Mako Reactor

I respectfully credit all Original Creators, namely Squaresoft, which became SquareEnix,for these characters. In this way, I pay homage to my Fandom's Original Creator, and illustrate my Community's belief that Fan Fiction is "fair use". I do not claim to own these characters. I do not make money or gil from using these protected characters, nor do I wish to make money or gil from them. In other words, I am borrowing these characters to entertain the adult fanfiction community, but I am doing so with the highest degree of respect to the engineers, game designers, music makers, and voice actors.



“Hey, Vince! Watch it with the claw!”

“Where did you get that?” Valentine’s rumbly voice demanded.

I lifted my weary head to see Valentine holding Kisaragi’s wrist, keeping her in one place so he could look at her throat. “She got it from me, Turk,” I said. “Leave her alone.”

“You gave her-.”

“I fucking know what I fucking gave her!” I stood up, knocking my chair over.

The venom in his gaze turned crimson to yellow. Breathing hard, he seemed to vibrate with the need to remain still.

The group around us froze and went utterly silent.

Kisaragi’s eyes showed comprehension. She covered the pendant with her hand, looking back at me. “You gave me her necklace,” she said softly.

“She won’t be wearing it anytime soon, my dear,” I said. “It’s made for a lady. I’m not going to wear it either.”

“Are you sure?” She ran her pinkie over the materia and I knew she’d already formed an attachment to the thing.

“I’m certain.” I met Valentine’s eyes. “And, I’m sure even Valentine can agree with me, if he thinks about it a moment.”

The Turk let go of Kisaragi’s wrist slowly, the fire in his gaze dampening. “I don’t mind, Yuffie,’ he said. “It isn’t about you at all.” For him, his voice could pass for warm.

She nodded. “I’ll take care of it,” she promised both of us, looking from me to Valentine. In another moment she disappeared out the doorway.

“Why?” Valentine demanded of me, suddenly hanging over me like the grim reaper. “Yuffie can’t mean anything to you.”

That hurt. I knew I deserved it, too. My conscience came new, never removed from box.

“Because she wanted it,” I answered quietly. “And, because I’m tired of carrying it. She means something to you, doesn’t she? Can you think of another person the necklace should go to?”

“Yes and no.” Valentine stalked away to sit in the corner.

I picked my chair up and returned to my notebook. He made such a delightful, brooding picture I felt compelled to draw him. A few minutes into it, Strife sat beside me with lunch. He spread out a cloth to reveal bread, cheese and raspberries. I couldn’t eat a bit of it; just looking at it made me feel ill.

“Did you learn to draw for anatomy classes?” he asked, watching me with interest.

“Drawing came naturally to me.” I smudged and shaded with my pinkie, lifting it out of the way so I wouldn’t drag black over the whiter portions.

Strife tilted his head. “Would you draw me?”

I flipped the page over. “Should I draw you with your cheeks stuffed out like a squirrel?” I asked, poising my pencil. He was such a pure specimen. I rued ever hurting him.

He swallowed hastily before straightening. “What would you suggest? Should I pose?”

“Posing is too easy. Just go about what you’re doing and I’ll catch you at some point.”

“But, I’ll not be a natural picture,” he argued. “I’m not going to be able to ignore that I know you’re over here, waiting.”

“Valentine is quite aware I just drew him,” I said. “Can you do less?”

He frowned at me.

“See?” I said. “Just don’t think about me. Take a lesson from Turk-jock.”

Strife leveled me with a sober gaze, his blue, mako-enhanced eyes deep and luminous. “Seriously, he’s going to kill you if you don’t learn how to shut up,” he advised.

“Oh, no,” I said, putting that grave face on paper. “I’m a cockroach that won’t stay dead when smashed, remember?”

From across the room, Barret chuckled.

Valentine’s claw flexed. His red gaze sought me and bored a hole in my brain.

“I can’t believe how much you hate each other,” Strife went on. “What do you get out of this?”

I didn’t answer and neither did Valentine.

Strife rolled his eyes.

I handed him the portrait for his approval. He looked at it a moment, his eyes lit with pleasure. “Well, if mad science bails on you, you have a back-up career,” he said.

That tickled me. I laughed, ripped out the page and handed it to him. “Anyone else want themselves immortalized in paper?” I asked.

“Do me,” the airship captain said, sitting in the chair the moment Strife vacated.

Under the right circumstances I wouldn’t mind doing him at all. Biting my lip, I looked at him. “Where are your props?” I asked.

He grinned. “What, a smoke and a spear?”

“Exactly.”

“Hang on.” He dragged his spear over and lit a cigarette. “How’s this?”

