Chapter Text
The air on the platform was sharp and cold, carrying the faint tang of mako exhaust and steel. SOLDIERs moved with efficiency all around them, voices crisp, movements precise. But for all the bustle, for all the noise, Sephiroth felt the silence between himself and Isabelle like a blade pressed against his throat.
They stood side by side in their uniforms, tall and immaculate, the black leather gleaming faintly under the pale morning light. Every trace of the softness they had shared hours earlier was gone, hidden beneath their perfected masks of stoicism. Their eyes were cold, sharp, indifferent, the faces of Shinra’s prized weapons.
Other SOLDIERs glanced at them, some with awe, others with unease. Nods of respect and salutes followed their every step, but neither Isabelle nor Sephiroth acknowledged them beyond the smallest flickers of recognition. They had lived in this role for too long, had perfected the stillness, the authority, the aura of unshakable control.
Sephiroth’s gloved hands rested at his sides, fingers stilling every instinct to reach for her. His green eyes stared forward, his expression carved from stone. Yet, beneath that calm façade, he felt her presence like a second heartbeat, the brush of her sleeve against his, the faint sound of her controlled breathing, the echo of her whisper hours ago: “…We’re never going back.”
Isabelle’s gaze was fixed ahead, her posture flawless, pale skin ghostly under the morning light. Her long black hair was tied back neatly, though he knew how it had spilled wild over the pillow not long before. Her expression was neutral, almost bored, but he caught the subtle flick of her lashes, the barest glance at him when she thought no one was watching.
The carrier approached with a roar, engines screaming as it lowered into place. Wind tore at their uniforms, snapping the fabric tight to their bodies. The ramp began to descend, and a commanding officer barked orders over the din. SOLDIERs began to file in, boots striking the metal with perfect rhythm.
Sephiroth finally let his gaze shift, just slightly, toward her. For the briefest moment, emerald locked with green, and in that instant, he saw it. The memory of her lips against his jaw. The way she had whispered “Mine.” The way she had surrendered everything, even her calm, to him.
Her expression didn’t change, but he saw it too: a flicker, a fire hidden behind her still, cold mask. The secret they carried now, bound beneath armor and orders.
Without a word, they stepped forward together as the carrier’s ramp touched down, two perfect weapons polished to brilliance, walking into war with Shinra’s banner at their backs. But inside, Sephiroth carried the echo of her warmth like a flame, hidden but unextinguishable.
The steel floor of the carrier vibrated faintly under the weight of boots, the dull rhythm of dozens of SOLDIERs falling into formation. The scent of oil, leather, and the sharp sting of mako filled the air. Conversations were hushed, clipped. All around them, men and women stood with the rigid discipline demanded of Shinra’s chosen warriors, every movement watched, every breath accounted for.
And yet, for Sephiroth, the noise of the carrier seemed to dull, as if the world around him receded into static the moment Isabelle tilted her head toward him.
Her green eyes remained fixed forward, unblinking, her body held in the same perfect composure as his. Her posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted, arms at her sides. But the moment her lips brushed close enough to graze the edge of his ear, his body went rigid.
“I can feel your cum dripping down my thighs.”
The words left her in the same low monotone she always carried, so composed it could have been mistaken for a battlefield observation if not for the weight of their meaning. Her whisper was for him alone — hidden beneath the steady roar of the engines, swallowed by the steel walls around them.
Sephiroth’s breath caught. His hands twitched at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. To anyone else, he appeared utterly unshaken, still the embodiment of calm perfection. But inside, the memory of her body against his just an hour ago came crashing back with ruthless clarity, her legs wrapped tight around him, her voice breaking against his name, the tremor of her body as she came undone beneath him.
The bluntness of her words struck him harder than a blade. His pulse quickened, a heat rising in his chest and lower still, fighting against the cold mask he wore. He could almost feel it too, imagine the warmth she spoke of, still clinging to her skin beneath the armor of her uniform, an intimate truth hidden beneath the façade they presented to the world.
Isabelle didn’t linger. She straightened smoothly, expression untouched, gaze forward once more. Her face was the picture of SOLDIER’s perfection: pale, sharp, indifferent. No one looking would ever suspect what she had whispered, what truth now burned in his mind like wildfire.
But Sephiroth felt the weight of it, heavy and intoxicating. The way she could cut through his composure with just a few words. The way she could remind him, even in the heart of Shinra’s machinery, surrounded by soldiers and officers, that she was his, and that she carried him with her still, in a way no one else ever could.
His jaw tightened. He forced his eyes forward, the muscles in his face betraying nothing. But his heart was hammering, a primal, furious rhythm, and his mind replayed her whisper with merciless clarity.
The carrier groaned as the hatch sealed shut. The engines roared louder, the vibrations deepening through the steel floor. SOLDIERs shifted in formation, bracing for takeoff. Sephiroth remained still, statue-like. But inside, Isabelle’s words lingered like fire under his skin, feeding a storm he had no choice but to keep contained until the mission was done.
Only she could do this to him. Only she could reach through the armor he had built over sixteen years, with nothing more than a whisper, and unravel him from the inside out.
And she knew it.
The carrier lurched as it lifted from the platform, engines thundering beneath their boots. The shift in weight pulled at every SOLDIER in the bay, but none faltered. Every head remained forward, every movement precise. The hum of Shinra discipline filled the air, a perfect machine of flesh and steel.
But Sephiroth wasn’t thinking about Shinra.
He stood motionless, every line of his body composed, but Isabelle’s words burned in his mind, replaying over and over with vicious clarity: “I can feel your cum dripping down my thighs.”
His gloved hand curled imperceptibly at his side, the leather creaking. To the others, he was the image of calm. But beneath the armor of composure, he was restless, heat coiled tight in his gut. Her whisper had carved itself into him, sharpened by the memory of her body writhing beneath him, the way she’d begged, the way she’d said “use me.”
He shifted slightly, just enough for the casual observer to think it was the sway of the carrier, but inside, it was to resist the maddening urge to reach for her, to press his palm to her thigh, to test if what she’d said was true.
Isabelle, for her part, was flawless. She stood tall, back straight, her expression carved from stone. Her pale skin glowed faintly under the harsh strip lights, her long black hair tied neatly back. To anyone else, she was the model SOLDIER, cold, silent, unshakable. But Sephiroth knew better. He knew the faint twitch of her fingers at her side wasn’t nerves, it was her way of teasing him, reminding him she still felt the heat of him inside her.
Minutes stretched on, heavy with unspoken tension. The carrier roared through the skies, the vibrations humming through the floor and walls, drowning out the thunder of Sephiroth’s pulse. His eyes flicked once, just once, to her profile. The hard line of her jaw. The calmness in her gaze. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to. She knew she had him ensnared with a single whisper.
Then, without warning, turbulence jolted the carrier. The soldiers around them braced, boots skidding faintly against the steel floor. Isabelle’s shoulder brushed his, a brief, fleeting contact. But for Sephiroth, it was like a spark thrown into dry tinder.
The scent of her skin clung to his memory, phantom warmth pressing at his control. He clenched his jaw, forcing his eyes forward, posture perfect. But inside, the storm grew.
“Touchdown in fifteen minutes!” a commanding officer barked, his voice slicing through the hum of the engines. “Prepare for combat!”
SOLDIERs answered in unison, voices sharp, disciplined. Sephiroth’s lips didn’t move, but the sound rang in his ears like static. All he could hear was her voice, still whispering, flat and calm: “…dripping down my thighs.”
As the carrier began its descent, Sephiroth exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to bury the wildfire she had lit inside him. He reminded himself of the mission, the orders, the eyes on them. But even as the bay doors began to open, wind and light cutting through the dark, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
When this mission was over, when they were alone again, he wouldn’t let her whisper and walk away so easily.
