Chapter Text
The first time it happens, really happens, he is addressing several hundred new cadets. Sure he’s felt odd for weeks. Itchy. Uncomfortable. Anxious in a way he outgrew years ago. It has been odd enough that he nearly goes to the labs and demands to know what Hojo has given him this time. But he isn’t quite that desperate yet. And then, during his rote, obligatory speech to the new class of meat, he feels the first uncontrollable surge of emotion.
Having not spent a lot of time ruminating on emotions, Sephiroth would be hard pressed to describe it. Maybe admiration or pride? Perhaps hopefulness? Whatever it is, it is not a feeling that is natural for the General, particularly when speaking about Shinra and military service.
It is, apparently, his most rousing speech ever. The applause is enthusiastic.
Sephiroth feels silly and embarrassed as he leaves the auditorium, walking past Genesis who has an eyebrow raised.
“Trying something new? I’m very inspired.”
“Shut up.”
The second time, he is discussing training plans for the third class SOLDIERs with Angeal and his puppy. The discussion takes the better part of an hour and Zack is practically shaking with unspent energy by the end.
Eventually, he jumps up and begs Angeal to do squats in the corner of Sephiroth office.
“Fine, Zack,” Angeal grants with a sigh.
Sephiroth has been feeling unusually energetic and restless himself and decides to stand up and do squats too.
“Want to compete?” He asks Zack with a rare smile.
Angeal and Zack just look at him with mouths open.
“Are… are you joking?” Zack asks with wide eyes.
Sephiroth realizes how entirely out of character he is acting. “Yes, I’m joking. Unlike puppies, I am able to sit still for an hour.” Unfortunately, joking is also out of character for Sephiroth, but neither of them says anything.
The third time is the worst yet. He is sparring with Genesis for the benefit of some newly promoted second class SOLDIERs. The cadets must have just been released from morning inspection because a whole pack of them are lingering at the windows of the training room, peering in to see their idols fight.
Sephiroth ignores the cadets as easily as he ignores the SOLDIERs, focused entirely on Genesis and his red blade. Genesis doesn’t truly pose much of a problem for him, but Sephiroth is just as single-minded and focused sparring as he is doing anything.
The emotion that rises as he parries the redhead’s blade is easily identified. Suddenly, inexplicably, he is horny as fuck. The arousal comes out of nowhere. One second he is idly wondering if there is a polite way to explain that the tiny flourish Genesis performs at the beginning of his riposte costs him at least a tenth of a second. The next, he is imagining pulling that lithe body to his, thrusting into him, yanking the red hair back to bite his neck.
The image is distracting enough that Sephiroth stutters to a stop, so dizzy with lust that Genesis, despite pulling his strength, strikes him in the upper arm with a blow neither of them would have expected to land in a hundred years. The collective gasp of the onlookers is surprisingly loud.
Sephiroth’s jerks back to the present at the sensation of metal cutting through muscle and the unfamiliar feeling of blood running down his skin. With a growl he comes at Genesis full strength, each blow ringing in the auditorium, his arousal growing more with each dominant movement. He forces the redhead back step by step until he knocks the rapier clear out of his hands and grapples him down to the floor.
Holding in his groan as their hips press together against the mats, he almost starts rutting against Genesis until he sees the shocked look in the redhead’s eyes.
“I said I yield! What the fuck are you doing, Sephiroth?
The general freezes. What the fuck am I doing? He stands immediately and hauls Genesis back to his feet by the wrist without asking.
“Excellent spar. You drew first blood,” he says loudly enough for the audience to hear, trying to assuage the pride of the man he just threw to the floor and rubbed his crotch against.
With that he turns sharply and strides out of the room, blood dripping from his fingers to the floor. The outline of his rock-hard cock likely obvious to anyone who looks past his coat at his leather pants.
It isn’t even his most awkward exit that week.
Now that he is beginning to see the shape of the problem, Sephiroth becomes even more aware of the strange emotions that flood his system. He maps out the patterns systematically over the course of weeks. It isn’t always sharp and overwhelming, like the odd lust that overtook him during the spar.
Sometimes it is as subtle and fleeting as the breeze of someone passing you in the hallway. He once is sitting in a meeting with Lazard and has the oddest feeling like he is missing the presence of someone or something—the way Angeal sometimes describes being homesick for his mother’s cooking. Odder still because there is no person or place or thing for Sephiroth to long for. But before he can even consider the sensation, it slips away like mist.
