself behind you that you realized what he meant.

You froze, staring at the open door. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Like. Now, now?”

“Oh,” he said behind you. “I wasn’t clear. Did you want me to put it on you?” A pause. “I thought it could be…” He cleared his throat. “A nice activity.”

Those books under his bed. Your stomach sank. You were sure at least one of your therapy books had mentioned massages as a way to introduce intimacy. He must have been pent-up, and anyway, that amount of high-quality takeout wasn’t cheap. This is what you’re here for, you thought. You can’t have forgotten that already.

But you wanted to hope anyway. It was in your nature to.

Your breath hitched when you tried to speak. “Oh,” you said, then, “Um,” then, “If you want?”

“If I want?” Sephiroth teases, and you dimly recognized that low tone, the one he used when he spoke to you in bed. You were definitely not imagining things. “What do you want?”

Affection and disgust each roiled within you, locked in a tight embrace. Did normal people feel this way when they had sex? Did normal people blow ten thousand gil on lingerie, hoping it would impress their partner into staying?

“This,” you said. “I want this.”

He chuckled. “The lady always gets her way.”

You looked down at the water, at your body underneath the surface. Sephiroth set the bottle aside and rubbed his hands together.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said to the water. It wasn’t as if he needed to ask. Not many people did.

His palms settled on both of your shoulders. The smell of juniper and cedar wafted by your nose. When his thumbs pushed into either side of your spine, you stifled a pleased gasp: Impossible warmth trailed after his touch. He repeated the motion, digging his thumbs in deeper.

“How’s that?” he asked behind you.

You pressed back against his hands in reply, making a soft little hum as you did.

“You’re all tight up here,” he murmured. “Do you lean down when you work?”

A few months ago, Hammond had slipped you a tiny poster for your cubicle: a shrimp in a suit and tie, hunched over a desk. No shrimping!! it said. “I’m always leaning down,” you say. The hot water, the warming oil, his careful hands digging right where you wanted them: it was all making you drowsy. He steadied his hand on your front and pressed into your shoulder with the heel of his hand, and you felt your muscle shifting for him, like your body was opening itself to his touch. (Traitor, you thought.) “I know HR has these ergonomic meetings, and they’re mandatory, but…I don’t know.”

“Take advantage.” Sephiroth switched to your other shoulder. “There’s always money for desk chairs, believe me.”

“I’m so jealous of your apartment,” you blurted. The second it left your mouth, you regretted it. How rude of you; how snippy; how petty.

Sephiroth sighed. “It’s a wonderful space. If only I was allowed to use it more often.”

“I’m sorry, Seph,” you said. “I didn’t mean it that way, and— and here I am using your hot water— I didn’t mean—”

“Actually,” he said, and his voice was gentle, “I would argue your presence makes it a home.”

You turned around to look at him. Sephiroth’s answering smile was small. Shy. It was so different from the frozen Late Nite Midgar smile; different from the smirk he wore during fights.

It was you: he was different around you. Reality tilted in strange ways around him, distorting and stretching into long, languid shapes, like light around a black hole. There was no surviving an event horizon; you would fall, willingly, into this one.

Sephiroth nodded towards the door. “You’re going to have to face forward if you want me to keep going.”

You turned forward. It seemed silly that he would hurt you. Or…did it? Affection and disgust again, dancing that strange tango in your brain: that odd feeling that your skin should crawl where he touched you, that confusion when all it felt like was bliss.

“Did you mind when I called you a tease?”

You started. “Huh?”

Sephiroth’s hands paused at the base of your neck. “Calling you a tease.” He shifted his hand behind you and went still, like he was considering something. After a pause, he made a v with his knuckles and pushed down on either side of your first vertebrae. You sighed into his touch. He asked, “Was that going too far?”

You turned around to face him again. The bath water sloshed around you. “What, like…yesterday?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes downcast. His ears were pink. “The message I sent.”

You couldn’t imagine the man from your screen getting up, going home, and looking up how to have sex. “I…no. It was nice.”

His face brightened, and heaven help you, you were incredibly fond of him. “You liked it?” he asked.

“You’re still learning all this stuff,” you said as you turned forward. “I should be asking you.”

“I never considered that,” Sephiroth replied, and you could hear his smile. “I only think of pleasing you.”

You smiled at the doorway. “Goes both ways,” you murmured. “Don’t feel pressured. Okay?”

“You’re too kind,” he said. One hand pressed against your sternum. “Lie back. I’ll get your arms.” His hands moved to your left bicep, thumbs pressing in and pushing upwards towards your shoulder. You leaned back against the tub, staring up at the ceiling.

When the silence became too much, you turned your head to look at him. “How was your week?”

Sephiroth growled at your arm.

You smiled. “That bad?”

“That bad.” He focused on your left hand, rubbing tender circles into your palm.

“Want to complain?”