The light of the battlefield hit like a blade as the carrier’s doors yawned open, wind tearing through the cabin. The first wave of SOLDIERs leapt out into chaos, fire and steel and gunfire echoing from below. Orders barked. Explosions flared.
And then Sephiroth and Isabelle moved.
They leapt from the carrier together, bodies cutting clean through the air like falling stars. Sephiroth’s blade gleamed silver as Masamune cleared its sheath, his descent controlled, precise. Isabelle landed beside him a heartbeat later, her own weapon in hand, a long, curved blade gleaming with a sickly green sheen of mako.
The moment their boots struck earth, the ground split beneath them. Enemies surged forward, armed troops, machines, chaos wrapped in metal and rage. But against Sephiroth and Isabelle, they may as well have been shadows.
Sephiroth moved like the embodiment of inevitability, his every swing a perfect arc, enemies cut down before they even had the chance to cry out. His emerald eyes were cold, precise, a weapon refined to perfection. Every strike flowed into the next, an unbroken chain of destruction.
Beside him, Isabelle fought differently.
Her calm, composed façade melted away the farther they pushed into enemy lines. Her movements were elegant, but there was something feral threaded through them, the faint curve of her lips, the gleam in her green eyes as blood sprayed across her pale skin. She didn’t just kill; she indulged. Her blade found throats, chests, joints, tearing through armor with surgical precision.
Sephiroth glanced at her once as she drove her sword clean through a soldier’s chest, then tilted her head, studying him with a detached curiosity as if he were nothing more than meat. She ripped the blade free and let the body crumple, her calm expression unchanged, but her eyes burned.
Another wave rushed them. Sephiroth cut down three in a single swing, the force of his strike tearing the air itself. Isabelle followed, stepping into the spray of blood without flinching. One soldier screamed as her blade opened him from shoulder to hip, and instead of grimacing or recoiling, she leaned in, her lips curving in something dangerously close to a smile as crimson splattered her cheek.
Sephiroth felt it then, the shift. This was the part of her no one else was allowed to see, the part she hid beneath that low, monotone voice and cool composure. Her true nature.
And gods, it made his chest tighten.
She was merciless, elegant and monstrous all at once, moving with a fluidity that mirrored his own but laced with something darker. Where he was inevitability, she was hunger. Where his blade sang of perfection, hers whispered of ruin.
“Isabelle…” he muttered between strikes, his voice low, edged with something he didn’t dare name.
Her gaze flicked to him through the chaos, green eyes alive with fire, blood streaking across her cheek. “What?” she asked, tone flat, as if she hadn’t just gutted a man like livestock.
For a moment, with the battlefield burning around them, Sephiroth forgot Shinra, forgot the mission, forgot everything but...her.
The two of them pressed deeper, leaving the other SOLDIERs far behind. Out here, in the chaos, they were untethered, no eyes, no orders, just blood, steel, and the truth of what they were.
And as Sephiroth carved down another line of enemies, his pulse hammering, he realized: it wasn’t just her calm he loved. It was this too. The monster she hid from the world. The part that only he would ever be allowed to see.
The battle raged around them, gunfire cracking in the distance, the earth trembling with the impact of artillery. Most SOLDIERs fought in tight formations, disciplined and efficient, Shinra’s war machine grinding forward.
But Sephiroth and Isabelle had long since broken away, their strides carrying them deeper into the battlefield where the fighting was thickest, where no eyes could linger too long on what happened in the smoke and blood.
Sephiroth’s Masamune cleaved through another squad in a single, sweeping arc, their bodies falling like reeds before a storm. The air reeked of burning metal and coppery blood. His movements were fluid, precise, flawless, as though the chaos around him bent to his rhythm.
Beside him, Isabelle was… different.
Her blade was steady, but her demeanor had shifted. The calm she always wore was still there, but it was sharpened, more predatory now. Every kill seemed to stoke something inside her. Blood sprayed across her pale skin and she did not recoil, she welcomed it. Her lips parted just slightly, a faint gleam in her green eyes that Sephiroth had only ever glimpsed in fleeting moments.
One soldier lunged at her. She sidestepped smoothly, blade slipping under his ribs and lifting. The scream was wet, guttural, but she silenced it by leaning close, lips brushing his ear as he gurgled on his blood. “Shhh…” she whispered, monotone, almost soothing. Then she let him slide off her sword, crumpling at her feet.
Sephiroth’s chest tightened as he watched her, a strange, dark awe coiling inside him.
Then it went further.
Another trooper rushed her with a bayonet. She disarmed him effortlessly, snapping his wrist with a twist of her blade, and in the same motion, she dragged him close. Her mouth brushed his throat, not a kiss, but something hungrier. Before Sephiroth could intervene, her teeth sank into his flesh.
The man’s scream tore through the air. Blood gushed hot over her lips, down her chin, splattering her already-stained uniform. She didn’t linger long, just enough to taste, enough to rip flesh from him with a tearing sound before shoving him to the ground, throat mangled and eyes wide with terror.
For a heartbeat, the battlefield seemed to pause around them.
Isabelle’s green eyes flicked to Sephiroth as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, streaking crimson across her pale skin. Her expression was calm, indifferent, but her voice was low, heavy with something primal. “…I told you. This part of me never goes away.”
Sephiroth’s grip on Masamune tightened. His first instinct should have been disgust, revulsion, but it wasn’t. Watching her like this, unleashed, unapologetic, something stirred in him. The raw truth of her nature didn’t repulse him; it enthralled him. She wasn’t pretending anymore. She was showing him the part of herself no one else was meant to see.
And gods help him, he wanted her even more for it.
More soldiers charged. Isabelle turned back, face splattered red, and her lips curved, not in a smile, but in something colder, hungrier. She stepped forward, blade slicing effortlessly, and when another foe fell screaming, she didn’t hesitate to drag her tongue across the blood running down her hand, her voice flat as she muttered, “…Waste not.”
Sephiroth’s heart pounded, his body thrumming with battle-rush and something darker as he fell into step beside her. They tore through the enemy like twin storms, one a perfected weapon of steel, the other a predator reveling in the slaughter.
By the time their squad would catch up, the ground around them would be nothing but ruin, littered with broken bodies and silence. And only he would know how much of her truth had been spilled here, how much of the monster she kept hidden had been let loose at his side.
The commanding officer’s boots crunched into the churned mud as he strode up, voice sharp as steel. His bark cut through the din of the battlefield:
“What are you doing standing around, why haven’t you retrieved him yet?!”
His words lashed at the pair like a whip, his face twisted with frustration, veins standing out along his temple. Blood and smoke swirled in the air, the remnants of the massacre still clinging like a heavy fog.
Isabelle’s pale face turned slowly toward him. She blinked once, twice, long lashes lowering in an unhurried, eerily calm manner. Her chest rose and fell with a steady breath, though flecks of crimson still stained her lips, her throat, her gloved hands.
“Captain Raylor is already deceased,” she murmured, her voice as flat and steady as ever, almost soft, yet carrying enough weight to silence even the battlefield around them.
The CO froze, disbelief twisting across his features. He took a sharp step forward, shoulders squaring, anger boiling. “How could you possibly know that?” he demanded, voice nearly cracking, his eyes flashing between her and Sephiroth, as though accusing them both of insolence, of insubordination.
Isabelle didn’t flinch. Slowly, almost languidly, she raised one bloodstained arm and extended her finger toward the enemy encampment, the gesture precise, deliberate. Her green eyes, cold and unblinking, locked onto the CO’s.
“If you doubt me,” she said, her tone like ice settling into bone, “why don’t you check for yourself.”
The battlefield’s noise seemed to dim, as though her words pulled a veil over the world. For a heartbeat, no one moved. The commanding officer’s jaw clenched. His glare faltered, but only slightly, and still he lingered as though to challenge her claim.
