Forgiveness [FFVII: DoC, Weiss/Nero] Title: Forgiveness Author:_ice_lady_ Rating: NC17 Warnings: Blood, death, spoilers, smut. Word count: 1474 Summary: They gained their freedom. Now what? Prompt: September 26: 4. Final Fantasy VII: Dirge of Cerberus, Weiss/Nero: first time - "I want to touch you outside of dreams."
Eyes are open wide, two black slits on red focus, then the lids narrow. He waits. “Brother,” he whispers, remembering so many times he’d screamed and begged and pleaded, either for them or for himself, always wanting him, just asking for him, just waiting for him.
Eyes open wide, waiting, begging, speaking words the bound mouth never could. His entire body tenses, alert, aware, prepared for whatever is to come; and he’s still not sure about it. He stands still, showing both submission and victory. He stays put, waiting for his Emperor to look at him.
“I came,” he says. “I came.”
Legs used to carrying twice the weight of a normal human pass the two step distance, muscles used to breaking armour carry the hand made for snapping necks and spines, only so the fingers used to wielding all the weapons in this world could trace the black marks gently.
Nero shudders, knowing this is much, much more than anything before; than any time before. It flashes through his nerves, alerting both the skin and everything within. It tingles and burns and is so much more when compared to that before, when compared to him being superfluid in the night, hiding them from the prying eyes.
His Emperor, his brother, his Weiss is here… he loves him, he touches him, he worships him.
He is worshipped back. Always, every time. Forever.
I can’t do this.
Lips used to snapping commands and threats land on the pale skin that has never seen the sun. It makes them both shudder, this burning that is everything but controllable, that is anything but what they should already know, because they’ve been through this before, even though in sleepless dreams alone, which were filled with smelling and licking and frantic grabbing just in case one of those numbed sensations would, in fact, be real, until they’d both wake up wet, Weiss in his throne, Nero in some forgotten corner.
What used to be strapped just a minute ago is now free for the first time after so many years. Those are the lips that have never been kissed and Weiss does not waste another minute before tasting something that’s rightfully his, that has always been his because Nero can belong to only one, to his brother, to his Emperor, and there’s no other way.
I want to touch you outside of dreams.
Hands used to binding are free only to be held once again. But Nero does not mind. He has no reason to. White hand used to wielding weapons holds them both, pressed to the wall, attached, abandoned, taken.
It’s only a matter of minutes before the clothes are off, because it’s the right thing to do. But, only after everything is tasted and made sure it’s real and never to be forgotten. Neck used to steel, iron and mako is bitten, strongly, violently, blood is drawn without cutting the skin.
Nero moans; as submissive as it gets.
Hand made for war drags the heavy cage that bounds every move. It snaps like paper, like glass, like it’s nothing and that’s exactly what it is.
It would kill you.
Throat made for begging does exactly that, gladly this time.
No one bothers them here. No one dares to.
Muscles push into bones, perfection into paleness, guidance into sin. Nero moans and begs and red eyes are always on blue. Breathing is deeper, heartbeats wild, perception enhanced, instincts alert.
Weiss smiles, getting exactly what he demanded, exactly what he begged for and waited all these nights.
Nero spreads his legs, just wishing, for once, the damned white pants to be off, because he cares not of preparation. If it hurts, it’ll hurt; anything is better than waiting.
Anything is better than torture by denial. Weiss should already know that.
A lifetime in pain is easier than moments without you.
Weiss smiles, laughs, snorts. He’s getting exactly what he wanted for the first time in his life. It’s all about power and the way the only person that matters yields.
He pushes in, and it tastes like victory, it tastes like sin; it tastes like home. Nero screams. Pain is so much better than nothing. Pain is here to remind him he exists.
Pain is here because all they have is blood, sweat and come.
Blood, sweat and come and eternity to shut the world away. Weiss loves him, he’s here. That’s all that matters.
There’s a cure.
It lasts much longer yet shorter than they both want it. It’s not the same like in dreams, because this is real. This is what it really is, with good and the bad and all those things that make it perfect.
And Nero screams yet again, not because it hurts, but because it’s perfect in its imperfect reality; the way that chest pounds into him, pushing the air out; the way those hips hit into his with bone-breaking vigour; the way those hands keep him, pull him closer, hold him tight.
It’s perfect, it’s just perfect. They don’t care about the corpses around them, about death and decay. They don’t care about pain of those still barely alive, because there shall be no survivors. They don’t care about their captors.
They have each other for the first time.
And Nero screams again right as he loses control and splashes white over Weiss’ abdomen. How fitting.
He likes the way Weiss responds, with a grunt, with a victorious smile. With power.
Just play the role.
Blood, sweat and come. Red catlike stares into almost human blue until the blue closes and face relaxes. Tattooed weak hands encircle the strong neck and he pushes, one more time, one more time. One last time.
It hurts more, but that doesn’t matter anymore. He wants to see Weiss lose control for once, this time for real, and he knows Emperor grants every wish to those who succumb to him. In the end, they are one and what Nero wants cannot be different than the desire of his brother. It’s the way it’s supposed to be.
He yelps as Weiss moves away; that which was innerved by pleasure is finally free to take every stimulus equally, and their entire bodies scream in pain, even though they still try and ignore it.
He lies there, still, on the floor, unbound lips spread into a wide smile, panting, fighting, actually happy that he’s in pain, wasted, spent, sleepy. He lies there, not able to move from exhaustion much deeper than anything he’s ever experienced; satisfied deep inside, in his very core, wet between his legs, sore about everywhere.
He turns his head, slowly, carefully, wanting to see his Emperor, wanting to show respect even battered and useless like this.
Oh, my god…
He’s rotten and black in his very essence. He feels death and decay on a much higher level than any other being on the planet. He knows every soul and every sin they’ve ever made.
He knows death. He is death. He is Nero, Nero the Sable, the Bringer of Darkness.
He knows death.
No no no! This cannot be! No!
It’s barely visible; a twitch, perhaps. A cringe. The way his Emperor moves away, his eyes falling to the other side. He doesn’t know shame, but this is as close as it gets.
It’s in the way he doesn’t speak even though he never does after sex.
It’s the way they don’t belong anymore, because Nero may be the bringer of death, but he cannot stop it.
“Weiss,” Nero tries, praying, begging, hoping against better judgement, that what he felt is a lie.
This cannot be and it cannot be and this just cannot be because it’s not a part of the deal and not what Weiss said and Weiss doesn’t lie to his brother, because he only lies when it benefits him, and this is not it, this is just not it, no, no, no, no and no, this is not it!
“Weiss!” Nero yells, weak tattooed hand pulling against the muscles used for battle. “You promised!” he screams, feeling tears burning in his eyes, even though he never cried. “You said there was a cure!”
And Weiss holds him, far too strongly to move, far too gently for Nero not to hurt him; far, far too unlike him. He holds him there, listening to his cries and curses and broken hearts. And promises.
He holds him, but pulls away mentally. The Emperor isn’t victorious for the first time in his short life. He doesn’t command, he does not ask, he does not demand.
He begs his brother for forgiveness even though Nero doesn’t hear him anymore.
He still begs and will continue doing so until he gains it or dies.