“Do I ever. Let’s see…” He turned your hand over and began massaging your arm again. “I thought of you during a morning intelligence briefing. Most of it could've been an e-mail. I wanted to message you about it."

“Why didn't you?"

“I couldn't let everyone see me on my phone. You’d be surprised at what affects morale.” He smiled, looking away from the tub entirely. “It was hard to stay away."

You sat up. “Seph," you breathed. His ears flushed that sweet, particular scarlet you adored, the shade of ripe fruit. “That's so sweet of you."

That made him meet your eye again. He smiled at you, scrunched his nose. “You would have made the time pass faster,” he said, and this time, he sounded more confident.

You look down at where he took your hand in both of his. The oil was a bronze color, so stark against his milky-white palms. “I don't-- know what to say."

“You don't need to say anything. Compliments are free.”

You opened your fingers and let them linger over Sephiroth's open palm, whispered them over that calloused skin, those veins like purple ink. His breath caught; his eyes met yours. Watching you closely, he stroked the tender underside of your wrist, just the pads of his index and middle fingers against your pulse. You shivered; his head tilted in gentle curiosity. You got that small feeling again, the good one, the one that made you feel like porcelain. You, something priceless; him, the faithful admirer. Remembering last weekend, you thought he might want to feel it the other way around.

You leaned towards him, holding the edge of the tub for balance. “Let me compliment you back, at least.”

Sephiroth’s face shuttered. He suddenly looked exhausted as he pushed your hand back to you. “Please don’t.”

“What?" You didn’t like that: how quickly he shut down, how his eyes traveled down to rest on the bathmat below. You withdrew your hand from the tub's edge. “What's wrong with that?"

“’Sephiroth, the war hero.’” He did a sarcastic little sparkle with his hands. “’The great and mighty SOLDIER, defender of the free world. Come see what shaving cream he uses.'"

“What about…” You lied back and looked up at the ceiling. “The things that only I would know? Or that your friends would know?”

He wordlessly gestured for your right arm. You turned around to face the glass shower and offered it over the lid of the tub. Sephiroth took your hand, but he still wouldn’t look at you, preferring instead to stare at his thumbs as they worked over your palm. The oil left gentle heat wherever it touched. Silence fell again, and you looked ahead, at the shower. You watched a droplet creep down over the glass wall. It eventually joined with another droplet further down, and the two continued their quest towards the tile as one.

Sephiroth huffed, and you looked to him. “I…” He worried his bottom lip in his teeth. “I’m not really a compliments person.”

You waited for him to follow up on that. He didn’t.

“Can I…at least try?" You held up your free hand in surrender. “Unless you wouldn't want that?"

Sephiroth looked up at you, and for a moment, you thought he might be game, until—

“Tell me about your week, instead,” he said, and his smile was a little absent. “Anything exciting?”

You remembered the baying, jeering crowd at Late Nite Midgar, how Sephiroth had looked lost until someone put Masamune in his hand again.

“Besides Hojo?” you asked.

Sephiroth rolled his eyes dramatically. There it was, he was back from wherever he had run away to. “You must be excited for your presentation.”

“I think we have good data.” You trailed your fingers over Sephiroth’s arm. Goosebumps raised on his skin. “But speaking in front of that huge conference room? Kinda makes me wanna throw up.”

“Tell me about the data you have. Practice your presentation with me.”

You bristled. “Well, I don’t exactly have it right now.”

He shrugged, but you caught the quirk of his lips when he did. “Just talk to me about it.”

You thought for a moment. “There’s sugar in mako, or something like it, I think. A sugar,” you added, “not, like, sugar for coffee or tea. It…how do I explain this…”

Sephiroth studied your face. To your relief, he looked content, almost peaceful. “Go on.”

“It…binds glucose— sugar receptors on the liver cells. We think, anyway. There’s high blood glucose after dosing, too. Still have some follow-ups in mind, but I don’t even know what the liver does with it. It’s not like mako poisoning causes weight gain. If anything, it’s—”

“The opposite.” Sephiroth wrapped his hand around your bicep. You tried not to think about how easily he could shatter it, and then failed.

You closed your eyes and turned away, away from where he was coaxing his hand up towards your shoulder. “Right. And mako is an appetite suppressant, isn’t it? Maybe it’s binding GLUT1 competitively. Or it’s messing with insulin output?” You hugged your knees with your free arm. “I don’t know. I’d have to ask Yun’s team if they’ve seen evidence of diabetic shock in test subjects. I’m not sure if the body would be able to pull up glucose from food if there was a polysaccharide in the way.” You hesitated. “Did you…get any of that?”

Sephiroth smiled and nodded. “Mm-hmm. Every word.”

You laughed, and then you remembered Friday afternoon. “Oh!” you exclaimed, trying to sound casual. “Off-topic, but I-- I saw the strangest thing. Maybe you’d know something? Genesis looked like he took a bad hit to the face.”