Sephiroth stood beside her, silent, towering. His presence was its own command, unyielding, unspoken. He had not said a word, but the gleam in his eyes, the calm authority in his stance, made it clear he was not questioning her. Not for a second.
And Isabelle was right.
The mako running through their veins was not just strength, not just speed, it was something more primal, something sharp as instinct. Where the others were merely enhanced, Sephiroth and Isabelle had been steeped in it from birth, shaped by it. Their senses were not human anymore.
Isabelle’s head tilted slightly, her nostrils flaring faintly, though her expression remained composed, detached. She could smell it, the cloying copper tang of blood gone cold, the sharp, empty absence of a heartbeat that once had been there. The captain’s life had been extinguished long ago. His scent lingered like the memory of smoke in charred wood: thick, metallic, unmistakable.
“I hear nothing,” she continued softly, almost absently, as if speaking more to herself than the officer. “No pulse. His blood has stilled. It clings to the dirt in the enemy camp, thick, congealed. His body is already cooling.”
Her words dripped into the air like poison, heavy, irrefutable.
The CO’s face hardened. His glare faltered again, uncertainty flickering behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He didn’t have to check. Something in her tone, in the detached certainty of her gaze, told him it would be useless.
And Sephiroth… Sephiroth simply shifted Masamune at his side, the faint rasp of steel against its sheath an unspoken punctuation. He did not defend her, because she needed no defense. He did not argue. He simply stood there, watching the CO as though daring him to push further.
Around them, the other SOLDIERs had gone still, some exchanging uneasy glances. They knew of their commanders’ power, but moments like this reminded them of something else, of just how far beyond human Sephiroth and Isabelle truly were.
The CO drew in a sharp breath, swallowing his retort. He jerked his chin toward the battlefield, issuing orders to the others instead. Anything to move the focus away from the pair before him.
But as he turned and stomped away, the truth lingered. Isabelle had been right, down to the last detail. And the way she had spoken it, calm, almost reverent in her certainty, had left a chill in the air that even the screams of battle could not warm.
Sephiroth and Isabelle lingered at the edge of the battlefield, the acrid smoke and copper tang of blood still heavy in the air. Around them, the other SOLDIERs moved with mechanical precision, dragging the injured, collecting weapons, and ensuring the enemy had been fully neutralized. Their movements were sharp, practiced, but to Sephiroth and Isabelle, it all seemed distant, a muted rhythm compared to the storm that had passed just moments before.
Sephiroth’s hands rested on his knees, Masamune sheathed once more at his side, blade glinting faintly under the dim light filtering through the carrier’s ramp. He exhaled slowly, listening to the faint crunch of boots on debris, the distant clatter of weapons being stowed, and the soft, almost imperceptible hum of Isabelle beside him.
Isabelle mirrored his posture, her back straight, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. Her green eyes scanned the aftermath, precise and cold, yet there was a faint sheen to them, not fear, not doubt, but something that spoke of her processing the intensity of what had just occurred. Her blade lay across her lap, wiped clean, though a faint streak of blood clung stubbornly to the edge.
Neither spoke immediately. The world around them moved, alive with the efficiency of trained soldiers, but they existed in a separate rhythm, one built of quiet, shared understanding.
Finally, Isabelle let her gaze drift toward him, just slightly, the faintest twitch of her lips suggesting the smallest trace of acknowledgment. Sephiroth’s emerald eyes met hers, sharp, calculating, but softened by an unspoken bond, the knowledge that they had been alone together in the chaos, that no one else had seen the depths they had touched.
Without a word, they leaned slightly closer, shoulders brushing. The contact was minimal, almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Enough to remind them of the intimacy and the storm that had raged between them, yet still leave space for the masks they wore.
The carrier loomed behind them, engines humming low, readying for the next stage of deployment. Their uniforms bore the marks of the battle, faint streaks of dirt, traces of blood, but their composure remained immaculate. They were still SOLDIERs, still the elite, still untouchable to the untrained eye.
Yet beneath the discipline, beneath the cold, professional veneer, there was a quiet heat lingering between them. Their proximity on the hard metal bench spoke volumes: a promise unspoken, a tether that neither mission nor distance could sever.
Isabelle let out a slow, measured breath, eyes flicking briefly to the horizon where smoke still rose from the ruined encampment. Her lips, monotone as ever, murmured softly, almost to herself, “Always… together.”
Sephiroth’s hand twitched slightly at the side of his thigh, and he simply nodded, the smallest, almost imperceptible acknowledgment. No words were necessary. They had survived the chaos, unleashed truths that only they could bear witness to, and now, side by side, they waited for the next step.
And for a moment, in the lull between battles, it felt as though the world belonged only to them.
The journey back to Shinra HQ was quiet, though far from serene. The carrier hummed steadily beneath their boots, engines vibrating through the metal floor. Around them, other SOLDIERs were scattered in small groups, discussing mission reports or simply nursing minor injuries. But Sephiroth and Isabelle remained apart from it all, side by side yet wordless, moving with the smooth, unspoken synchronicity that had always defined them.
Neither spoke of what had happened on the battlefield. Words weren’t necessary. The heat between them, the memory of shared chaos and violence, hung in the space around them like a tangible aura. Sephiroth’s Masamune rested at his side, sheath glinting faintly in the fluorescent lighting of the carrier. Isabelle’s own blade was tucked neatly against her hip, her posture still perfectly composed, yet something in the tilt of her head and the subtle curve of her shoulders betrayed the lingering storm inside her.
The cityscape of Midgar rolled beneath them as the carrier descended toward Shinra HQ. The massive towers glinted in the late afternoon light, windows reflecting steel and glass in perfect symmetry. Sephiroth’s gaze flicked out the viewport, green eyes distant, unblinking, yet she could feel him tense beside her. She didn’t look at him, only noted it, a taut line along his jaw, the faint flex of his gloved hands as he clenched and released them rhythmically.
When the carrier finally landed and the hatch opened with a mechanical hiss, they descended without a word. The march back through the sterile hallways of Shinra HQ was punctuated only by the distant clack of boots against polished floors. Other personnel gave nods of respect, but the pair ignored all but the walls that enclosed them, moving as though the rest of the world had receded entirely.
The dormitory was quiet when they entered. No other voices echoed in the halls, the only sound the faint hum of the ventilation and the subtle click of their boots against the floor. Sephiroth’s hand lingered near the door handle, but it was Isabelle who pushed it open, stepping inside with a fluid grace that made him pause for the briefest moment.
Once the door closed behind them, sealing them off from the sterile world outside, the hiss of the lock was a signal that belonged only to them. Isabelle leaned back against the door, eyes closing briefly as she exhaled a slow, measured breath. Then, in one smooth motion, she tugged him toward her, pressing against him with the faintest pressure, as though testing how much of him she could claim without words.
Her face buried against his neck, her nose grazing just beneath his jaw, her breath warm against his skin. Sephiroth’s eyes drifted shut at the sensation, every nerve in his body alert yet somehow relaxed in the familiarity of her touch. The intimacy of the gesture, casual yet charged, playful yet predatory, reminded him why he had always been drawn to her, why he had loved her even before he realized it.
“…We need a shower.”
Her voice was low, monotone as always, but the faint lilt of amusement threaded through it, teasing and intimate. The words carried no urgency, only suggestion, yet they held the weight of command. She lifted her chin just slightly, letting her green eyes peek up at him from beneath her lashes, sharp and calculating, yet undeniably playful.
Sephiroth exhaled through his nose, the corner of his lips tugging upward in a rare, faint acknowledgment. His hands rested lightly on her hips as he allowed her to pull him further into the room. The tension that had built over hours of mission and bloodshed, the tightly wound coil of heat and adrenaline, began to unfurl in the quiet sanctuary of their dorm.
