DISCLAIMER: Obviously, I own Kingdom Hearts, the signature Mickey Mouse ears, Goofy's rather interesting take on the English language, not to mention it was my decision to bribe George Newbern with unsightly sexual favors to voice Sephiroth in KHII. Alas, there will be no Superman spandex, but Nomura could try. Oh, he could try.
Title: 'Sense and Sensibility'.
Author: The Author Formerly Known As Ninetails.
Rating: R/NC-17.
Warnings: Sex, sex, attempted sex, flashbacks, one-sided point-of-views, hinted perversion from all parties involved, run-on-sentences-from-hell and dear god, did somebody mention the sex?
Summary: The five senses are the psychological methods of perception, but how does one interpret memories of someone who was barely tangible to begin with? Cloud ponders the interactions between himself and an older Sephiroth before the Heartless took over the Hollow Bastion.
Author's Notes: This is getting rather ancient now and it practically rules the roost when it comes to deranged, run-on-sentences, but, you know, sharing the old hard-core-nudity and all that. According to a pile of notes in the decaying document I supposedly 'took more liberties than the Statue Thereof. It started off being short drabbles about the five senses, and then the idea of flashbacks popped up, and quite frankly, it basically went to hell after that' What a way to advertise.
Pure – and unlikely – speculation, and far less canon after KHII, which pretty much makes as much sense as what is to follow.
...sense and sensibility...
.see.
His mother had teasingly said that it was love at first sight. He had never understood what she meant, but has a distinct memory of being in his mother's arms when he was introduced to Lord Ansem and the young orphan that had lived with him. He remembers the bright silvery hair and dark green eyes, and wanting to touch the porcelain, doll-like skin so much that he burst into tears, chubby arms thrown out as he wailed loudly. He remembers deep, warm laughter and a gentle command from Lord Ansem, and then light footsteps and a lovely face peeking curiously at his own, before breaking into a wide grin that caused his tears to change into delighted childish laughter. His mother, who was nothing more than a castle maid, had often added that leaving him with Lord Ansem's orphan, oddly named Sephiroth, was the only way to stop him crying for long periods of time. In retrospect, he was inclined to agree with her. There was something magical about the older boy, with his magnificent silver hair and unusual green eyes, which made him just want to hold on tightly and never let go. He supposed he looked upon Sephiroth as a favourite toy, a desired possession, something that as a child he found to be so unbelievably beautiful that it hurt.
He doesn't really remember Sephiroth growing older, as six-year-olds don't have the most brilliant memory to begin with. He does have flashes though of watching a sixteen-year-old Sephiroth train in the courtyard with some of the older boys from the surrounding village, watching as they danced with wooden swords. His mother never let him play, but Sephiroth would often let him hold it, and keep a close eye on him as he trailed his fingers wonderingly down the brown wood. When Sephiroth was seventeen and he was seven, he recalls all the staff being called together to watch Lord Ansem present Sephiroth with a long, silver sword. Sephiroth's lips had parted in shock, his cheeks flushing slightly, and he had taken the blade with a soft, contented smile. From then on, there were no more wooden blades, and all the older boys would stand with him on the sidelines, watching as Sephiroth made gentle arcs and curves in the air, his face and neck covered with a slight sheen of sweat.
When Sephiroth was sent away later that year, he remembers the cold tears that dribbled down his own cheeks, and the stern look of resolve in Sephiroth's eyes. It was again another gathering, and he'd watched as Lord Ansem had shook Sephiroth's trembling hand, and then as Sephiroth walked down the steps of the Hollow Bastion, head held high and back rigid. He hadn't missed the slight, cruel curve of Lord Ansem's mouth, and he had wanted to run after Sephiroth, catch his shorter arms around the older boy's waist and beg him to stay. But he had watched, crying silently from his mother's skirts, wishing that his world wasn't going to end this way. As an adult, he could look back and find his behavior incredibly needy and immature, but at the time, he had felt so alone.
When Sephiroth had returned, eight years later and barely weeks before their world was taken by the Heartless, he had gone to bed every night for the first week with his hands on himself, picturing long, silver hair, a sure, cocky smile, and delicious, sculptured muscles. He couldn't help but picture Sephiroth pressing him up against the wall and taking him, with long, confident fingers, for all he was worth. He had arched up to an invisible specter, sobbing and jerking himself off until he was nothing more than a pile of hormones and the hardness between his legs. Sephiroth didn't acknowledge him or anyone else besides Lord Ansem in those final weeks, and it hurt more than he imagined it ever possibly could.
