InsaneJournal

---

Sephiroth never thought it would happen again. It was a one time deal, an unspoken agreement between the two of them. They both got what they wanted, and that was it. There were no sweet promises of more involved, and it was fine that way. He haven’t even thought about it, not more than any other. A short dwelling of thoughts the next day as he slowly, lazily jerked off in the shower before washing away all evidence of the night before, getting ready for just another day in the busy Shinra hive.

Perhaps two months passed before there was a knock on his door in the dead of night again.

With narrowed eyes, he watched Genesis standing there, straight from battle, covered in blood, with the slaughter burnt into his eyes and the scream of the dying in his ears. After a moment, he stepped to the side to give him space to enter. There was desperation in those blue eyes, hatred for the world and himself.

It was so sweet on his tongue.

He tasted like sweat and leather and death and Sephiroth loved it. The redhead was so pretty with his wax-kissed skin and the matching red imprint of Sephiroth’s hands around his throat, so pretty as he arched his neck, biting his lower lip until it bled, just adding to the enthralling picture he made.

Red really is his color, no doubt about it.

And he always comes back for more.

Sephiroth doesn’t know when he started to look forward to the next round, when the slow, sinister smile came about for the first time while assigning the other to a particularly demanding campaign. Or the first time he barged into the redhead’s room uninvited.

Not like it really matters. There are few people willing to take everything he throws at them, even less capable of it.

Genesis is both.

“Tomorrow,” he purrs, licks a wet trail up the shell of the ear so conveniently close to his lips, gets up. His eyes take in the scene before him, marvel at the sight of red silk rope biting into delicate wrists, cutting circulation, of red marks stark against skin so pale, clean cuts made with so much tender precision. Then he turns, leaves without a word, without a backward glance, small smile still ghosting on his lips.

A shower. He definitely needs a shower.