His hands stilled. Sephiroth gave you an odd look. “You saw Genesis hurt?”

“His nose was broken.” You gestured to your own nose with a cupped hand. “Do you know why?”

“I do.”

“What was it?”

Sephiroth’s answer was swift and casual, as if he was describing the weather:

“It was me.”

There was a high-pitched ringing in your ears. You licked your lips, but they felt painfully dry. “Why?” was all you managed.

He sighed heavily beside you. His hand lingered on your shoulder. You imagined him shoving your head down under the water, how the water would burn your sinuses as it rushed into your waiting lungs.

Would you fight back? Would you splash water on the tile floor?

“We had a fight,” Sephiroth said carefully, “and he said something…unkind.” His voice was tense: you could hear him tip-toeing around the truth, and this frightened you even more. “I lost my temper. The next thing I remember was seeing him turned away from me.” Sephiroth’s hand left your shoulder. “I regretted it immediately,” he continued. “We haven’t spoken since.” He hesitated. “You say he was still injured?”

You stared straight ahead. “What did he say to you?”

“I’d rather not repeat it.” There was pain in his voice. “Please, when you say he was—”

“It was broken.” Your voice was hoarse. “He had a black eye.”

“I know, but when?”

“It was yesterday—no, sorry, Friday—”

“Still?”

Still. That word made a bell ring faintly in your mind. Genesis belonged to Hollander’s team, and it was no secret that Hollander and Hojo didn’t get along. Nevertheless, Hollander’s SOLDIERs couldn’t, somehow, be more fragile than Hojo’s. At the very least, Hojo’s SOLDIERs healed quickly. Didn’t they both report to Lazard? And if that was the case…

“When did you fight?” you asked.

“Monday. Sometime in the afternoon.”

Sephiroth hit a First hard enough to bruise for five days straight.

Suddenly, you wanted nothing more than for him to stop touching you.

Your eyes darted around the bathroom. Sephiroth asked something, but it was muffled, as if coming from far away. You had the odd sensation of floating, face-down, in the tub. He asked something again. You blinked at your knees. You thought of the studio audience laughing, Genesis’s pained glare as he stalked past you on Friday afternoon, the painted skull on the poster Sephiroth’s face. You thought of Angeal crying out in silence on your muted laptop.

When you came to, you were standing. Sephiroth was wrapping something warm and soft around you: a bathrobe, one far too long and baggy for you. Your skin was already dry. You looked back at the bathtub, but it was empty.

“The water was getting cold,” Sephiroth said. He was focused on tying the belt around your waist. From this angle, his long bangs whispered against your shoulders. “I didn’t want you getting sick on my account.”

“Wouldn’t want to waste my PTO,” you said.

His eyes flicked up to yours. His expression was unreadable. “Come on.” He put a hand on your lower back. “Let’s get you out of this bathroom.”

He ushered you across the hall. You walked with him, or you’re sure you did, because when you blinked again, you were standing in front of the bed. Sephiroth’s arms snuck around your waist and undid the robe’s belt. As the robe slid down, Sephiroth bent forward and kissed the exposed skin of your shoulders: first left, then right. You shivered. He smiled against the crook of your neck. You could only think about how odd his mouth felt on your neck. You thought of the party again, of that boy’s cold and clammy lips on your skin. Sephiroth’s mouth felt the same way. The robe fell to the floor.

“Still with me?” he asked, his voice a low purr next to your left ear.

��Yes,” you lied.

“Good.” Sephiroth loosened your hair, ran his hands gently through it. You were sure it was lying awkwardly against your scalp now, but all you could think about were those large, warm, friendly hands meeting bone and cartilage.

“Okay,” he said. “Stay still.”

He took your head between both of his palms and gently turned it to one side. You saw your frightened face in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. Your naked body looked pathetic next to his clothed one. Sephiroth wasn’t looking in the mirror, focused as he was on you. You met your own terrified eyes.

An image, clear as day, surfaced in your mind: Sephiroth twisting your neck with a sickening crack, leaving your skull hanging limply to one side—

“No!” you shouted, and your body moved. His hands left you: you weren’t sure if you pushed them away, or if he had taken them off of you.

You felt your own face in your hands, as if to confirm your skull was still there. The image wouldn’t leave your mind, and you wrung your hands, as if to flick it away from you. You stumbled to the bed and leaned over it, panting.

It was a long time before you were able to stand up straight. You looked behind you, back at Sephiroth.

He blinked down at you. His hands were still in mid-air, his entire body stiff and unmoving. He looked lost. Regret burned in your chest.

His voice was soft. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no—“ He had done nothing wrong. You sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing your arms over your bare chest. “I just…” You shook your head and hunched over, further hiding your body from his view.