“Perfect.” And, it was. Highwind knew how to pose without looking like he posed. I wished I’d had to draw him in my medical anatomy classes. The man we’d had didn’t possess a quarter of the captain’s character.

“Fucking hell,” he growled as I handed the paper over. “Almost looks like a photo, ‘cept it’s in black and white.” He folded it, put it in his pocket and put his spear back, looking pleased.

I waited. “Anyone?”

Rather defiantly, Lockhart took Highwind’s place. “No one can ever draw me right,” she challenged.

“You’re always in motion,” I grunted, sketching her out. She was a pretty woman. Strife surely had no reason to miss cock.

“Oh, is that why?” she asked, sounding genuinely intrigued.

“Probably.” I eyed her face. “And, you have perfect symmetry. Not one person in thousands does.”

“What do you mean?”

I captured that inquisitive look quickly. “Most people aren’t even-featured. An eyebrow will be higher or lower, an eye smaller or larger, the mouth a bit twisted. Your face is perfectly even on each side.”

Lockhart’s eyebrows rose. “I had no idea.”

“Your boyfriend, pretty though he is, isn’t symmetrical. Get a mirror and lay it over one side of his face and you’ll see what I mean.”

I finished and gave the picture over to her. She looked at it. Her features softened a little. “It does look like me,” she admitted. From her pocket she pulled a tiny mirror. Laying it on the picture, she tilted it until one side became the other. Without another word, she got to her feet and ambled toward Strife.

Barret met my eyes. “I don’t care what I look like,” he said.

I believed him.

***************************************************************************************

The next day we took out the Shin-Ra military encampment. I fought as well as able, which amounted to more than I originally anticipated. I took another bullet, but in the leg. At least this time it was an enemy bullet and not friendly fire. I knew this because the end of the day saw me preparing to dig slugs out of Valentine.

Being undead doesn’t mean you can’t feel pain. If anything, it heightens it. The nerve endings become dedicated merely to sensory perception. As a result, Valentine probably felt more pain than his non-augmented friends. It wouldn’t do the same amount of damage, the injury, but it would hurt more.

Valentine would need mako again before the end of the day. He had to get it tonight.

I sterilized a probe and placed it to the side. I had to take care of Strife’s bullet first.

He came in and sat on the table, taking off his shirt. The wound had already closed over, courtesy of mako and Jenova. “Good thing they did have medical supplies here, huh?’ he said, touching the blackened skin just under his right collarbone. “Glad you’re here to do this, Hojo. The last time I had Barret get it out; he hurt me worse than the slug.” He had such a casual attitude to his suffering. He truly didn’t equate his pain to his job.

I admired that.

“You’re assuming I’m better just because I’m accredited?” I washed my hands and found a bottle of alcohol.

“Well, you know how to cut.” Strife reclined and relaxed, apparently easy in his mind.

Just because of his trust, I found topical anesthetic and applied it after cleaning his skin. It wouldn’t help when I dug around, but it was better than nothing. I had plans for the true, distancing drugs, and Strife didn’t fall into my equation.

A quick cut. I held the wound open and took up the probe. After a few, gentle pokes I found the slug. Taking up a clamp, I reached in and got it. “This’ll hurt,” I said, poising the alcohol over the hole.

“Go for it.” Strife almost sounded bored.

I poured.

Strife stiffened.

I let the wound shut after absorbing blood and excess spirits from him. He sat up and wiped his face. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Vincent’s got six of those, and they’ll fucking hurt.”

I said nothing. I couldn’t promise not to cause Valentine pain even if I had all the proper equipment.

“He’s the last one,” Strife said. “Everyone else is already camped out in the barracks.”

“I know.” I eyed the fresh needles and drug cabinet. “Go ahead and join them. Valentine and I might be a few hours.”

Strife paused. “Oh,” he said softly. “Good, Hojo.” Casting me a pitying look, he ambled out.

Valentine entered like a storm. Without a word he stopped before me and took off his cloak. I could see exactly where every bullet would be, considering his leather-clad chest had numerous holes in it. He began undoing straps with efficient grace, staring down at me with a dare in his crimson eyes.

Saying nothing, I backed off to wash my hands again. When I turned back, he sat half naked on the table. His black hair dripped down his perfect, sculpted shoulders. His wounds hadn’t fully closed over yet. I just gazed for a moment at all that beautiful pain.

“Stop it, Hojo,” he growled. “I hate it when people stare at me.”

Oh, he had to be joking. I doubted he could go anywhere without people staring. He had a beauty unmatched.

Fucking Turk-jock.

