Cell Division

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.

When next time I woke I had a little more sense but no more strength. Chilly, I gathered closer to the hot body beside of me. “So cold,” I murmured. I felt the blankets draw up over my shoulders and the instant warmth they provided.

“Come here,” my companion’s dark voice commanded. More heat flooded me.

I sighed with pleasure. I loved being held; it usually didn’t matter by whom. That Hojo held me didn’t make any difference, not really, except for the fact that he smelled good.

He always smelled good, damn him.

I spread my hand out, feeling his thin, linen shirt and the unyielding muscles of his abdomen. Solid. How did he maintain muscle like this? At ninety-some years of age he should be wasted away, not a pillar of vitality and strength. I felt further up, pressed on his firm, powerful chest. His definition put younger men to shame.

“Do you know who you’re laying with?” he asked softly, his voice sounding husky.

“I think you’re Hojo.” My mind kicked in. “Sir,” I added.

He laughed quietly, deeply. “Correct,” he said after a moment. “You must feel better if you’re indulging in feminine curiosity.” He put his arms under me, lifting me higher. “You like to touch and to be touched,” he observed. “Michael is that way, too.”

“I like Michael.”

“I thought you would.” Hojo’s hair slithered down my face and neck, bringing up more of his scent. “Have you figured out why you don’t hate me yet?”

“No, but I can’t think very well right now.”

“It’s the narcotic I have you on, my dear. Don’t worry; your fuzzy-headedness is temporary.” He smoothed my hair back, continuing to stroke my head afterward in long, lazy passes.

Oh, it soothed me. I went limp on him.

“It would be hard to hate you anyway, right now,” I muttered into his collarbone.

“Hmm,” he commented, the sound making his chest vibrate. “I imagine so, my dear. You seem to have twice as many arms and legs while occupying a bed.”

Embarrassment prickled. I began to pull away from him. His arms tightened, preventing my escape. “Don’t,” he commanded. “I’m enjoying this. I haven’t held a woman in many years, and never one with so many curves and soft places.”

I lost self-censorship once more.

“What happened to your wife, sir?”

Hojo stopped petting me a moment. “She died,” he said finally, resuming his rhythm of soft touch. “No, that isn’t correct, exactly.” He stopped petting me again. “She tried to kill herself. When that failed, she took herself to a mako cavern and allowed crystalline formations to entomb her.” Again he resumed petting me. “She’s alive, but she’ll never, never leave the cave. Her lover visits her sometimes.”

“But, you shot him.”

“Yes, then I turned him undead and locked him in the basement of the Shinra Mansion. He’s out now.”

I shivered. He could have been discussing the weather. His placid, unconcerned tone brought the chill back to my bones.

“You asked,” Hojo said, arranging the blankets a little. “I suppose you think me heartless? You might be right.”

I thought of him telling Michael he could cry.

“No, sir, I don’t think you’re heartless,” I murmured, feeling sleep dragging me down again. “I think you’re lonely.”

His hand spread over my head and went still. “You deduce that from my number of slaves?”

“No, sir.” I yawned. “I deduce that from your number of pets.”