“Your neck seemed tight,” he offered. “I wanted to help—“

“Sorry,” you said, and you winced at how harsh your voice sounded. You purposely softened it. “I…I didn’t…”

You trailed off. The impulse seemed stupid, now. Of course he wouldn’t break your neck. Of course he would be tender with you. Hadn’t his hands felt good earlier? He kept trying to initiate, and you wouldn’t let him. The room was spinning; you pressed your hands to your face.

He touched your shoulder. “I won’t touch you like that again,” he said, petting your skin tenderly. You despised it. “Would you prefer to lie down?”

That conjured a worse image. You shrugged off his touch. “No.”

The room was silent.

“I’m confused,” he said. “Would you like me to go into the other room?”

You shook your head. “No, it’ll…it’ll pass. Please, just…” You massaged your temples. “Give me a second?”

“This is about Genesis, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Pain arced through your chest, like lightning burning a tree from the inside-out. You weren’t sure what your outburst was about, other than your body betraying you for the umpteenth time. “I don’t…I’m not sure.”

Something rustled at your feet. Sephiroth’s hands appeared in your vision, offering you the crumpled bathrobe. You took it from him, but you made no move to put it on. Instead, it sat in your lap, all balled up like you had been in the tub. You worried at a loose thread. How much had this cost? Or was this free, too?

“Why don’t I get you a glass of water?” Sephiroth asked.

“Okay,” you said to the robe.

You watched, blankly, as Sephiroth straightened up and walked for the door. You looked down at the robe again.

“It’s stupid,” you said to the floor, to your bare feet on the carpet.

“What is?”

“I thought…” You pressed your thumbs to your eyes until you saw stars. You shouldn’t have said anything. “I thought….s-something…bad was gonna happen.”

“Why?”

You opened your eyes again. Sephiroth was halfway out of the room, lingering in the doorway: just turned to you, as if you had caught him mid-action. He rested his hand on the doorframe.

You sighed. “I saw…” You threw your hands up. “Seph, it really is stupid.”

His expression was tender, expectant. “No it isn’t.” He gestured at you. “Go ahead.”

“Do you…?” You had to get this out; he wasn’t going to let it go. It felt like you were at the front of the classroom, being mocked by the teacher for passing notes. “Okay.” You took a deep breath. “Do you remember…those, um, those…?” You snapped your fingers. “What are they called.”

Sephiroth smiled. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Ugh. Like those…s-stupid promo…videos or whatever.”

He inclined his head. “You’re…” He laughed and shook his head. “Going to have to be more specific.”

“The promo one! Where you and Angeal fought!” you blurted. “From ’96.”

“Which one?”

Which one? How many of these awful videos were there? Sephiroth driving his sword into Angeal, the blood in the grass, ad infinitum, on thousands of blurry screens. “The one where you, like.” You mimed stabbing someone at your feet.

He tapped his finger against the doorframe as he thought. “Ah,” he said finally, face brightening in that way you thought you were fond of. “Yes, that was a good fight.” He turned to face you, jamming his hands in his pant pockets. “Why do you ask?”

Nausea turned your stomach at how calm, even eager, he looked to discuss it. You dug your fingers into the comforter. “I, um…it. It came up in my recommended videos and I…it…”

He inclined his head towards you, silently urging you on.

“Scared me,” you whispered.

He startled. “Scared you? What about it scared you?”

“Like…just—“ You stared at the carpet. “With Genesis, and— and the— videos— I thought what if I make him mad and—“ You covered your face. “And when you held my head I was like he could just—“

You had his full attention now. You waved at him. “Seph, it was…” You sighed and put your face in your hands. “I told you,” you muttered. “Stupid.”

“Did you think I would hurt you?” he said, and his voice was small. Afraid. You never wanted him to sound like that again. You shouldn’t have said anything.

“Yes,” you sighed into your hands. “I’m sorry.”

You felt the bed dip: he had crossed the room to sit next to you. “May I hold you?”

This, you could do. You could always let him hold you.

You wanted him to.

You wordlessly turned and pressed your forehead to his shirt. He folded you into his arms, leaning over you: his warmth, his body, everything that made you feel safe and familiar and loved. Though the angle was awkward (and immediately undid his hard work back in the tub), you felt blessed relief. His hair, soft and familiar, draped over your shoulders, whispered past your cheek.

You felt, rather than heard, his voice: “I will never do that to you.”

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” you whispered into his shirt. He rubbed soothing circles into your back.

“No, it—“ He sighed with exasperation. “I thought you had seen those.”

“I’ve only been here for nine months,” you said into his chest. “I just don’t really pay attention to that sort of thing.”

“Oh?” he said. “That must be why you’re so normal.”

“Shinra only hires you if you’re nuts.” You pressed your ear to his shirt, just to hear the steady thmp-thmp of his heartbeat again. “It— it was in my hiring packet, at least.”

“I must have missed that clause. Here.” He released you and gestured to the robe. “You’re going to catch cold. Seriously. Put something on.”

You twisted your mouth. “Thought you wanted me undressed,” you mumbled.