His first view of Sephiroth at the Coliseum had been from the sidelines with the recently united Yuffie and Leon. Yuffie had let out a horrified shriek when he had burst down from the darkened clouds, and Leon had a sharp intake of breath. Sephiroth was magnificent to watch, his wing outstretched and sword moving quicker than his eyes could follow. When they had met in the vacant arena later that day, Sephiroth's eyes had been so cold and so full of hatred that he didn't know what to do, except to bring up his sword in protection. They had fought then, long and hard, and he had found himself watching every one of Sephiroth's movements, from the tilt of his head to the arch of his wing.
Oddly enough, it wasn't any different now, and he found himself staring at the curve of Sephiroth's shoulder as Sephiroth pushed him against the rough wall. His eyes followed the slight dribble of sweat as Sephiroth began to breathe deeply, slipping a gloved hand past his undone belt buckle, and as they began to move together, he observed the slight flash of something foreign in Sephiroth's eyes and the way his lips thinned as the older man ducked his head and moved to nip lightly at the bare skin of his own neck.
.hear.
Sephiroth's greeting in the Coliseum had been pure heaven. A delicious, low baritone, voice confident and almost soothing to his ears, before becoming a tad hysterical in the moments before he drew out the Masamune. While in the air, their panting was loud and deep, and it was exactly the same a few weeks later as Sephiroth reclined in the public bath and he found himself sliding across the older man's thighs, as Sephiroth moved upwards, fast and deep. It was rare occasion that Sephiroth ever drifted off to sleep in the same room as him, let alone next to him. For the times that Sephiroth did, he found himself spending the entire night listening to the hiss of breath that drifted out from parted lips, and the slight unintelligible murmur if he was having a nightmare. Despite the amount of time they spent in each other's presence, Sephiroth never spoke to him, not even once. He personally assumed it to be companionable silence, but there were moments that made him sure something wasn't quite right between the two of them and it made his heart ache for years long past.
It was surely an almost horrible contrast to their childhood, where a much younger Sephiroth would laugh, tease and tell the most awful jokes as they played around the castle with the other children, pretending to be kings, queens, princesses and knights. He and Sephiroth were always knights, and would rescue Princess Aerith from the Dragon Cid, who could sometimes be dragged away from his machines to give a very small Yuffie rides on his back. Cid would then slide down the staircase, letting out loud, aggressive snarls and grunts that would have them bolting in feigned terror. What he had always enjoyed the most though, was when Sephiroth grew old enough to stay up far past his own bedtime, and would come all the way down to his room in the lower, darker levels of the castle to read him bedtime stories. He would curl up in Sephiroth's lap, listening to the older boy's charismatic voice as he would change tones and levels to match the characters. By the time Sephiroth was sixteen Lord Ansem had put a stop to it, saying that Sephiroth had his own studies to attend to, and he found that it had taken him so much longer to get to sleep after that near decree.
What hurt the most though, was the last thing that Sephiroth had ever said to him. He had said it with a sad smile and a slight catch of breath, reaching forward with a pale, glove free hand to brush the blond tangles from his fringe.
"Don't ever let me be just one of your memories."
.smell.
When he was younger, he used to envisage that the Great Sephiroth, heir to the Hollow Bastion and all the wealth it had to offer, had never needed to bathe a day in his life. Always pristine and fresh, the young Sephiroth would saunter through the Hollow Bastion by Lord Ansem's side; talking about adult dealings that he as such a small child couldn't hope to understand. As he grew older, he realised this was far form the truth, as Sephiroth smelt just as bad as the rest of them when they ran at full pelt through the thick, dark mud, and then smelt just as sweet when one of the maids finally forced them to have a bath. They would stand side by side, a warm, lavender fragrance heavy in the air, as Ansem inspected them all with an amiable smile, teasing them gently about their dirty escapades.
There was also the incident with the cook's daughter Aerith and her newly discovered perfume at her eleventh birthday, as she had sprayed it lightly against a bemused Sephiroth's wrist. It was a thin, adult odor that he didn't think had suited Sephiroth at all, and had received an amused laugh for his trouble when he clumsily pressed his face to Sephiroth's hand and wrinkled his nose at the smell. An older Sephiroth was of boy-musk and he was never sure whether he liked it or not, but he never really thought about it because that was still before Sephiroth had joined the military. That was when he was still allowed to bury his face into Sephiroth's neck and curl is fingers into short, silvery hair, adoring the way Sephiroth's arms felt curled against his waist as he was teasingly called a number of friendly, childish pet names. He had never been allowed near the older Sephiroth, the one who had returned from five years of military training, and for some reason, could never even contemplate what he smelt like. It would be something so delicious and so wonderful that it would be unknown to him.
Now, when he stood next to Sephiroth, he only smelt of the standard soap of the Coliseum, a plain, thick doughy aroma that covered the senses, but left him feeling clean. After a thorough spar, swords clashing and bodies heaving, Sephiroth smelt of hot, slick sweat, but that never deterred him. He would stand as close as he possibly could, as they waited in line for a shower, Sephiroth's leather glued to his heaving chest and his long hair caught against his cheeks and mouth as he struggled to catch his breath. He would watch Sephiroth in fascination, before letting his head drop back against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, adoring the man's rough, dry scent.
