#implied sororicide tw

[bvlgae]

He hated all the movies that sold lies wrapped in glitter and glory, beating into people’s heads that one has to do something as cliché as squeeze the trigger.

“Don’t do that-” he instructs, hands like a wrench around the thin pipeline that was Sephiroth’s wrist.

“You’re thinking of actors playing at mastering a firearm. Are they squeezing it, are they pulling it? The force is being applied so quickly, is there even a difference? It doesn’t matter. A trigger does not know or care how force is applied to it.”

He can almost feel phantom pricks of stiff stubble biting into the raggedy fabric of his shirt, the heavy weight of Drautos’ chin against his shoulder- Bellies to the ground in the dust and the dead grass.

“You have to pull, straight back. Don’t clench any other fingers of your hand- I know it’s hard. But if the sights are on target when the shot breaks, you will hit it.”

The cool metal and worn wood of the rifle’s stock sliding through his hands as his superior tells him how he’s not going to eat, drink, or shit without that rifle by his side. 

Get to know your weapon, like the body of a woman. Touch it, jack off to it, fall in love with it. Then I’ll teach you how to kill with it.

He doesn’t quite go that far, finding the comparison distasteful and ultimately useless in familiarizing oneself with arms. Take it apart, like a puzzle. Put it back together. Clean it, care for it. Make it an extension of yourself.

Back when he was around Sephiroth’s age, he’d never fired a gun before. To do it with only a single bullet sounded easy. Just line up the muzzle with what you wanted to shoot and center it within your sights.

It was easy. Even easier when his target was bound to a tree, bleeding and shivering and gagged with an old sock stuffed down his throat as he pissed himself.

Ravus had pulled the trigger and the man’s entire body jerked. Contorted against the ropes keeping his arms trussed behind him like a stuffed chicken. Pink froth spilled from his half-open lips, shaking and twitching and shitting himself like the first time he’d watched a chasseur fail to kill a deer in one shot, splayed miserable on the soft forest floor with large, terrified eyes as involuntary groans oozed their way out of it’s bleeding throat.

Had to walk up and just beat the POW with the stock of his rifle until he finally stopped.

Please, please, Gods above- Just DIE, why won’t you die?! and then there was a crunch like a bird’s egg being crushed underfoot and sinking into the wet mud. The way his eyes got watery and shallow like looking into a puddle gathered between rain soaked cobbles. Saw his pale blue eyes reflected in them, filled with pain, but relief too.

The same way he’d looked when Sylva died.

He’d loved his mother. Lunafreya too, but what did love even mean- back then?

It was so loud. So loud that it was a clap of thunder in a clear sky. Then the wait as the bullet spit out faster than the speed of sound down the barrel, always a few seconds just before the bottle shattered.

How can he tell this boy he learned math by scratching out calculations in a stained notebook, trying to parse out the longest shot- The perfect firing solution. How many feet, kilometers, hundreds of thousands of millimeters.

A good sniper will always wait for the perfect shot, even if it takes him days. Weeks. He lurks, starving in the jungle while all the others hungry for the glory simply take the shot, whatever they can get, knowing another meal- another victim- is always coming. 

How did he look when he waited? Did his eyes go half-lidded and intimate once his sights found their target in perfect alignment, did his breathing mirror the deep rise and fall of the enemy’s chest? How did he imagine himself walking beside the other soldier, keeping in pace with those long strides as he stalked through the underbrush. Sucking in a breath. Holding it. Then watching as his torso was reduced to a fine mist, coffee still clutched between a spasming fist as his top half fell away from his lower body.

How can he tell Sephiroth THIS is why he’d learned his math?

He doesn’t. Can’t. Will never.

In his dreams, they’re always on the run. Hiding, cramped behind cover as the searching opposition fans out into the jungle. Sephiroth is crying, even for a quiet sob, the sound echoes off every rock face, rattles around between Ravus’ ears. The boy won’t stop, then suddenly he can’t breathe as Ravus’ fingers squeeze around him, neck going rubbery beneath. 

In his dream, he can’t stop crying, so Ravus can’t stop squeezing until she he isn’t crying anymore. He’s not doing anything.

“-are you listening to me?” Sephiroth asks, looking concerned as Ravus suddenly snaps back to the present.

“I’m fine,” he answers, smiling but it doesn’t quite touch his eyes. Reaches down and ruffles his fingers through locks of blonde silvery hair so pale, it’s like starlight when the sun catches it.

#serafim #♘ WRITING #✦ I KNOW THAT SPADES ARE THE SWORDS OF A SOLDIER [MERCENARY] #implied sororicide tw #gore tw #violence tw #idk I just had this sitting around in my brain for awhile