Sephiroth suddenly laughed, full-throated and loud. You jumped. “Maybe later,” he said above you. “But not now. I’m starving.”

The food. “Oh!” you said, looking up at him. “I still owe you. I— I left most of it—” You pinched your index and thumb together. “I tried to eat, like, just a little of everything—”

He bumped shoulders with you before standing. “I told you,” he said, his voice trailing off as he stretched. You heard his joints crack. “A detailed review is payment enough.”

You stood up to dress, but Sephiroth was halfway out the door again. “Come on,” you said to his retreating back. “Let me throw you a couple thousand gil. Please?”

“It was a gift.” He disappeared into the kitchen beyond. “Did you eat yet?” he called.

You shifted from foot to foot. Before you could catch yourself, you looked towards the full-length mirror again, at your reflection. You had to roll up the sleeves of the robe to cross your arms properly. The old temptation to lie caught on your tongue in this place: you could say you were stuffed, really, you were. You could lure him back to bed and let him do what he wanted with you, as if letting him inside of you would make your brain stop screaming for help. At the very least, those cold, clammy kisses on your shoulder had made everything go completely still.

“No,” you said to your reflection. “I’m starving.”

“Then come out here and join me already.”

“In...this robe?”

Sephiroth laughed. The noise carried across the kitchen tile. “Yes, in your robe. There’s no dress code here.” He was rummaging around and fussing already. “We’ve done worse on these counters.”

You felt embarrassed at the memory, but that feeling of safety flared in you again. You looked down at yourself, making sure the robe was secured around your waist. After some hesitation, you pressed the bathrobe to your nose and inhaled deeply. The fluffy, baby-soft terry fabric smelled like him.

You shuffled out into the hall beyond. Sephiroth leaned against his kitchen counter, staring in concern at his phone. He chewed his bottom lip.

“Seph?” you asked.

He looked up at you, and there was something stern, even dire, in his face. You held your breath. What could you have done to anger him? Was something wrong?

“I’ve invoiced you for your share of the bill,” he said, voice grave. “You had better check your phone.”

“Oh.” You pat the robe’s pockets, but they were empty. “Shit.” You cast around for your phone; it was on the countertop, still plugged into your charger. “Let me—” There was a new notification from the Shinra messaging app sitting at the top of your home screen. “I think I get paid next week—”

“I don’t mind waiting,” Sephiroth said, still entirely serious, and you read the notification:

ShinPay User s1979 has requested 1 gil!

You groaned. Sephiroth threw back his head and laughed.

“Really?” You slumped into one of the bar chairs as he wiped tears from his eyes. “Really? You could have just told me to get you next time.”

He smirked and pushed himself up off the counter. “Ah,” he said, still watching you as he opened the fridge, “but then you’d never listen to me.”

“Is everyone using ShinPay now?” You dismissed the notification. After a moment, you silenced your phone, too, and you put it face-down on the countertop for good measure. “Am I getting old?”

“Every minute. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” Sephiroth placed each takeout container on the counter. “I feel myself age every time my infantry shows me some new cat video.”

You leaned your cheek against the heel of your hand. “Just cat videos, specifically?”

“Some of them just aren’t funny,” he said to the fridge, and his tone was so petulant you laughed.

“Every time the new semester started at GU, I felt, like, a million years old.” You watched him heap noodles and rice onto clean plates. “It was like a nightmare where I just aged and aged, and everyone just kept getting younger around me.”

“I could use you in my company. Some of this slang is just…” Sephiroth shook his head as he placed a plate in the microwave.

“I know, but do you really want to talk like your cadets?”

Sephiroth gave you a desperate look, nose wrinkling with horror and disgust as he did so, and you giggled.

He turned back to the microwave. “I’ve got hot pepper somewhere,” he said to it, almost thoughtfully. “I ought to pile it on your food.”

The microwave chimed, and Sephiroth switched the plates. You crossed your arms against the countertop. “And what if I liked spicy food?”

Sephiroth handed you the plate he had just heated; the ceramic was white-hot under your hands. He gave you that affectionate smirk again. “Then I’ll make sure I’ve got hot pepper available.”

He had given you far too much food, as always: curry sauce dribbled into the fried rice, chicken mingled with shrimp. The food hissed and popped from the microwave. The abundance of it touched you, just as much as the bath, and the massage oil, and the tender hug, and the words of encouragement.

When he sat next to you with his own plate, you nudged his calf with your foot. He raised his eyebrows as he looked down at you.

“Thanks, Seph.”

He seemed to know you weren’t talking about the food. His eyes softened, and he leaned in to kiss your forehead. This time, his mouth was just as warm and soft as you remembered.

“Don’t mention it,” he said against your skin. “I’m here for you.”

—

You watched from the living room as Sephiroth loaded the dishwasher. When he straightened up and dried his hands off on his sweatpants, you spoke up again. “Come back to bed?”