Isabelle’s fingers trailed along the sides of his neck, teasing, almost languid, brushing over the rigid line of his jaw, as though she were cataloging every detail of him, memorizing him. Sephiroth’s pulse quickened imperceptibly, but he did not move away. Not for a second. In this space, in the silence of their room, there was no battlefield, no orders, no other SOLDIERs. There was only them.
Her lips pressed briefly against the side of his neck again, soft, fleeting, enough to send a shiver through him without fully crossing the line. She exhaled slowly, teasing him with the warmth of her breath. “…Or,” she murmured, “…we could skip it… for now.”
Sephiroth’s eyes opened slightly, meeting hers. There was a spark there, acknowledgment of the shared understanding that had always existed between them, of the dangerous game they could play alone. His hands moved to her waist, tilting her slightly toward him, and the faintest curve of a smile touched his lips.
The dorm was still, silent, and perfect for them. Here, away from Shinra, away from soldiers and missions, they could exist as themselves, as predator and predator, as lovers and warriors, as two halves of a storm that only truly raged when together.
Her fingers lingered at the line of his neck, brushing lightly over his shoulder, and Sephiroth leaned closer, inhaling the faint, metallic tang of her from the battle, the lingering scent that reminded him of the fire they had just survived together. In that quiet, in that space, the tension that had pulsed between them all day, the hunger, the unspoken desire, the memory of shared violence and intimacy, coiled tighter than ever, waiting, dangerous, irresistible.
“…Then I suppose we’d better shower,” he murmured finally, voice low and even, yet edged with something sharper, something teasing back at her amusement.
Isabelle’s green eyes glimmered faintly, her lips curving almost imperceptibly. She tugged him closer again, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “…Or not,” she replied, monotone as ever, but the heat in her gaze betrayed every word she didn’t say.
And in that small, locked dorm, the storm that had followed them from the battlefield settled, leaving only the two of them, together, untouchable, and utterly alive.
The sharp rap at the dorm door cut through the quiet tension between them like a blade. Sephiroth and Isabelle froze mid-motion, her lips hovering just beneath his jaw. The world outside the dorm seemed impossibly distant, but that knock, sharp, impatient, pulled them back to reality with jarring precision.
They exchanged a glance, emerald meeting green, the unspoken understanding passing silently between them. One knock, another moment of hesitation, and they both dismissed it. Likely Angeal or Genesis, one of those insufferable fools who always seemed to arrive at the worst possible times. Sephiroth’s jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of annoyance in his normally stoic expression. Isabelle let out a soft, controlled exhale, monotone but edged with the faintest trace of sarcasm.
“Probably one of those two,” she murmured, voice low, almost amused, but the flicker of her fingers twitching at his chest betrayed her irritation. They waited, silent and tense, hoping whoever it was would simply move along.
Then came the third knock, slower this time, hesitant, followed by a voice that carried over the thin metal of the door.
“Uhm… Hello? This is Olive… The new assistant in R&D… Professor Hojo demands both of your presence in the lab…”
Sephiroth’s shoulders stiffened imperceptibly. Isabelle’s green eyes narrowed, sharp and predatory, the faintest venom threading through her monotone. Both of them bristled at the intrusion, now was not the time. Every instinct they had screamed to retreat back into the warmth of the dorm, into the privacy of the storm they had shared moments ago.
“…Of course,” Isabelle finally replied, her tone soft but cold, vulnerable yet edged with that dangerous undertone that always made Sephiroth’s chest tighten. Her gaze flicked up to his, green locking with emerald, and in that glance there was both surrender and steel, acknowledgment of the duty they couldn’t escape and of the fire they would return to once it was done.
She leaned forward slightly, pressing her lips against his in a soft, deliberate kiss. Gentle. Brief. A whisper of intimacy, a promise wrapped in secrecy. It was almost fragile in its tenderness, a contrast to the raw intensity that had defined their morning, yet it carried the weight of all they had just shared.
Sephiroth’s hands lingered at her waist, the touch careful, grounding, almost reverent. He inhaled her scent, the faint metallic tang lingering from the battlefield still clinging to her, and for a heartbeat, the world outside, the knocks, the orders, the lab, ceased to exist.
But the moment had to end. Isabelle’s lips left his, her face lifting slightly, composure settling back over her like armor. She straightened her back, adjusted the hem of her uniform, and met his gaze once more, the slightest curl of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, just enough to remind him of her ever-present teasing nature, even in the face of disruption.
Sephiroth exhaled softly, the faintest hum of tension leaving his chest. Masamune rested at his side, weight and balance perfect, a familiar comfort against the strange, intrusive world outside the dorm.
“Shall we?” Isabelle murmured, voice even, monotone, but the heat in her eyes belied the coolness of her words.
He nodded, expression composed, body straightening, every inch the perfect SOLDIER once more. But inside, every pulse, every thought, still belonged to her, to the brief, tender intimacy they had stolen.
Together, they moved to the door, each step measured, precise, side by side, ready to face Hojo’s torturous demands, yet carrying the memory of one final, fleeting kiss like a shield, a promise that once the lab’s horrors were behind them, the storm of their own making would resume.
The labs were always frigid. A sterile, cutting kind of cold that bit into the skin and burrowed into bone. The sterile glow of the fluorescent lights washed out the world in shades of pale gray, every surface gleaming with a cleanliness that felt more like decay. Even for them, enhanced, mako-born, battle-hardened, the air was uncomfortable. Unwelcoming.
The chill was nothing compared to the weight of what lingered here.
Every word spilling from Hojo’s thin lips was little more than static to Sephiroth, a droning lecture of numbers, theories, progress reports, dissected possibilities. The cadence of the scientist’s voice was sharp, nasal, like a scalpel scraping bone. Sephiroth’s jaw tightened with each syllable, not because he couldn’t endure the sound, he had endured far worse here, but because the words were only a mask for the truth. The truth of what the man would do to them. What he had done to them.
His gaze flicked sideways. Isabelle stood to his right, composed as ever, pale skin catching the cold light, her green eyes half-lidded as though she were bored by the endless jargon. Her monotone patience had always been a weapon, but he could see more beneath it now. He knew her better than anyone, the faint tension at the corners of her lips, the way her hands rested just a fraction too still at her sides. She was forcing composure, not feeling it.
And for the first time, the dread that coiled in Sephiroth’s chest was not only his own.
It had always been there, of course, the simmering unease at being locked in Hojo’s shadow, the awareness that they were tools, specimens, test subjects as much as they were soldiers. But now it was different. He wasn’t just enduring for himself. His dread felt sharper, heavier, impossible to contain. Because it wasn’t just his pain or his body he feared for. It was hers.
The thought of Isabelle, the one person who matched him in power, in sharpness, in ruthless control, the one who had kissed him soft and desperate only an hour ago, being dragged deeper into Hojo’s schemes made something in him twist. The concern wasn’t weakness. It was fire. Hotter, darker, more consuming than the mako that surged in his veins.
He didn’t move, didn’t let his expression betray him, but his mind was a taut snarl of refusal. She had endured enough. They had endured enough.
Hojo’s voice cut through again, a sharp rise of pitch that pulled Sephiroth back to the sterile room. The scientist was gesturing, waving a hand toward the steel-framed table in the center of the chamber, its surface gleaming, straps ready. Sephiroth’s stomach tightened, though outwardly he stood still, a perfect mask of cold efficiency.
Beside him, Isabelle shifted her weight ever so slightly, her head tilting just a fraction. Her lips parted as though to speak, but then closed, leaving only the faintest trace of breath. To anyone else, she looked entirely calm, disinterested even. But Sephiroth saw it, the flicker of something softer in her gaze before she shuttered it away. Vulnerability, for the briefest instant.
And in that moment, Sephiroth’s dread transformed into something else. A vow.