Sometimes it arrives slow and sneaky, like the scent of someone cooking in another room… unnoticed until it’s suddenly surrounding you and you can think of nothing else. Irritation is a difficult one for him to manage. Part of the reason was that Sephiroth is naturally rather irritable himself… but he has trained himself to set this, and other emotions, aside. Emotional reactions are a weakness in the field and in his work. He has learned in the labs, from Hojo, and by pure experience, that little good comes from indulging emotion. And thus it takes several days for Sephiroth to realize that the irritability that has left him so scathing that even Zack takes to avoiding him in the hallway, is something unnatural. He only figures it out when it departs him as suddenly as a bubble bursting, leaving behind an echo of surprised pleasure, and then a peaceful sort of emptiness.
The emotions aren’t always unpleasant. Overall, they seem to improve somewhat over the months he spends observing them. Occasionally, early in the evening, he feels a gentle wave of happiness and caring, like he is in the presence of a friend. It is the sort of thing that he sometimes allows himself to indulge in with Angeal and Genesis—enjoying the pleasure of their companionship. Only this feeling comes on random and strong, in sweet flashes, when he is all alone, usually preparing his own dinner.
On the whole, however, whatever is happening, it is uncomfortable for the General. Extremely uncomfortable. Trying to control his own natural emotions is second nature to him by this point. He’s been doing it for more than a decade since he went through a very awkward puberty in the labs. His self-control is legendary and well-earned. It is a point of pride.
Trying to maintain his composure through an ongoing series of random and uncontrollable emotion swings is far harder. He feels adrift in the ocean, like a large wave might overturn him at any moment… and leave him lost, trying to figure out if he has a logical reason to feel enthused about Zack Fair’s usually irritating presence in his office, or if this, like ninety percent of what he feels lately, is random, as if it’s beamed into him from space.
It is beginning to wear him down. And after two months of dealing with the whiplash, Sephiroth is starting to wonder if something is truly wrong with him. Maybe he’s going crazy. There’s no precedent for what has been done to his body… so why not? Or maybe this is just the first sign of a brain tumor (he spends far too long researching this possibility one night when he’s feeling depressed). Or, what he deems most likely of all, Hojo has given him something new. Something just as experimental and untested as everything else and this bizarre reaction is the result.
Sephiroth would rather spend a week cleaning the infantry barrack bathrooms than bring this up with Hojo, but as the situation drags on for months, he resolves that he must do something. He simply can’t operate like this much longer. The embarrassment alone is intolerable.
Genesis came to his apartment and condescendingly offered to take him to bed after their spar, given that Sephiroth was “so desperate he couldn’t control himself in front of the seconds.” Sephiroth was going to refuse out of pride, but acquiesced when he realized that Genesis was going to bottom without protest. And because the intense lust he had felt that afternoon was still echoing through his body in the evening.
He had become so anxious and alarmed in a board meeting that he startled and nearly fell out of his chair when Heidegger boomed his insane laugh from the back of the room. Him. Sephiroth. The god damn Demon of Wutai. It was completely untenable.
Having found no other option, he starts planning. He’s got to have something to tell Hojo and it cannot be the truth. Weird emotional swings are assuredly the opposite of Hojo’s goals for Sephiroth. If the scientist is the cause, it’s clearly by mistake. An unintended side effect. Hojo has been conditioning Sephiroth to be emotionless since birth. In fact, when he dwells on this fact he begins to regret that he has become so accomplished at it. But either way… what will he tell Hojo? I feel funny? Sometimes I get horny or sad at inappropriate times? He can only imagine what sort of torture will result.
He needs a break and asks Lazard if he can take a minor mission to burn off some stress. Maybe he’s just been trapped in headquarters too long after the end of the war. He gets a simple assignment to kill some mako-raging monsters in North Corel that are causing trouble at the reactor. Sephiroth can only hope he’ll come up with a brilliant excuse for Hojo on his day away. And also that he won’t become so depressed or scared or anxious or horny or whatever that something actually manages to kill him.
It’s the best mission of Sephiroth’s life.
As the helicopter flies off over the ocean, it feels like a noisy radio is being turned down in his head. Although Sephiroth hadn’t noticed any unusual emotions that early morning as he climbed in behind his pilot, the difference is immediately apparent.
A static he had somehow never noticed slowly fades away, leaving his mind in such a quiet state it feels like meditation. The waves are still. He floats alone in calm water with no emotions save his own—which, as always, are easily muted and controlled. The peace is blissful.
The Turk who flies him out is large, professional, and blessedly quiet. After landing the chopper, he turns back and speaks to Sephiroth for the first time that morning.
“I’ll return by 5pm tomorrow evening to pick you up.”
“No,” Sephiroth says instantly. “I can tell things are worse than expected. It will take five days.”
“Five… days?” The Turk looks out into the morning sunlight in confusion. The dumpy little settlement looks sleepy and peaceful. The mountains behind it are dull brown and bare. There isn’t a monster in sight.