He looked at you as if he had forgotten you were there. “Are you sure?”

If anything, he looked more unsure than you did. “Just to cuddle,” you said, and you looked down and away. You fiddled with the bathrobe. “I’ll…put on my pajamas and come sit with you.”

“I can do that,” he said softly. “The bed or the couch? We can always watch a movie.”

Your reply was immediate. “Bed.” You added, “It’s so much bigger than mine at home.”

He smiled at you from under his lashes and nodded towards the bedroom. “Plenty of time to enjoy it before you go tomorrow.”

—

Once you were dressed again, you brought the robe back into the bathroom and hung it up. Sephiroth was waiting for you in bed, lying on his side. He had taken his shirt off. You instinctively reared back, until you saw the waistband of his sweatpants, just peeking out from under the comforter.

He lifted the sheets next to him in invitation. Yes, he was wearing his sweatpants still: he wasn't going to force you. “Come here.”

You crawled into bed next to him, snuggled close under the covers. Sephiroth held you tightly to his chest, letting out a satisfied sigh. He was all warmth and solid muscle and pale skin. You nuzzled gratefully into his collarbone. He bowed his head, pressed his nose to your hair and breathed in deep.

“So…” you started.

“So.”

“What’s with the voices you do?”

Sephiroth’s rumbling voice reverberated against your cheek: “The ones telling you to quit your job and kill your boss?”

You rolled your eyes. “Never mind.”

“No, no.” A gentle hand stroked through your hair. “Enlighten me. What voices?”

“You do these…” You looked down at your nails. Your cuticles, normally dry and cracking, were so much softer. The massage oil had likely softened your skin. “The impression of Hojo, I mean. You did it so well.”

Sephiroth’s hand paused, and he laughed. “What do you mean?” You felt him shift to look down at you. “You only heard the one voice.”

“You can do more?”

He shrugged. “Just about anyone you can think of,” he replied.

You traced the length of his side with your eyes. “How? How do you do it, I mean.”

He rolled over to lie on his back, one arm still wrapped around your shoulders, as if he was reluctant to let you go. You rested your cheek against his pectoral muscle and looked out the window with him. It was still pouring outside, the rain hitting the window in irregular tap-tap-taps.

Finally, he shook his head. “It just comes out of me. I’m not sure why. The lab assistants…” He laughed, covered his face. “They used to scream at me for it. Said it was unnatural. I think someone tried to get it banned.”

You looked up at him. “It’s a little uncanny. It sounds like the person’s inside of you, shouting up.” You clutched at your throat and pointed at the ceiling to demonstrate. “Like, out of your mouth.”

Sephiroth wrinkled his nose as he returned his arm to your shoulders. “Oh, god,” he said. “I certainly hope not.”

“Really?” With a fingertip, you drew aimless shapes on his chest. "You can imitate anyone?”

“Sure. Try me.”

“I’m…scared to ask what I sound like.”

Sephiroth’s face contorted with embarrassment. “Oh,” he said. “I’ve never tried.” He looked out of the window again. “I don’t wish to offend you.”

“That bad?”

“Of course not. But…” He laughed, tilted his head this way and that. “I learned that people aren’t…appreciative of it, let’s say.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Did someone get mad at you for it?”

“Of course.” He scratched the bridge of his nose. “There was a bigger guy named Samuel in my troop fifteen years ago. He used to annoy me. Such a big, brutish kid. Always cruel. We were waiting our turn to run a simulation. He jumped the line and pushed me against the wall.”

Sephiroth’s voice changed into a brutish, unfamiliar growl: “Watch it, freak.”

You could picture Samuel perfectly: a shaved head, broad shoulders, a pathetic, wispy mustache highlighting a permanent scowl. “And what did you do?”

Sephiroth let his head fall back against the pillow. “I said it back to him, just like that, and he knocked me out.” He smiled and looked at you out of the corner of his eye. “It was worth it to hear everyone laugh.”

Your eyes widened. You sat up. “You got concussed?”

Sephiroth shrugged. “I was fine. I was a smaller kid, so that hit laid me flat.” He rolled onto his right side, towards you, and propped himself up on his elbow. “I was more disappointed about missing the exercise.”

You rested your head on your pillow. Everything Sephiroth said opened more questions. You wanted, so badly, to ask about his training. You wanted to hear how young he was when Shinra pushed him onto the field. His eyes traveled over your face as you watched each other.

“Can you do Angeal?” you asked.

“Oh, please.” He smirked and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was replaced by Angeal’s: “I get that we could save an hour by taking a taxi, but I would prefer we walk. It’s a nice day outside, and we could use the exercise. Cabs are so expensive these days.”

You clutched at your hair in exaggerated surprise. “What?! Seph. How?!”

