Untitled, Final Fantasy VII, Sephiroth/Zack Title: Untitled Rating: PG-13 Warnings: None. Word count: 449 Summary: For prompt:- Sept 22 - 8. Final Fantasy VII, Sephiroth/Zack: Claiming - You're mine. You will -always- be mine, no matter what.
"You're mine, you will always be mine, no matter what!"
It's a joking comment, thrown out from beneath the encircling grip of a headlock and muffled almost to silence by the leather of Sephiroth's coat. Still, he hears it, because he hears everything the young man says, and it stays with him for years afterwards.
He remembers it in the depths of the Wutai jungles with the sweat slick on his skin and the eyes of the ninjas watching black and soulless from the tree branches. He keeps it close to his heart, secret and still, a hidden spark he can use to keep himself on the straight and narrow when the mako-fire is burning in his body and the gleam of Masamune is made over into something animal and vicious by the black stain of blood. He watches it reflected back at him in witchlight-green from the glow of Zack's eyes where he pins the other man beneath him, his teeth marking a red tattoo across pale skin.
Hot and certain it is in the beat of his heart and the pulse of his blood and the dance of his sword in the grimy light of the Midgar slums. He takes it with him when he works, dead ghetto-eyes made bearable by the knowledge that he has something to protect from this. Something, -someone- he corrects himself, who will fight and claw and laugh and tease and be as unbearable for his presence as he is in his absence.
His.
"You bet, babe," Zack grins, teeth flashing in the glow of the bar, eyes dark in the gloom. The smoke hurts Sephiroth's eyes, like the bite of poison from a monster's tail, but Zack's body is intoxicating in the neon haze and the pulse of the music. They dance and no-one can touch them.
So it is then that Jenova's touch is as familiar to him as the touch of his own hair across his shoulders and the claws she wraps around his neck can barely be discerned from the rest of the barbs that ShinRa, the War, the mako, have inserted into him. He recognises it for what it is only barely, the whine of her need for control resonating with his own desire for absolution for all that he cannot be.
When he lifts Zack across his lap, fisting his fingers in dark hair and sliding his palms across sweat-slick shoulders, she is there too, her hands on his shoulders and her voice in his ear. And when someone whispers --mine-- it is Zack that answers yes and Sephiroth who pulls him close, but it is someone else entirely who smiles out from behind his eyes.