“Five days,” Sephiroth repeats firmly. He’s happier than ever that he turned down infantry support for this mission. Avoiding any more questions, he jumps from the chopper and strides off towards the foothills.
For three days he kills every living, non-human thing he finds in the mountains—mostly giant lizards and some odd, mutated birds that look more like dragon hatchlings at this point. After day two, there’s not much left to kill, but that’s not going to stop him. He sleeps on the ground, eats nothing, drinks water from his own meager supply, and enjoys the first vacation of his life. He doesn’t feel a single out-of-place emotion.
On the morning of the fourth day, he can’t put off seeking clean water any longer so he regretfully heads back into town where there is surely a well or a shop. As he comes out of the mountains, his PHS buzzes to life with a dazzling array of alarms and sounds. Apparently, headquarters has been trying to reach him. Sephiroth doesn’t give a fuck. He needs longer to enjoy the peace in his head.
An even less pleasant sight greets him in the shantytown. A sleek black, diamond-branded helicopter is sitting on the near side of town. It is certainly here for him.
He pauses at the sight. Mulls over going back to Midgar. Turns right back around. He recalls some stagnant pools of brackish water that probably won’t hurt him.
“Oh no no no no no the fuck you don’t.” He hears scrambling up the rocky hillside behind him. With surprising speed, a lanky, red-headed Turk darts in front of him on the path. Sephiroth knows this one. He talks too much.
“Hold on just a goddamn second, General,” he pants. “We’re here to take you back to Midgar.”
“The mission is not complete,” Sephiroth says calmly, heading around him.
“You’re tellin’ me that in three days you couldn’t kill every living thing on this half of the entire continent?”
Sephiroth pauses. It’s a good challenge. Of course he could. It prickles his pride a bit.
“That’s what I thought, yo. If you wanna vacation, Costa’s much better for it. But whatever floats your boat. I’ll take you there myself next time. Or here. Anywhere. But you’re comin’ back with me today. I got orders from Tseng.”
Sephiroth raises an eyebrow. The head of the Turks is involved now? He doesn’t want the attention of that organization… and it’s possible that his odd behavior could have already attracted Tseng’s attention. But this insolent attitude is insufferable.
“And how do you intend to make me, Turk?” Sephiroth eyes the man’s mag-rod. He couldn’t even get close enough to use it with Sephiroth wielding Masamune.
“I’m gonna beg and bargain.”
He almost laughs. “What?”
“Please, pretty please, General. Rude and me have been stuck here since yesterday afternoon waitin’ on you. Have you ever spent the night in a helicopter? And if you march off again, we’ll just be stuck here until your majesty deigns to come back. Everybody’s all worked up back at HQ about you disappearin’ off into the mountains like some sorta monk, but if you come back with us right now, Rude and me will both agree that there were some big fucking mako-monsters around here that absolutely needed three full days of your precious attention.”
It’s quite a good offer and Sephiroth realizes it quickly. Given the way his phone lit up, the Shinra brass were not quite sedate about his decision to extend the mission by four days. He sighs. Better to return now rather than make it worse. Maybe the Turk can help with the story after all. He’s obviously going to be a better liar than Sephiroth.
“And I’ll suck your dick if ya want.” The redhead says it very quietly, but everyone knows how well a first-class SOLDIER can hear.
Sephiroth just rolls his eyes and turns back to the helicopter. The much quieter Turk who dropped him off is already powering up the rotor.
“Is that a yes, General, sir?” The redhead asks, sliding down the rocky slope behind him, sending up a cloud of dust.
“Just shut up.” Sephiroth climbs into the back of the helicopter as the redhead clambers in after him.
“Oh, I’m real quiet with a dick in…”
His voice stutters off when his partner cuffs him on the side of the head. “Shut up, Reno. Good to see you, General.”
Nobody says anything more. Sephiroth finds a bottle of water and closes his eyes. He soaks in the quiet. Maybe it won’t come back. Maybe whatever happened when he left Midgar fixed the problem for good. Maybe he’s built up a reservoir of stillness that he can hold on to. He focuses inwardly so intently, so deeply, that he falls asleep on the way back.
“Yo, General!”
Someone is shaking his knee.
It’s the humming noise that wakes him up. It almost itches. Like the buzzing of an insect. Or maybe it’s music he can’t quite hear. It’s not as unpleasant as he remembers, but it’s constant. Like a new, sixth sense that he just can’t turn off.
When he opens his eyes, the red-headed Turk is kneeling at his knee with a sly look on his face.
“You ready for that blow…” The Turk is yanked backwards by the collar of his jacket into the cockpit before he can finish his question.