Sephiroth laughed. “Here, you want Genesis?” Another deep breath, and this time, Genesis’s voice left his mouth: “Loveless, Act Fifteen, Verse 3: And should the sun rise again on another morrow.” Sephiroth raised his arm to the ceiling, eyes turning upwards in a perfect impression of fine art. “You will hear me recite this again, from the beginning.”

You giggled. Sephiroth grinned at you as he lowered his arm. You choked out, “You are so…so mean!”

“Believe me, they hate it.”

You slapped his chest playfully. “You have to do me. Come on.”

He suddenly withdrew his arm. He rolled over and pulled the comforter up over his body, leaving you partially exposed to the air. “Good night,” he mumbled.

“Don’t ignore me!” You shook his shoulder. “Please? I won’t be mad.”

He yanked the comforter over his head. “I can’t hear you. I’m asleep.”

“Pretty please?” You draped yourself over his body. “Pleeeease?” Hanging upside-down over his head, you tugged the edge of the comforter away from his face; his glowing eyes peered back at you in the dark. “I won’t be mad,” you said to them. “I promise I won’t.”

“Someone’s persistent.” His voice was muffled by the fabric.

“It’s not super mean, is it?”

Sephiroth shifted under you, and you rolled off of him as he sat up again. “For you?” He shook his head as he rearranged the pillows under him and leaned back. “Never.”

You laid back down on top of him. His fingers traced the curve of your cheeks with a painful fondness. You’d never get tired of his unnatural warmth, especially when the rain outside poured so heavily. You thought, again, of your steam heater, of the bloody nose you got on Monday, while you slept. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him; you draped one leg over his. Sephiroth made a little noise at your cool feet pressing against his legs, right where the sweatpant cuffs had ruched up to expose more skin.

You gave him what you thought was your best hopeful look. He stared at you for a moment, took a deep breath--

“Fine,” he sighed. He ran his hand through his hair, then beckoned to you. “Give me something to say.”

You...hadn’t thought that far ahead. You cast around the room; the textbook was still sitting next to the leather armchair. “Maybe my research?” you asked.

“Doesn’t have to be your research.” He tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “You could even describe the weather.”

“I feel like…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “My research will give you more material?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you’d like. Try me.” He rested his hand against his belly, so near to your shoulders.

“Let me do…the elevator pitch? How’s that?” Tried-and-true: you could recite your research proposal in your sleep.

Sephiroth smiled and raised his eyebrows at you. When you didn’t speak immediately, he nodded encouragingly: Go on.

“So…” You tried to speak slowly. “My team focuses on mako and its influence on cell growth and repair. Previous studies have isolated the protein MAT-beta in the liver, which manages oxidative—”

Sephiroth’s eyebrows furrowed. “A little slower?”

You smiled back. Just like you to rush, anyway. “Sorry. Okay.” You took in a deep breath and tried to enunciate each word. “My team studies the influence of mako on cell growth and repair. Keep going?”

“My team—” The voice was too high, too clear: a SOLDIER’s command. He cleared his throat. “No. Wait a second.” He tried again, and his next attempt was still strange to your ears: “My team studies the—” He tilted his head and beckoned again. “One more time, please?”

“My team studies the influence of—”

“—mako on cell growth and repair.”

As he repeated each phrase, his voice shifted, croaked, stretched. You heard many different people, none of them you, but each, conceivably, somewhere between your timbre and Sephiroth’s. “My team—” A shift, a minute crack in his voice. “—studies—” Another shift, this one lower. “—the influence—”

And finally: “My team studies the influence of mako on cell growth and repair.” A perfect mirror, like listening back to an old video of yourself. Uncanny.

Your eyes widened, and you drew back from him. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Sephiroth said back, in your voice. “Is that, like, a good ‘oh’? Or…I’m sorry.” He waved a hand. “Just forget I said anything.”

And despite the uncanniness, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. It was so him to remember how you spoke. You remembered, again, that he had been thinking of you during his mission.

“Ugh!” you said, playfully wrinkling your nose at him. “I really sound like that?”

He lifted his head from the pillow with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You asked!” he laughed.

“No! It’s amazing! You have a missed calling as an actor, Seph.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it— not when he was still smiling at you like that. “The public outcry to my Sector One Live performance says otherwise.”

Of all the videos you had watched, that one had somehow eluded you. “When were you on Sector One Live?”

“A few months ago.” His hand drifted across the comforter, towards your hands: slow, tentative.“You would have thought I destroyed the set. Reena wouldn’t stop reading reviews to me—” He closed his eyes. “Look at me, assuming you know everything. I meant my publicist, Reena.”

“What did you do about it?”

His hand inched incrementally closer. “Nothing I could do,” Sephiroth replied. He looked up at the ceiling. “So…I never did it again.”

You reached out and took his hand in both of yours. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Seph?”

He didn’t open his eyes. “Yeah?”

You drifted your fingers across the back of his hand. “In some of the interviews I saw, you didn’t…look…very happy.”