“Take your head wrap off,” I instructed, bringing the prep tray to the table. “It might drop germs in what I’m doing. Ideally, you’d be bathed before I did this.”

“Germs aren’t a concern for me, as you well know,” he replied, not moving.

I whipped out my hand and grabbed his bandanna, jerking it off and throwing it to one side. “Humor me,” I said.

Shiva, could any man be so beautiful? Again I just stopped to admire, and again his face darkened with anger.

“I know what you’re thinking when you look at me like that,” he said. “And, I don’t like it.”

I closed my eyes a moment. “Sorry,” I said at last, actually meaning it.

“I had no idea you were a faggot,” he went on. “No wonder Lucretia turned to me.”

For a brief and blinding minute I felt truly capable of killing his beauty. Then, a sense of peace washed over me. I picked up the syringe, holding my hand over the lower half to conceal it already had a half- measure of Rohypnol in the chamber. “I’m giving you morphine,” I said, showing him the needle and the vial. “Unless you’re allergic to opiates?”

“I wouldn’t be now even if I had been,” he said impatiently. “Shiva, do you even remember the things you’ve done to me?”

“I remember you to your last vein,” I replied, calm and collected. Oh, I remembered.

“I suppose you would, being a raging homosexual.”

I filled the needle. He was making this increasingly easy for me. I’d felt guilt over what I had to do all afternoon, but now I felt like slicing him to bits might be in order.

I swiped his arm and shoved the needle in, uncaring if I hurt him or not. “Raging homosexual or not,” I said, pushing the plunger, “I still had her first, Turk. I popped her cherry, not you. And, what do you know? I popped your cherry too.”

“You little son of a bitch,” he said, grabbing at me, but the drugs already worked on him. I nimbly avoided him and tossed the needle.

“Lie down,” I commanded.

He collapsed.

For the next half hour I pulled slugs from his sculpted chest. Thanks to the morphine he felt nothing. Thanks to the Rohypnol, he no longer cared what I did to him. I finished up and washed my hands before cleaning him of blood. Then, before I could convince myself of the foolishness in my soul, I worked the straps on his pants.

If he somehow remembered what I did, he’d definitely kill me. I’d worked him into a froth this week, deliberately. The first assault he could pass off as a needed intervention. This one would feel like I took advantage of him.

And, I was.

But, I had no choice. He would die without the mako, and he would rather die than let me take him. My hands were tied.

I looked at those beautiful, slender hips and washboard abs as I finished undressing him. Thankfully, focusing on his body made me hard enough to do this. I’d had my doubts what with feeling so guilty. I dragged him to the end of the table and lubed us both.

Taking a deep, bracing breath, I draped his legs over my arms and entered him very slowly. He was already utterly relaxed, which made the job easier. I didn’t want him to have any physical clue of this rape, nothing that would make him question a blank spot in his memory. Plus, it really wasn’t in my heart to hurt him now.

Talking I could do. I could cut him to bits with my tongue. I just didn’t want to harm him this way.

I tried to imagine this as a mutual congress, but it didn’t work. He felt too limp for that. I closed my eyes and pictured him instead, imagined him allowing me this privilege because he wanted it. It did the trick. Twenty strokes and I released. This time my orgasm felt like a bitter, miserly thing, mimicking the darkness of my withered heart.

I dropped his legs and pulled him upright. The mako would absorb almost instantly, but my semen had to dribble out. I put a towel under him and just stood there with him draped over my shoulder. My hands couldn’t resist running over his firm, muscled back, just the once. I cradled him, loving the feel of his hard body lax upon mine.

I cleaned him up and dressed him, my throat closed and aching. I then put myself to rights and began deciding what to take with us when we left in the morning.

Thirty minutes passed with Valentine sleeping on the small operating table. He stirred, twitching his fingers. A groan. He sat up suddenly, looking around the room with suspicious eyes.

I forced my heart’s rhythm to remain absolutely steady, knowing he could hear it. “No more morphine for you,” I said. “You had a bad reaction.”

Valentine slowly tied his faded bandanna on securely. “What sort of reaction?”

“You fainted.”

I finished gathering up the useful drugs and equipment, rueful I could not take the entire inventory.

“I smell come,” he said, his eyes lighting upon the towel on the next table.

“That’s because I jerked off while looking at you,” I answered. I’d prepared for this. I knew his sense of smell phenomenal. “I collected it in case you wanted a protein-mako shake. Think you can suck it off the towel?”

Valentine dropped from the table, grabbed his leather tunic and began fastening himself into it. “You make me sick,” he whispered scathingly. “The urge to rip you apart just keeps growing, you bastard.”

“Hold onto that,” I advised.