InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "well excuuuuuse me princess"

He remembers the first time when they made love. (And it’s only in the darkest hours he allows his mind to betray him like that). He remembers taking all that bulk off, the armour, the protectors, the heavy leather, the layers. He remembers seeing the skin.

He felt like a virgin, in that insane, almost perverted and very twisted sort of way. He never expected to get what he did, nor did he hope to see what he saw.

But he did.

He remembers the porcelain fragility and the suppleness under his touch. He remembers the movements and the curves that were not supposed to be there. Muscles don’t curve in the way the bone does.

And it’s a silly thing to think, because he’s not that thin, but the exterior turned out to be a well designed mirage to fool even the greatest. Fragility was not in that equation and then, suddenly, he found it slammed to his face with brutal force.

He was not supposed to fall.

He remembers the first time when they fought, when he harmed him, the little fiery vixen that predicted his every move, always jumping two steps away, making him so angry that he forgot all about the code, about the exercise, about this not being the enemy, someone who needs to be harmed.

He remembers the horror that engulfed him once he realized Materia didn’t help. Or at least couldn’t fast enough, and there was blood, blood everywhere, and until the very last moment those lips refused to admit defeat even if it was obvious he’d stay conscious longer if he just kept his mouth shut.

But this is who he is. This is Genesis.

He thinks, one strong grip and that almost twig thin neck would snap. No Materia would help here either. He thinks, bones are breakable, especially this delicate, this… exposed. He could twist those overly visible joints beyond repair. He thinks, this is it, his prey, his demise, his everything.

From the hair spread over the pillow to the chest slowly moving, knees slightly bent, toes gripping the bottom of the soft blanket, barely covering his hips.

And he stares. He’s a soldier and far more than that. He’s a killer and Genesis’ body just right now makes him imagine twelve hundred ways of ending it quickly. Twice as much for ending it slow. The torture doesn’t get to be counted.

But he stares. Through the chest level rising just a tad, to the air through the nose moving faster, the muscles of the thighs slightly tensing, and even the toes releasing the blanket. To the fingers gripping the soft pillow underneath, the throat producing a swallow or two. Even to that one eye barely visible in the twist of limbs and mess of hair, as it slowly opens, lid fluttering a few times before the pupil zooms on him.

And it’s a soft sort of smile that travels through that eye.

Sleepy, hazy, Genesis moves, slowly at first, one arm stretching, fingers playing through the air.

“Say it, what you’re thinking,” he whispers, voice raspy, veiled with sleep. Those fragile fingers land gently on Sephiroth’s cheek, reminding him just how much weakness hides underneath that red leather shell. How much weakness he sees.

Sephiroth blinks. He keeps his mouth shut. No reason to speak. No… permission.

The feathery caress over the cheek turns into a gentle tug of one strand of hair, Genesis’ fingers, as though lazily playing with it, twisting the silver, twirling it around, amusing himself with something as simple as that.

The tug grows stronger, almost to the point of pain and, Sephiroth sees, the corners of those lips quirk in a very different way. He’s weak, so weak, so painfully weak… other times.

“I’m ordering you to speak.” It’s almost rage that travels through the air, though with all that laziness around them, annoyance is the only thing that passes. The pulling pressure skyrockets into pain.

“I’m…” Sephiroth pushes through his lips as though this is the hardest thing he’s done. His head down, chin to his chest, eyes closed, almost… ashamed of facing those eyes. His fault, his fault… his fault. “I’m sorry.”