.touch.
It had been an accident, colliding in the main hall as they were both deep in thought, causing the few surrounding human contenders to break down into hysterical laughter. Sephiroth had caught his elbow in an iron grip and he hissed in response, watching as Sephiroth pulled back and stormed off in a cloud of black feathers, and feeling his skin tingle slightly where the leather had brushed.
He had used to touch a much younger Sephiroth quite a bit, and now, he often felt like he was afraid to. When he was three and Sephiroth was thirteen, he was often picked up and carried around like he was something of a prize. He had never minded, squealing in delight as Sephiroth spun him around and giggling to his heart's content. If Sephiroth was sitting on the ground or on a chair, Sephiroth would always let the much younger version of himself clamber into his lap and tangle smaller fingers with his much larger own. Sephiroth would put up with sloppy, childish wet kisses all over his cheeks, and fingers covered in children's paint cover his clean white shirts until Lord Ansem would only shake his head at them in amusement.
As they both grew older, and Sephiroth tried to regain some teenage dignity, he was no longer allowed on the older boy's lap, rather had to sit nicely beside him on the seat per his mother's request. They would often play with the other children though, but at the end of the day he was the only one who was allowed to close his fingers around Sephiroth's much larger hand, and was the only one allowed to curl into Sephiroth's side as the older boys told cruel and frightening fairytales, Sephiroth not minding in the slightest if he sucked his thumb and buried his face into Sephiroth's white silk shirt. In the weeks leading up to Sephiroth's departure he had become, slowly but surely, more and more distant to his attentions. There had been the time he had been looking for Sephiroth in Lord Ansem's library, and had stumbled across the older man intimately trailing his fingers down Sephiroth's unbuttoned shirt to trace gentle patterns on the pale skin of his chest, and he had found himself watching Sephiroth's face flush in fascination, not at all understanding what was going on at the time. In retrospect, he wasn't even all that sure he understood what had happened then either, but it certainly wasn't for the lack of wanting.
Despite the memory of Lord Ansem, he felt very content to be where he was now. The sheets were soft against his skin, the canopy of the bed billowing overhead in the breeze from the broken window, the cold rush of air contrasting sharply to the heat bubbling up inside of him. There were velvet fingers trailing up his neck to press against his mouth, and he was arching into the other man, with straining muscles long and hard against his own, silken hair covering his face like a waterfall. Much earlier in the night it had been Sephiroth laying on his stomach underneath him, feeling every movement of his hands as they trailed along the midnight-black of his wing-joint, delicate feathers catching against his callused hands. Sephiroth had let out a surprisingly loud gasp into the bed sheets, and for the first time in his life, he had honestly felt like he was in control of the other man. That he owned the long, sculptured body, that it was nothing more than a means to his every whim. He knew he had let out a disappointed groan when he was pushed on his back, Sephiroth's head dipping in between his legs and causing him to beg and whine like he was nothing more than a caged animal.
When he had felt his heart pounding loudly against his chest, the pleasure churning up inside of him just in the moments before he came, Sephiroth had pulled away and thrust inside him so quickly that he hadn't even seen him move, only felt himself being pushed further into the sheets as he arched into his orgasm. He heard himself swear loudly, followed by a slight howl of sheer gratification mixed with pain, his hands gripping Sephiroth's shoulders to the point that there would be dark blue bruises the next day. He kept his mouth clamped shut after that, trying hard not to groan, enjoying the enveloping silence that was heavy in the room, and listening to the short, sharp slaps of Sephiroth's body pressing violently into his own as he tumbled down from his peak. They moved like that, back and forth, and he watched detachedly as his fingers traced the lean muscles of Sephiroth's chest and stomach, before curling at the spot where Sephiroth moved deep within his body. He felt his eyes drift shut in satisfaction when, a moment later, Sephiroth buried his head against his neck, and let out a silent roar that left his very skin vibrating from the pleasure.
.taste.
It certainly wasn't like he expected. He didn't expect the gravel to be so rough against his knees; he didn't expect it to be so full in his mouth, and he certainly didn't expect it to feel so intimate, the world contracting and revolving around the two of them. He was kneeling between Sephiroth's parted legs, fingers clenched tightly against leather, feeling the heat break against his tongue in unhurried, gentle waves, as he kept his own controlled pace. Sephiroth was watching him with half-lidded eyes, long lashes barely concealing velvet green, his lips parting unconsciously with every hitch of breath. It wasn't overly sexual, just calm and slow, and he decided he liked it that way. There were no swords, no spectators, no battles; just the two of them, moving against each other in quiet unison. He was started by the low thud to the right of his head, and he turned just enough to see Sephiroth clench his hand into a fist, the first real sign of true arousal. He watched silently, continuing his slow, torturous pace, as Sephiroth let out a low hiss and arched his head back, silver strands tumbling back across his shoulders.