If Hojo thought he could take what was theirs, if he thought he could fracture the fragile, burning connection that had taken root between them, he was wrong. Sephiroth would endure, as he always had. But he would endure for her. He would stand in this frozen hell, every nerve screaming against the scientist’s touch, because he could not, would not, let her bear it alone.
The cold of the lab pressed down like a weight, suffocating and constant. But when Isabelle’s hand brushed, just barely, against his, as if by accident, the smallest contact in the shadow of Hojo’s shadow, he felt the warmth of her pulse through the sterile chill.
And in that moment, his dread sharpened into resolve. Whatever Hojo had planned, whatever tortures he spoke of in that ceaseless static, Sephiroth knew one thing with absolute certainty:
He would not let Hojo break her. Not now. Not ever.
The sterile light above was merciless, casting them both in pale, washed-out tones. The sharp smell of disinfectant burned their noses, though beneath it, beneath the false mask of cleanliness, the metallic tang of blood lingered like a ghost.
Hojo’s words had long since blurred into background noise. By now, the procedure was ritual. Routine. Something drilled into their bodies the way combat drills had been. He ordered, they obeyed. They moved with the precision of soldiers, but the compliance wasn’t loyalty. It was inevitability.
Strip. Down to undergarments. No shame left to speak of, not here. Sephiroth folded his uniform with mechanical precision and laid it aside, Isabelle doing the same with her own, her face composed, green eyes flat, giving the scientist nothing. Their bodies were flawless, honed, the products of experiments and training alike, weapons disguised as flesh.
The tables gleamed under the lights, chrome restraints open and waiting. They both moved to them without hesitation, lying down against the cold metal surfaces that had been pressed into their backs since childhood. The click of restraints closing over their wrists, ankles, and chest echoed like gunshots in the chamber. Tight, unforgiving.
Neither flinched.
The first cut never drew sound. It was part of the script by now, skin splitting open under Hojo’s scalpel, tissue parted, the gleam of their own inner workings exposed to the sterile air. Sephiroth stared at the ceiling, jaw rigid, every muscle locked in place. Beside him, Isabelle did the same, her breaths slow, measured, green eyes half-lidded as though she were studying cracks in the light rather than the sharp burn of steel slicing through her.
It wasn’t until the organs were shifted, moved, handled, that the silence broke.
Sephiroth’s teeth clenched, a hiss escaping through them as his own lungs were pressed, lifted, examined like parts in a machine. Blood spilled hot down his sides, soaking the table, painting his pale skin in crimson streaks. His fingers twitched against the restraints, instinct to fight warring with the knowledge that there was no escape.
Isabelle was silent longer. Always silent longer. But when Hojo’s gloved hands reached deeper, when something vital was tugged, adjusted, her composure cracked. A soft, broken sound left her throat, not a scream, not a groan, but the raw, strangled gasp of someone being forced to witness themselves in pieces.
They weren’t allowed even the small mercy of drifting away.
The moment eyelids fluttered, the second relief dared to creep in, the sharp sting of the injection pierced their necks. Mako-laced adrenaline coursed through their veins, ripping away unconsciousness, forcing their awareness back into the horror. It jolted their hearts into racing, widened their eyes against their will, made every nerve flare brighter.
Sephiroth’s vision swam, pupils dilating unnaturally under the chemical flood. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, not from panic, never panic, but from fury restrained. He forced his gaze sideways, toward Isabelle, though the straps bit into his neck to allow only the faintest glimpse.
Her green eyes flickered back to him, glassy, rimmed faintly red with strain. Blood slicked down her ribs, pooled beneath her on the metal, staining her pale flesh like war paint. Her lips were pressed tight, trembling just enough to betray the war she fought to keep her silence.
The smallest sound reached him, a half-breath, a low rasp.
“…Seph…”
His own lips parted, dry and cracking, but no words came. Not here, not with Hojo looming like a vulture. But the look in his eyes spoke louder than anything. I’m here. I see you. You’re not alone.
Hojo’s voice droned on, indifferent, almost excited, noting measurements, changes, possibilities, as if they weren’t people at all but failed prototypes to be corrected.
And strapped there, bloodied, forced awake as their very humanity was stolen piece by piece, the only defiance Sephiroth and Isabelle had left was this: that they endured together. That no matter what Hojo cut from them, no matter how much blood was spilled, their eyes always found one another.
The metallic rattle of wheels echoed through the long, sterile corridor as the two tables were pushed, side by side, into containment. The door sealed with a pneumatic hiss, heavy locks clicking into place. The silence that followed was almost worse than Hojo’s voice, a suffocating quiet that seemed to press down on their chests even harder than the straps still pinning them to cold steel.
The room was dim, only the faint green glow of mako-infused lights illuminating their bodies. The air smelled of antiseptic and faintly of iron, though the pools of their blood left in the lab had not followed them here. These tables were designed to be cleaned of such things, leaving no reminder of what had been done.
Sephiroth’s breaths came slow, deliberate, his chest rising and falling with the controlled rhythm of a man unwilling to show weakness, even in solitude. But his silver hair clung to his damp skin in crimson-streaked strands, his body a canvas of raw wounds that were already knitting closed, muscle fibers re-threading beneath skin, blood flow slowing and halting as if time itself bent around him.
Isabelle was no different. Her pale skin was soaked in streaks of red, though her expression remained almost calm, unnervingly composed despite the raw violence that had been carved into her body. The straps across her chest and wrists glistened with the slick sheen of blood, but she did not thrash, did not cry. She simply breathed, each exhale misting faintly in the chill of the containment chamber. Her green eyes were half-lidded, but sharp, alive. Watching. Always watching.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
Their bodies worked in silence, mako roaring through their veins like a tidal force, burning, stitching, sealing. The pain of healing was almost worse than the cutting itself, nerves overfiring, bones grinding as fractures closed, the raw itch of skin sealing without a scar. And yet, no sound escaped either of them.
Sephiroth’s gaze eventually shifted sideways, though his head was locked down, movement denied. He found her eyes in the dim light, her lashes heavy but her stare precise, unwavering.
“…Still here,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, gravelly from hours of clenched silence.
Isabelle’s lips curved faintly, just barely enough to be seen, not a smile of joy, but of acknowledgment. A flicker of humanity in this tomb-like place.
“Always,” she murmured, her voice low, even, as if promising something unbreakable.
The hours dragged until the wounds were gone. Blood had dried, leaving only pale, unmarked flesh. As if nothing had been done. As if they had not been carved apart and sewn back together. That was Hojo’s greatest cruelty: leaving no trace. No scar to point to, no evidence to hold as proof. Only memory, only the silent bond between them to remind each other that it was real.
When the locks disengaged with a mechanical thunk, neither of them moved right away. It wasn’t fear, it was defiance, the refusal to scramble, the refusal to obey like broken dogs. They waited, eyes fixed on one another, until the steel doors slid open and the silent guards stepped in to unstrap them.
The restraints fell away, one by one. First wrists, then ankles, then chest. The weight lifted, though the phantom pressure of the straps always lingered long after.
Sephiroth sat up slowly, silver hair clinging in damp strands to his shoulders, eyes narrowed in cold fury. Isabelle rose with the same calm composure, blood drying like paint on her skin. Both stood, unscarred, their bodies betraying nothing, only their eyes, sharper, harder than steel, betraying what had been endured.
Together, side by side, they left the containment room. Silent shadows, walking proof of Hojo’s cruelty, their bond tempered by fire and blood.
----
The door swung shut behind them with a hollow thud, the lock engaging with a hiss of finality. The quiet of their dorm was oppressive after the sterile hum of the labs, but it was their quiet. The only place in Shinra that felt remotely theirs, even if the walls were still painted with the Company’s shadow.
Sephiroth’s boots hit the floor with slow, deliberate steps, his long silver hair still damp where sweat and blood had clung to it. His hands, once so steady on the battlefield, trembled faintly as he unfastened the last strap of his uniform jacket. He said nothing at first, his silence carried weight, as though every word would be a wasted measure of strength.