“Sorry, sir. He’s an idiot.” The quiet Turk looks at the general over his sunglasses. “But we’re both extremely grateful that you could clear out that cache of monsters in Corel. Nasty business.”
Sephiroth blinks, then nods briefly and exits to the helipad. He’s distracted with this new piece of the puzzle. The problem is Midgar. Or something in Midgar. This noise, the emotional surges appear to only happen here. They are related to his proximity to something or someone. Could it be a mako allergy? Some strange narrow-range magic? Something Hojo has hidden in the labs?
Relieved that the problem doesn’t just lie within his own body—it’s at least not an artifact of a broken or sick mind, he resolves to give the problem more consideration before involving Hojo.
It’s early enough that he heads straight to Lazard’s office. Better to get the story out of the way immediately. He lies without embellishment. Lots of monsters. Very big. He could hear and smell them upon landing. No. No more follow-up required.
He hopes the Turks will follow through with their promised backup.
Returning to his apartment, Sephiroth plans to spend the evening reading on his couch. Although Hojo finds it unbecoming, Sephiroth has a penchant for reading fiction. Angeal said that it might help him understand what people are like when they’re not intimidated by his presence. Eventually, he just got addicted to the stories… it’s a nice change from his boring life.
It’s then that he feels that familiar surge, more obvious than ever, now that he’s had a break from the emotional swings. At least it’s a good one. He feels amused and cared for. Important to someone. It’s such a sweet and earnest emotion that Sephiroth closes his book and lays back on the couch to relish it for a moment. It’s quite different from the peaceful, meditative solitude he enjoyed in Corel, but it feels as delicious and indulgent as dessert.
He falls asleep, relaxed.
That night, on his couch, Sephiroth dreams vividly.
He’s trying to find someone. Or perhaps it’s the opposite… someone is looking for him. Either way, they are very close and yet somehow hidden from him. A presence that’s stimulating and calming, familiar and strange, all at the same time. He can only see brief glimpses, flashes of color, or the sensation of touch, before he’s alone in the dark again.
In his dream, he reaches out a hand and finds soft skin, almost as pale as his own, but freckled and warmer toned. It’s beautiful under his hand and he strains his eyes to see more, but everything else fades to black. He can see nothing but what he’s touching… bicep… forearm… a delicate hand. His fingertips trace down the palm and then the middle finger. And then gone. He hears a sigh that can’t be his own.
He reaches out again into darkness and this time finds something more solid. A hip that shifts under his hand. There’s a gasp, a turn, and then his hand is sliding around a narrow waist. He’s trying to pull that warm body closer to his own, but all he can’t. It won’t shift. It feels like the harder he tries, the more insubstantial the other person becomes until they disappear from under his palm and he feels painfully alone in the darkness.
Sephiroth reaches out again for contact. Sighs in relief to find those hips again. He realizes that if he can’t pull this person to him, the alternative is to move himself closer. He feels an intense need to be closer. To see and know and be seen and known by whoever this is.
His body tries to find purchase in the empty darkness, but there is nothing to push against. He pours his awareness into his hands, the only point of contact with the other presence. He feels sharp hip bones. Runs his fingers across the dimples in their low back. Soft, panting breaths flutter across his chest, felt as much as heard.
“Sephiroth…” his name comes through as the softest whisper on his skin. But it rings like a beacon, and suddenly he’s able to shift closer, as if the voice is providing a path.
A lithe frame meets his own in a rush. In an instant. A single blink and and suddenly hips are pressed along his own, warm and flowing with energy. He is overwhelmed at the contact… each motion against his body lights up his nerves like he’s been set on fire. He’s floating in darkness, and most of his body has disappeared from his perception, but his cock is pressed against the smooth navel of someone who is writhing against him desperately.
“Please…” they beg, wrapping a leg around his thigh, rubbing against him. “Please… please…”
He can feel the want bleeding through his system like a drug. It feels just as good as the hands sliding up his chest. Some of this emotion is definitely not his own... he can sense awe and admiration, which are certainly not coming from him. But Sephiroth is not unmoved. He wants of his own accord. There’s something deeply appealing about the body pressed against his own. Sephiroth reaches with both hands to grab this ephemeral partner, ready to pull his companion right up onto his hips so that they can find more friction...
And then he’s sitting up on the couch, hands empty, gasping into the silence of his apartment. His cock is heavy and dripping in his sweatpants. He tries to hold on to the image and sensation of the dream, but it’s already evaporating like mist. Confusion and embarrassment arrive in a rush. Not his own.
Sixty-plus stories below, Cloud Strife jolts awake, disoriented in his barracks bunk as a boot hits the wall behind him and tumbles into his bed.
“Shut up, Strife! Sephiroth’s manly tits! Can you please jerk off more quietly?”