“You’re not afraid of me,” Sephiroth remarks, his voice reverent as he stands before you in your dimly lit apartment. Midgar was loud and laden with mako enough to clog the senses, but here, now, all he can hear are the sounds of your blood rushing through your body, your heart pulsating a steady, unhurried rhythm.

He reaches for you slowly, gloved fingers brushing your cheek before cradling your face with a care at odds with the weight of his words. His thumbs trace over your skin in quiet indulgence, and he exhales deeply, as if steadying himself. “Maybe you should be,” he murmurs, but there was no menace in it, only something fragile, something yearning.

Sephiroth’s breath fans lightly over your lips, his forehead nearly touching yours as he bows his head. “I want your blood,” he admits, voice just above a whisper. “But only if you let me.” He lingers there close enough to let you feel the tension buzzing beneath his pale skin. “Say no, and I’ll leave it at that. Say yes, and…” He lets out a soft, almost self-deprecating chuckle. He’s the one who’s afraid.