He pushed up from his knees, moving to straddle Sephiroth's lap, ducking his head slightly to press an open mouthed kiss against a long, pale neck. There was a definite catch in Sephiroth's already shallow breathing, and the skin against his tongue was hot and salty, something that is uniquely Sephiroth. When he raised his head, he halted inches from Sephiroth's lips, and couldn't help but stare down at the thin curves as he remembered a time when Sephiroth was not nearly as tall and he himself was very, very young. He remembered the fresh strawberries that he would crush with small chubby hands, the cold cream that was given in pristine white bowls, the warm apple pies that were baked fresh, and with the utmost clarity, he could remember the mixture of salt and sugar as he crushed his sticky mouth to the always unsuspecting older boy's cheeks. Now it was so much different, they were so different, and he wasn't always sure what to make of the two of them.
When Sephiroth came against his confident fingers, the older man arched back with a low, rich moan, lips just brushing his own as he gasped for breath. Sephiroth was panting, panting against him, panting against his mouth, gripping his hips roughly as he arched upwards in the aftermath of his orgasm. Unlike the other times they had done this, Sephiroth didn't let him pull away, tugging him into a surprisingly rough kiss that he hadn't been expecting. It was hot, wet and oddly stale, but it felt like Sephiroth. It wasn't the Sephiroth whose mouth he would childishly cover with strawberries, apples and cream, rather the Sephiroth who caused the sharp tang of blood across his tongue, and the salty semen to dry across his lips.
.the five senses.
Sephiroth had never quite worked out what he was doing at the Coliseum, let alone how he got there or what he had been doing before. Sometimes he had flashes, of children screaming and women sobbing, of blood dripping down the Masamune and icy cold breath hissing in his ear, "You're mine, you belong to me, and you are nothing but my puppet." It had been like waking from a deep sleep, and he remembered flashes of energy curling around his body and sending sharp jolts up his spine, before he landed on the ground in the center of the arena, hearing thousands upon thousands of people shrieking in excitement from the stands. He was like a marionette, nothing more than a puppet, moved by an unseen force that pushed him forward, flung out his wing and drew the Masamune into existence. The boy in front of him had been so terrified, eyes wide with horror, but he had fought bravely until Sephiroth felt himself draw out the boy's very essence in a wave of rainbow light, and heard the sharp crack as the hilt of the Masamune collided with the side of the boy's head. After that, there was a flash of light and the Coliseum was empty, and a young, determined man was walking towards him, golden blond hair drifting back and forth with the sharp gushes of wind.
He knew there were words coming out of his mouth, but all he could hear was deathly silence. The young man in front of him was replying, long red cape curling against his legs in the steadily growing gale. He didn't want to fight, and he knew that he shouldn't, but the young man brought his sword down if front of him in what was clearly an offensive position, and then he followed the rush of air, moving upwards as they tumbled and fought, moving faster that what he ever thought was consciously possible. The dark demonic wing was so similar to his own, and he watched as his body offered a hand to the young man, observing bright blue eyes narrow in distaste. He then felt his ribs crack as the flat of the man's broadsword impacted into his front, so similar to that of the boy's from much earlier.
When Sephiroth awoke, he was being cradled in strong arms, with warm lips brushing against his cheek and murmuring a gentle, repetitive mantra into his ear.
"I've been searching for you, I've found you, you came back to me, I will always be here for you, you're going to be alright."
He let himself be held, and watched in amazement as his fingers, by his own will, pressed lightly against the pale skin of the other man's arm. It took a few weeks, but they eventually fell into a companionable routine. The young man was different from the other creatures and humans that swarmed and fought in the Coliseum, although Sephiroth couldn't help but feel he was being constantly scrutinized. It was no matter, though; the man's body was beyond pleasurable to look at, lips soft with a taunt curve to his backside, his gasps low and wet to Sephiroth's own ears. He always smelt clean and sweet against Sephiroth's nose, his fingers confident and sure against Sephiroth's body, coaxing him to loose control, and his mouth and skin were a desirable mixture of salt and something uniquely metallic that Sephiroth couldn't help but indulge in.
He was the first one to talk properly between them weeks after their meeting, words that were so much more than a gasp, a hiss or a moan. The man was straddling his hips, hand around his softening erection, his cheek pressed to Sephiroth's own. The kiss that he'd drawn the other man into felt so warm and familiar that he couldn't help but inquire, against a soft, pliant mouth, "What's your name?"
The young man pulled back, blue eyes wide, pearl-stained lips parting in horror, before letting out a choked, "It's Cloud."