Isabelle leaned against the wall just inside the door, letting her head fall back against it, her long black hair spilling like ink over her pale shoulders. Her green eyes half-lidded, she released a slow exhale that carried more than fatigue; it carried the suffocating exhaustion of knowing what they’d endured would come again, and again, without end.
“…So much for a shower,” she murmured, her tone calm, but shaded with a bitter amusement. The corner of her lips curved just slightly, though it was not joy, it was survival. The kind of humor you found only in the middle of a storm.
Sephiroth turned his head toward her, emerald eyes catching hers, sharp even through the exhaustion. For a long beat, he only watched her, studied her. He could still feel the phantom ache in his chest, the ghost of scalpels tracing him open, the raw memory of Hojo’s voice echoing like poison in his skull. But Isabelle was here, alive, standing, unscarred. The bond between them held tighter than any chain Hojo could forge.
He crossed the space slowly, his boots silent now against the floor, and stopped in front of her. His gloved hand rose, hesitant for the briefest moment, before he brushed the backs of his fingers along her jawline, tilting her chin up just slightly so her green eyes locked with his.
“You kept me here,” he said lowly, his voice rough with weariness but resolute. “Through all of it.”
Isabelle’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak right away. Instead, she lifted her hand, pressing it flat against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. She could still remember it faltering under Hojo’s instruments, forced into an unnatural rhythm, only to return by sheer resilience. Now, beneath her palm, it was strong, alive.
“You kept me,” she countered softly, her words a mirror, her gaze unwavering. “We don’t survive that alone. Not anymore.”
The air between them thickened, heavy with unspoken truths. Their uniforms were still stained with the faint scent of mako and dried blood, their bodies clean only by the cruelty of unnatural healing. They were exhausted, drained, but at the same time, anchored.
Isabelle leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently against his chest, her voice barely more than a breath.
“…We’ll shower tomorrow. Tonight… just stay.”
Sephiroth’s hand lingered on her waist, his touch light but insistent. When Isabelle murmured again about delaying the shower, he softly shook his head, arms sliding around her back to draw her upright, forcing her to meet his height. His forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.
“…No… We’ll do it now,” he said quietly, voice low and commanding, yet threaded with that rare warmth he reserved only for her. “…We have another mission in the morning. Besides, we’ll just get everything else dirty if we don’t. And you know just how annoying the laundry rooms are…”
A low rumble of protest left her lips, soft and almost inaudible, but even as she muttered, she knew he was right. He always was. She let out a faint sigh, acquiescing, though there was still that flash of her usual defiance in the tilt of her head.
Sephiroth’s hand found hers, gently tugging her along by the wrist toward the cramped bathroom. The tiny space smelled faintly of soap and metal, the walls slick and worn from years of use. He twisted the nobs, coaxing the water to life, until hot steam began curling lazily through the room, clouding the glass and fogging the edges of the mirror.
Without a word, Isabelle began to peel away her uniform again, the fabric sticking faintly to her skin where dried blood had clung. Sephiroth mirrored her actions, unfastening his own uniform with the same slow, deliberate motions. Step by step, they moved together, a practiced rhythm forged from years of proximity and shared missions.
The spray hit them first, warm and heavy, washing over the tension of the day, searing away the last remnants of battle, the faint tang of dried blood, and the remnants of Hojo’s experiments. Flakes of blood sloughed from their skin, swirling in the water before spiraling down the drain, leaving pale flesh smooth and unmarked once more.
Sephiroth let his hands roam just enough to guide, not control, brushing over her shoulders and down her spine as she stepped fully into the hot cascade. Isabelle closed her eyes, leaning into him, allowing herself to finally relax under the heat, under his presence, under the simple, quiet intimacy of being cleaned, not just of blood, but of the horrors pressed into their flesh and memory.
Steam curled around them, cloaking the small bathroom, yet the heat between them was unmistakable. Every breath, every brush of skin, every shared heartbeat under the torrent of water reminded them that even after Hojo, even after the battlefield, even after hours of blood and pain, they were still theirs.
The water drummed a steady rhythm against the tiles, washing the past away for now, leaving only the quiet, shared understanding that no matter what came next, they would face it together.
Isabelle’s hands moved with a careful deliberation, sliding over his abdomen where Hojo’s instruments had pried and sliced hours before. Her touch was soft, almost reverent, fingers tracing the contours of muscle and skin that had been exposed to cold steel, now warmed by the shower’s cascade. Every ridge, every hollow, every subtle curve of his body was familiar to her, memorized through countless hours of shared battles and endured experiments.
The water ran over them both, warm and relentless, carrying away the blood and grime from the day’s horrors. Strands of her long black hair clung to her dampened face, streaked crimson from the residue of dried blood, yet she didn’t mind. She let the streams trace over her pale skin, following her collarbone down to her shoulders, tiny droplets collecting at the curve of her jaw before dripping into the pool forming at their feet.
Sephiroth’s chest rose and fell under her touch, steady but taut with the remnants of adrenaline, every fiber of his body alive to her hands. He could feel the careful exploration of her fingers, deliberate, intimate, as if she were both mapping and marking him at the same time.
Her touch traveled lower, brushing over the areas that had been most violated, the trauma hidden beneath the skin now healing, unscarred but never forgotten. Her green eyes, half-lidded and thoughtful, were not looking at him in lust, not yet, they were studying, remembering, revering. The subtle tension of her fingers spoke of wonder and possession, of a desire to claim and comfort simultaneously.
Blood streaked her own skin in thin rivulets, washed into the warm shower’s flow, mingling with the heat of the water and the scent of soap. It clung to her eyelashes, her lips, and down the slope of her neck, yet she made no move to wipe it away. She pressed closer to him, forehead brushing his chest, letting the warmth of the shower and his body flood her senses.
Sephiroth exhaled softly, the sound low and unguarded, an acknowledgment that he felt it too, that her touch, her presence, was more necessary now than any weapon, any battle, any mission. The trauma and pain of Hojo’s hands could never touch them here, not while they had this, each other, solid, alive, and defiant.
The water ran, relentless, washing away the day’s horrors, yet leaving the quiet, intimate heat of their connection untouched. Isabelle’s fingers lingered, memorizing, soothing, claiming, while Sephiroth’s hands slowly rose to rest on her back, the subtle pull of her body against his a silent agreement: in this small, enclosed space, there was no Hojo, no lab, no battlefield. Only them.
Isabelle sank to her knees with a deliberate slowness, her long black hair falling around her shoulders like a veil, damp and clinging from the shower. Her green eyes stayed lowered, fixed somewhere between his waist and the tiles, avoiding his gaze as if holding back a flood she couldn’t yet admit. Her hands rested lightly on his hips, the strength of her touch gentle but steady, grounding him in the moment.
Sephiroth’s breath hitched slightly at the closeness, the heat of her body against his, the soft press of her lips against his ribs, fleeting, almost reverent. The hardening of his body, natural and insistent, went ignored by her, yet the tension it caused only seemed to deepen the quiet intensity in the room.
Her voice emerged as a whisper, fragile yet charged, the kind of confession meant only for him, meant only for this room, for the space that existed between the two of them and no one else.
“…I… want your flesh between my teeth… your blood in my mouth…”
The words were soft, careful, like she was threading a thread of steel through silk, dangerous, intimate, undeniable. Her lips lingered against his stomach as she spoke, pressing gentle kisses that made every nerve in his body coil tighter, sharpening his awareness of her, of her intent, of her desire.
“…But not like this… never… like this…”
The whisper trembled slightly on the last words, betraying the restraint she exerted, the control she so meticulously maintained even in her hunger. She drew a shallow breath, letting it press lightly against his skin, and her hands slid just a fraction, tracing the planes of muscle along his hips, grounding herself while simultaneously teasing him with the weight of what she wanted, what she couldn’t yet take.