The jovial environment between you evaporated. Sephiroth turned his head away from you and stared out of the window again. You could see the two of you reflected there: faint shadows against the driving rain. His mouth twitched.

“Did you want to do them?” you whispered.

Sephiroth’s mouth twitched again. He removed his arm from your shoulders, let go of your hand.

He rose. “Let me close those curtains,” he said. Hesitating on the edge of the bed, he added, “The windows are mirrored, but…you know.” He flashed you a smile over his shoulder, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “No free shows.”

“No free shows,” you repeated. “Right.”

As Sephiroth crossed the room, you looked away from him, to the half-open closet doors. Hidden inside was that strange photo. You played with the comforter between your fingers. It would be inappropriate to ask about it now, not when Sephiroth seemed to retreat back into some dark, quiet place, hiding from you. The curtains squealed as he pulled them shut.

For a long time, Sephiroth stood there at the window, clutching the curtains hard in both hands. He turned his head, just enough for you to see his quiet expression. He was looking at the ground, at a precarious stack of books near the leather armchair.

“I thought I followed instructions,” he said, as if to himself. “How am I meant to behave when everyone’s looking at me like that?”

“For what it’s worth,” you offered, “You make me laugh.”

A pause.

Sephiroth turned back to you. “Probably time for me to turn in.” He was wearing that absent smile again. “You’re welcome to join me, but if not, I have a reading lamp you can use.”

You glanced towards his alarm clock, and—

“It’s ten already?” you asked. “Shit.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

You had forgotten that he had just come straight from work, straight into your arms, straight into a—

A panic attack.

“Oh, Seph.” You backed away from his side of the bed and winced. “You had such a long day. ‘M sorry.”

The absent smile turned wry. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

You had the urge to hold him close, to cradle his head against your chest, as you had done the week before. You opened your mouth—

“Ah.” He snapped his fingers. “Laundry.” He gave you an exasperated look, touching his forehead briefly. “I almost forgot. I must finally be losing it.”

It all came back in a rush: the tights were still in the dryer. You sat up in bed. “Wait,” you said, “I still—”

But Sephiroth was already halfway out of the room. You swung your legs over the edge of the mattress. Your voice was a weak, half-hearted bleat: “I have stuff in there—”

“I’ve got it,” he said gently. “I’ll put them in your bag.”

Your feet hadn’t even touched the carpet before he was gone. You heaved a sigh and crawled back under the covers. There was some jealous part of you that hated how Sephiroth got to surprise you first. You hadn’t been able to return the favor.

The moment the thought hit you, you recoiled with disgust. What were you doing? Why did you think of him this way? What prompted this ugly, impulsive side in you?

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, let the smell of his apartment wash over you. He was safe. He was being kind. You appreciated everything he had done. You would surely pay him back eventually. You could buy some other surprise for him. You repeated the thoughts to yourself, over and over: he’s safe he’s kind you’re safe you can pay him back later he’s safe he’s—

“Oh,” sighed Sephiroth from the kitchen. “What a shame.”

You sat up again. “What? What’s wrong?”

The rustle of fabric. “I think the dryer ate your clothes.”

Dread sunk its claws into your belly. It looked like you would have to buy something else for him. “Oh, no.”

“I’ll show you.” Footsteps, and then Sephiroth appeared in the doorway.

And—

He was holding the tights. They were intact.

Oh, no.

To your mortification, Sephiroth held out the tights for you to inspect. “These seem ripped,” he said sadly. “I’m afraid the dryer isn’t the most—”

“Seph, no,” you blurted. “They came like that.”

He blinked and looked down at the tights. “Oh.”

And then, as you watched, his eyes went wide. A blush started at the tips of his ears and crept down his neck, under the collar of his shirt. He looked up at you. He cleared his throat.

“Oh,” he said.

Whatever reaction you expected, it wasn’t that one. You wrung your hands in your lap. “Yeah, it was…supposed to be a nice surprise.”

Sephiroth bunched the tights against his chest. His mouth had a funny turn to it, and it wasn’t until you saw his deerlike, stricken expression, how he stared just past your left ear instead of meeting your eye, that you realized it wasn’t disgust, or even just embarrassment.

It was want: boyish, mortified desire, something vulnerable and desperate. Like you were special.

The urge to hold him close hit you all over again. You couldn’t let anyone else have him. You couldn’t. The Silver Elite would destroy him; they would tear him to pieces, like ravenous animals. Any other man who had touched him hadn’t appreciated this tenderness, else they’d become just like you: a possessive little creature, completely and utterly his.

You smiled gently at him; his eyes fell to the tights. You took a deep breath. “I…take it you like them?”

His voice came out in a breathless rush: “I’m cursing Heidegger’s entire department right now.”

“Sorry you couldn’t see them in action.”

Sephiroth turned his head away from you, hiding his face. He cleared his throat. “You’ll have to wear them next time.” His voice cracked on wear them.

To be continued!

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