Where Tseng is Sanzo

Genesis laughed, the ragged, tattered scroll in his hand momentarily forgotten as he reveled in the coursing power of the planet. He was invincible. He was a god. He was the champion who would set this poor fractured world to rights, because he had been *created* for that very purpose. He would carve new truth, new Light from the darkness that he'd been crafted from. If he was made of lies, he would baptize himself in truth!

His wrist exploded in pain and blood as one of the annoying pests from Shinra stalked out of the jungle toward him.

"You're under arrest for crimes against the SOLDIER military." The ant says calmly, as though his blue suit isn't spotted with mud and grime, as if blood doesn't streak down his face and one arm isn't bent at wrong angles.

Genesis spreads his wing and floats higher, glaring down at the first of so many he's going to destroy in fire, destroy for the affront of his pain, for the crime of their *lies* and betrayal and torturing of his Lady... She sings to him through his cells! "Hell Firaga!"

Sickly green poison seeps into wounds, satisfaction at the stench of burning meat and fibers not outweighing the sudden, sharp perforation of his thighs and throat. Even blind the ants aim is acute, his bullets bite where there is little armor, only Genesis's Lady strong and loving enough to close the wounds that would end mortals. Mere, weak, fleshy little worms. Vermin. Deceivers!

The scroll, forgotten for the moment, hits the leaf strewn mud of the jungle floor with a squelching thud.

Genesis raised his sword, the forest floor shining in red seals as he called upon the power of the planet below to expunge this annoying insect from it's surface.

"Muten! Zoutsuru banatsu waruinai!" A voice shouted, ringing through the air from a thousand directions at once, the broken man's gun still pointed upwards. From the forgotten artifact sprang twenty, forty, eighty lengths of gleaming paper covered in writing that re-wrote itself as it was read. The lengths wrapped around Genesis, binding him, cocooning in tight constrictions that shattered his wing bones, dislocated his shoulder and unceremoniously hauled him from the sky. Even as he screamed in outrage, a foreign power, like that of the planet yet not, was invading, violating him, tearing him away from the comfort of his Lady. She screamed and ripped at him as the power of the scroll tore back.

Under the blind, uncaring eyes of a beaten fool, the Red General was shattered.

Just going crazy

The world has gone crazy since the end of the war. Seph is sure that peace, real peace, shouldn't be so blood soaked and dangerous. He knew who the enemy were in Wutai. He knew who to kill, how to fight, how to protect his people.

Now he's not even sure who his people are. Genesis and Angeal are both gone, missing, traitors but still brothers and he can't get straight answers from anyone. The SOLDIER's are still his men, except when they're not, when they're secretly monsters in men's skins, waiting for orders to mutate and change and attack.

Sephiroth has doubts he is even safe these days. What is he? What is anyone?

The only thing Sephiroth is sure of is that no one is safe. Nothing is safe. The war, as much as they say it's over, still wages in covert ways. People are still out to kill him and he is still expected to kill others. Peace is just a word for cover up.

He wishes he was back in the jungle sometimes. In the rain and mud, with constant mortar fire, curled up in his too-small cot he knew what was important. He slept easy. He could open his eyes and see milk-pale skin, hear a steady thrumming heart twice as fast as his own, smell youth and ozone and pet pale corn-husk blond hair. He could hold what was important safe in his arms, believing himself strong enough to protect it.

Now he had to take precautions, he had to be diligent and more careful. Only in his private rooms, bullet proof and reinforced, constantly monitored for bugs, was he certain that Sydney was safe. Happy? No, not truly, but neither of them had ever been very experienced with happiness. Safe was the best he could do for the moment, even if it meant he had to bespell the boy to Sleep when he left the apartments to keep him from trying to escape, and Silence him when the shouting and tearful arguments began.

It was the best he could do.

In which Seph is insane

Sydney strains against the leather straps, glaring murder. Sephiroth double checked that the bands weren't chafing or rubbing too hard on the soft skin. Sydney still preferred dresses, still wore his hair long and braided. He was so young, so pretty, if Sephiroth didn't know, couldn't *smell*, he wouldn't know it was a young man in front of him.

Lately Sydney had been driving him crazier than usual with his scent, the sweet softness of youth edging frequently with the bitter salt of arousal. In the mornings, at odd moments through the day, frequently before sleep Sydney reeked of sex and spent seed. Sephiroth had been careful, he'd been courteous when they were in Wutai, he always made sure to relieve himself far away from the child that he'd taken in. He knew how not to be a monster. But Sydney was no child, not any more. Now he was strong and smart, fighting to stand his own ground in this new world that promised to rip him apart if Sephiroth wasn't careful. He mocked Sephiroth's care, flaunted his scent, pushed Seph's buttons until it came to this.

Sydney was his. Kneeling on the bed, he made sure the buckles on the belts were tight. Then he moved down, nuzzling and petting at his boy. He could feel the anger under Sydney's skin, taste the frustration in his sweat and the tears that squeezed out from clenched eyes. Behind the Silence Sydney was screaming at him, Seph could feel it in the vibrations of his throat.

Following the smell of bitter musk he slid downwards, spreading thin legs and pushing ruffled skirts aside from his goal. Neither of them had ever been in the habit of under clothes, wetness staining leather and linen alike as they matured. Now, even angered, Sydney's body twisted at the lightest touch of Seph's hands, responding with sticky wetness and firm, blood filled muscle.

Sephiroth inhales the smell, tasting it so he can memorize the complex flavors. He has to hold slim hips down to the mattress, tight thigh muscles tremble and flutter under his palms. It doesn't take long for the seeping, weeping moisture to explode in a few short, hard pulses of bitter salt in his mouth. After he swallows he searches for more, more flavors and more ways to encourage them.

He tastes the tears at the corners of Sydney's eyes, the blood in his mouth where he's bitten through his lip, and then the dark, hidden funk of his sphincter. The more he covers Sydney, the more his own scent pervades the room, sheathing his boy in a blatant message of possession. The more he tastes and pins and takes the higher Sydney's arousal spirals, as though he dances to the rhythm of Sephiroth's hands and tongue. Sydney shatters around him, spread open and held Silent on Seph's mouth.

Sephiroth hears his breathing even out, his heart skip and then settle in easier beats after he comes again. Carefully, mindfully, he licks the mess away, ensures that Sydney is comfortable, then takes care of his own hardness with sure, hard strokes that splatter mako tainted semen over the sheets.

Even without sullying Sydney's dress, the boy smells of him, reeks of mako, magic, and Sephiroth. It's enough for now to set him at ease. He can go about his duties, go to the office and be sure that even if Sydney somehow escapes the apartment, every SOLDIER will know not to touch what is his.

For now, Sydney is safe.