Sephiroth’s hands hovered for the briefest moment, caught between instinct and the unspoken command in her gaze, the restraint that both challenged and entranced him. Every inch of him responded, yet he didn’t move, didn’t thrust forward. Instead, he exhaled softly, a low sound of acknowledgment, of surrender to the tension she created, and the quiet storm that had always existed between them.
The hot steam curled around them, masking every sound but their shared breaths and the faint rhythm of dripping water. And in that enclosed, intimate world, every unspoken promise, every hidden hunger, every thread of desire was laid bare, carefully, deliberately, tethered only to them.
Her lips brushed higher, grazing his abdomen, fleeting and soft, while her voice, that delicate, dangerous monotone, trembled just enough to make him shiver:
“…Soon… just not yet…”
And even in her restraint, the heat between them was undeniable, a current they both felt surging stronger than any battle, any experiment, any force Hojo could wield.
Isabelle’s lips traced slowly downward, brushing along the smooth, pale skin of his abdomen, following the subtle curve of muscle until she reached the faint trail that led lower. The water from the shower ran in rivulets around them, carrying the remnants of dried blood away, though it couldn’t wash away the tension coiling tight between them.
Her green eyes flickered up at him then, meeting his emerald gaze with a quiet insistence. There was no mockery, no playfulness, just the faintest edge of command woven into her calm, composed demeanor, the way she always knew how to assert control without raising her voice.
“…Say please,” she murmured, breath warm against his skin, so soft it might have been mistaken for a whisper, so deliberate it demanded attention. The words hung in the steamy air, a tether pulling at every inch of him, igniting a strange, electric mix of restraint and desire.
Sephiroth’s jaw clenched imperceptibly, his breathing slow but deliberate. He could feel the tension coiling lower in his body, a reaction both involuntary and entirely of his choosing. There was something in her eyes, in the softness of her lips against his skin, in the dangerous weight of her words that made obedience feel inevitable.
He inhaled deeply, chest rising against hers, and his voice came low, steady, yet threaded with the sharp undercurrent of want he rarely allowed himself to show.
“…Please,” he murmured, the single word carrying more weight than any longer confession could, a promise, a surrender, and a challenge all at once.
Isabelle’s lips curved slightly, faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if approving the answer without needing to say it. She lingered there for a moment longer, letting the pressure of the moment settle, before returning to the slow, deliberate exploration that had always marked these stolen spaces between them, intimate, dangerous, and wholly their own.
The hot steam swirled around them, a curtain hiding the world, leaving only the tension, the heat, and the quiet, undeniable power each held over the other.
Isabelle’s hand curled firmly yet delicately around the base of him, warm and confident in its hold. Even through the steam and the lingering warmth of the shower, she could feel him respond, hardening further under her touch, every subtle pulse and tremor betraying the tension he tried to keep contained. Her green eyes flicked up to meet his, calm, composed, and impossibly demanding all at once.
Leaning forward, she let her lips part just enough to allow the tip of him to brush against her soft tongue. The contact was feather-light at first, exploratory, teasing, yet deliberate in its intent. She felt the subtle shiver that ran through him, heard the sharp intake of breath that betrayed him despite the control he always carried like armor.
“…Say you want me,” she whispered, her monotone voice low but laced with heat, as if any louder, the words themselves might shatter him. There was no mockery, no hesitation, just the quiet, impossible command that had always marked her, the way she could take control without raising her voice.
Sephiroth’s chest rose sharply as he swallowed, emerald eyes darkening with desire, gaze locked on her calm, pale face. The water ran around them, warm and heavy, but it couldn’t wash away the tension crackling in the space between them. Every nerve in his body reacted, but his mind remained razor-sharp, even as his voice emerged, low, strained, and raw with want.
“…I want you,” he murmured, the words clipped, deliberate, carrying the full weight of his desire and surrender. “…Only you.”
Isabelle’s lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile at his answer, letting her tongue trace a slow, teasing circle around him before dipping lower. Her hands guided him gently, but firmly, each movement calculated to elicit response, to test the limits of his restraint and the depth of his need.
Even in the heat of the water, even in the intimacy of this stolen moment, there was an electric edge to her actions, precise, commanding, yet tender in a way only she could be. Sephiroth’s breaths came faster now, low rumbles against her name as she continued, and the quiet power they shared in this small, steam-filled space grew almost unbearable in its intensity.
She lingered there, taking her time, letting him feel every inch of her attention, her control, the quiet, unspoken claim she had on him, while he met her with equal fervor, each pulse, each shiver, each whispered sound binding them closer in the fragile, overwhelming intimacy of the moment.
Isabelle’s movements were deliberate, slow at first, every motion measured and precise. Her lips parted, warm and soft, trailing along him until she took him fully, her throat welcoming him with careful curiosity. There was a flicker of surprise, a brief gag, but it only made her adjust, angling, learning, testing the boundaries of her control and his pleasure. Each small sound, each subtle tremor from him, became a guide, teaching her how to give exactly what he wanted without losing her composure.
Her free hand gripped his hip firmly, anchoring him in place, guiding the rhythm as much as restraint. She allowed just enough movement to make him respond, to draw low, choked breaths and soft moans from him, but always maintained the delicate dominance that was uniquely hers. Every curve of her tongue, every careful slide of her lips, was an exploration, a meticulous study of how to give him everything without surrendering herself entirely.
Sephiroth’s hands hovered at her shoulders, stilling only at the faintest tension in her body, feeling every reaction, every nuanced motion she offered. Even in his desire, he remained acutely aware of her control, the way she dictated the tempo, the pressure, the intimacy, teaching him to submit in the gentlest, most consuming way.
Her eyes occasionally flicked up at him, green and calculating, yet softened by the heat of the shower and the closeness of their bodies. Each glance, each brush of skin, each guiding hand reinforced the unspoken bond between them: they were the only ones who knew exactly how far to push, exactly how much to give, and exactly how to leave the other trembling, satisfied, and craving more.
The water streamed down around them, washing away the day’s battles, the traces of blood and adrenaline, leaving only the raw, heated intimacy of their connection, deliberate, precise, and wholly their own.
Isabelle’s hand tightened slightly on his hip, guiding him, coaxing, as she began to move in time with the faint, instinctive rhythm of his body. Her lips and tongue worked with careful, deliberate curiosity, every motion measured, exploratory, as if mapping this new, intimate terrain between them.
It was still all so unfamiliar, this connection, these feelings, the way his body responded to her every touch, the way the heat between them built with every slow, hesitant thrust. Every choked intake of breath from him, every subtle shiver, became both a guide and a spark, fueling the tension that coiled tight in their bodies.
Sephiroth’s hands hovered near her shoulders, almost trembling despite his usual composure, caught between the desire to hold her, to steady her, and the need to surrender to the sensations she was eliciting. He could feel the delicate heat of her mouth, the careful pressure, the slow, teasing control she wielded effortlessly, and even the unfamiliarity of it all sent shivers down his spine.
Her green eyes, still glimmering with a quiet intensity, flicked up at him occasionally, studying his face, reading his reactions with the precision only she could manage. She was learning, exploring, and discovering the limits of both herself and him, shaping this contact into something intimate and terrifying in its intensity.
The warm spray of water wrapped around them, masking the small sounds that escaped, soft moans, shallow gasps, the barely-there shifts of their bodies pressed together. It was a moment suspended in time: raw, unpolished, entirely new, yet charged with the kind of connection that neither of them had ever dared to explore before.
Every movement, every heartbeat, every stolen breath built the fragile, electric bridge between them, a bridge of need, trust, and discovery that neither wanted to break. And as Isabelle guided him, coaxed him, and responded to the heat of their shared desire, the weight of their closeness pressed down on them both, overwhelming and utterly intoxicating.
Isabelle’s lips curved faintly around him, a ghost of a smile at the way his composure wavered. Every time her tongue traced that spot just beneath the head, his muscles would tighten, his breath would hitch, and she could feel his restraint fraying beneath her touch. She relished in it, not cruelly, but with a kind of quiet satisfaction, as though this was something only she could draw out of him.
When she pulled back, the slick sound of release mingled with the hiss of the shower, her chest rising and falling with a deliberate breath. Her throat worked as she swallowed, her green eyes flicking up to catch the storm in his gaze.
“…Let go… just relax… I’ve got you…” she rasped, her words barely audible over the steady stream of water, yet they sank into him like steel.
Then her mouth claimed him again, deeper this time, his tip hitting the back of her throat, her hand stroking the base in slow, synchronized motions, careful not to leave a single part of him neglected. Every shift of her tongue, every hollowing of her cheeks, every subtle squeeze of her fingers built an unrelenting rhythm.
Sephiroth’s hands finally came to rest on her damp hair, fingers threading through the strands almost without thought, tugging at the strands needily. His body trembled under the dual onslaught of pleasure and the desperate effort to maintain control, the instinct to surrender clawing at the iron discipline drilled into him all his life.
The heat of the water merging with the heat coursing through his veins. And in the midst of it, Isabelle’s words echoed, grounding him, that quiet promise, the assurance that she would carry him through even this. That she had him.
It was that truth, more than the touch itself, that finally made his restraint falter, his breaths shuddering into uneven, broken gasps as he let himself lean into her, into them.
The moment she felt him tense beneath her hands, Isabelle let out a low, deliberate hum, the vibration coursing through him as she coaxed his release with unyielding devotion. His hips bucked despite his effort to stay in control, the tremors running through him betraying the storm breaking inside his body, softly thrusting into her mouth.
Within seconds, the first pulse of heat spilled across her tongue, followed by more, sharp, stuttering bursts that she took without hesitation. She swallowed around him, keeping her lips sealed tight, her hand stroking in perfect rhythm to draw every last drop from him. The sound of the shower filled the air, but beneath it came the guttural, broken noise that tore from Sephiroth’s throat, half a groan, half a gasp, his composure stripped bare.
Isabelle didn’t relent, didn’t let him go until his shuddering release finally ebbed, her mouth easing him through each wave. Only when his body sagged against the cold tile, his forehead pressed back, emerald eyes slipping shut and his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths, did she finally pull back.
Her lips parted from him with a soft, wet sound, her hand giving one final, deliberate squeeze before letting him slip free. She swallowed again, slow and purposeful, tasting him, his flavor taking over her senses, her gaze flickering up to him through damp lashes.
Leaning back slightly on her knees, water cascading down her pale skin, Isabelle licked her lips, green eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction.
“…You taste like sin,” she murmured, her tone flat but laced with something deeper, something hungry, before tilting her head and watching him struggle to steady himself against the wall.
When Isabelle finally rose from her knees, the steam clung to her skin like a veil, her long black hair plastered to her pale shoulders. Without a word, she reached for the small bottle on the ledge, flicking it open with a faint snap. The faint scent of clean herbs filled the air as she squeezed the thick shampoo into her palms.
Her hands, still trembling faintly from what she’d just done, found their way into his silver hair. Fingers spread, slow, deliberate, she pushed through the tangled strands and pressed against his scalp. The lather foamed and slid down in rivulets, tinged pink as it carried away the blood, the dirt, the remnants of battle and the lab alike.
Sephiroth’s shoulders lowered at her touch. The tension that never seemed to leave his body, his constant vigilance, the endless weight pressed onto him, eased in subtle degrees. His eyes closed, the fine muscles of his jaw unclenching as her nails scraped lightly across his scalp, careful but grounding.
For a moment, it wasn’t about hunger, or battle, or the endless shadow of Hojo’s experiments. For a moment, she was just there, standing before him in the haze of steam, her hands moving with a patience he didn’t know she had, caring for him in a way he’d never once been allowed to imagine.
Her green eyes softened as she worked, though her expression remained composed. The lather slid down his back, over muscle and scarless skin, vanishing into the water at their feet. She tilted his head forward gently, thumbs brushing the line of his temples, as if this ritual belonged only to them.
“…Better,” she murmured, voice low, almost lost beneath the hiss of water, though it wasn’t clear if she was speaking about his hair, or about him, about seeing him loosen, surrender to her hands for once.
The warmth of the water was nothing compared to the warmth of her hands. Sephiroth had spent his life surrounded by hands that restrained, injected, tore, stitched. Hands that hurt, hands that measured. Never hands that lingered simply to care.
As Isabelle’s fingers combed through his silver hair, working the suds into his scalp, he felt something foreign coil through his chest, something gentler than anything mako or battle had ever forged into him. At first, it unnerved him. He wasn’t used to this softness, to the idea that he could close his eyes and not be punished for lowering his guard. Yet with her touch, his body betrayed him, melting into the sensation, shoulders easing, breath slowing.
He thought of every time Hojo had ordered him stripped bare and laid on a cold slab. Every moment his body had been nothing more than a tool to dissect, to measure, to own. And here was Isabelle, her touch the same kind of intimacy, but inverted, rewritten. She wasn’t pulling him apart, but putting him back together in ways he didn’t even realize he’d been fractured.
The pressure of her nails against his scalp drew a shudder he couldn’t quite suppress. His throat tightened as he let his head tip forward under her guidance, strands of silver falling like curtains. The water rushed down over his skin, carrying the lather away, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he didn’t feel dirty.
She was claiming him, not with violence, not even with hunger, but with tenderness. And that terrified him more than any battlefield ever had. Because he realized, standing there with her in the steam and warmth, that he didn’t want to lose this. Didn’t want to lose her.
For the first time, Sephiroth let the thought settle fully in his mind: 'I belong here. With her.'
Isabelle’s hands lingered for just a moment longer, grazing over his shoulders and the back of his neck, before she reluctantly pulled away. The warmth of her touch vanished, leaving Sephiroth with only the memory of it, and a faint ache where her hands had been. She didn’t linger in sentimentality, her movements were practical now, urgent almost, as if every second spent under the shower prolonged the world outside their small dorm, the world that demanded their strength and attention.
Sephiroth watched silently as she hurriedly rinsed herself, the steam curling around her pale form, droplets of water cascading down her spine and limbs. Her movements were quick but precise, every action still carrying that underlying care, fast, yes, but meticulously ensuring that he had been tended to first, that he would be clean, calm, and able to rest.
Finally, Isabelle stepped out of the stream, the last rivulets of water dripping from her hair and skin. She reached for the small towel, patting at her hair and shoulders briefly before snagging a second for him. The way she handed it to him was almost imperceptibly commanding, a gentle insistence that he take it, wrap himself, and finally allow the exhaustion of the day to settle into him.
Sephiroth accepted it wordlessly, the fabric warm against his damp skin, and for a moment, all the tension of the day, the missions, the lab, the battles, faded into the background. Isabelle’s eyes flicked toward him once, brief, sharp, almost unreadable, before she turned to dry herself, hurried but attentive, as though the only thought occupying her mind was getting them both back to their beds.
The unspoken truth lingered in the steam-heavy air: she wanted him to rest, to reclaim even a fragment of peace, before the world demanded them again. And in that small, quiet act of care, Sephiroth felt more claimed, more understood.
When she finally shut off the water, the hiss and click of the taps echoed in the small bathroom, leaving them both in the lingering warmth of the steam. Towels in hand, Isabelle’s posture remained composed, but there was a subtle tension in her shoulders, a barely-there softness that only he could read. Without a word, she tugged gently at his arm, leading him toward their shared bed, the promise of rest waiting just beyond the door.