Chapter 3: Crimson Lessons
The apartment was bathed in the soft, golden glow of dawn, spilling through the grimy panes like honeyed tears—warm, reluctant, and impossible to ignore. Aerith stood near the kitchen counter, her fingers tracing the edge of a half-empty teacup, the steam curling between them like a whispered secret. Cloud lingered by the door, his boots still dusted with the road, his jaw tight with the weight of a thousand refusals. He was leaving for a three-day courier run to the Sector 7 reactor, a simple job, good money. It shouldn’t have felt like a verdict.
“It’s three days,” he said, the words gruff. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“I know,” she said, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The ring on her finger felt heavier today, a cold anchor. “Just… be careful.”
He crossed the room in three strides, his hand coming up to cradle her face. His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “Always.” He kissed her, a hard, promising press of his lips. “Lock the door after me. Don’t open it for anyone but Tifa.”
She nodded against his mouth, inhaling the scent of steel and leather and him. “I will.”
He left then, a last, lingering look over his shoulder before the door clicked shut. The silence that followed was a physical thing, thick and hollow. The apartment, still smelling of their sweat and sex from the night before, felt suddenly vast and empty.
She busied herself. She washed the teacup. She straightened the rumpled bed, her fingers brushing the sheet where the rust-colored stain had been two mornings prior. The memory of his face—that comical, horrified paleness morphing into a fiercely protective blush—warmed her. He’d been so flustered, so adorably awkward, fetching hot water, stealing sweet buns, his rough hands surprisingly gentle as he kneaded the ache from her belly. The memory was a solace.
But by noon, a familiar, dull throb had begun low in her own abdomen. A deep, cramping ache. She sighed, rooting through his sparse cabinets for the tin of tea leaves she kept there for this. It was early. Stress, probably. The emotional tumult of the last week—the commitment, the violence, his leaving.
She brewed the tea, curling up on the bed with his pillow clutched to her chest. It smelled like him. The cramps intensified, curling like claws inside her. She dozed fitfully as the afternoon light faded, chased by vague dreams of running through empty streets, calling his name.
It was the wetness that woke her fully.
A hot, insistent gush between her thighs, soaking through her underwear and onto the sheets. She bolted upright, a soft cry escaping her lips. It was dark now, the room lit only by the sickly green glow of a streetlamp filtering through the window. She was alone.
The visceral, primal part of her brain, the part that still remembered the fear of the wilderness, screamed at the smell—the copper-rich, unmistakable scent of blood. Her blood. On his sheets. Panic, sharp and sour, rose in her throat.
Downstairs, in the tangled maze of the slums, Cloud was finishing a bland meal at the Sector 7 station house. The job was done. He’d pushed hard, cutting the three-day estimate to two. A restless energy had driven him, a need to get back to her. He handed over the confirmed delivery chip, collected his gil, and shouldered his sword. He was on the bike, the roar of the engine a satisfying tear in the night’s fabric, within minutes.
He took the shortcuts, the dangerous, unlit tunnels under the plate, driven by a compulsion he didn’t name. The feeling was a tight coil in his gut, an unease that had nothing to do with monsters. Something was wrong. He just knew.
He took the stairs to his apartment two at a time, the sound echoing in the stairwell. He fumbled with the key, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. He shoved the door open.
“Aerith?”
The room was dark. Silent. The coppery tang hit him first, slicing through the usual smells of dust and old wood. Blood. His vision sharpened, mako-enhanced pupils dilating. He saw the lump in the bed. The dark, spreading stain on the sheets.
His world shattered. Ice flooded his veins. No. No, no, no. Not her. Not after everything.
He didn’t remember drawing the Buster Sword. It was just there, a six-foot length of death in his hands, the hum of its mako core vibrating up his arms. A guttural, animal sound ripped from his throat—a roar of pure, unadulterated rage and despair.
“Aerith!”
The lump in the bed moved. A whimper.
He was across the room in a blur, the sword held high, ready to cleave the world in two for whatever had hurt her. He reached for the sheet with his free hand, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
Her face emerged from the blanket, pale and confused, her eyes wide with sleep and shock. “Cloud?”
He froze. The sword tip wavered. He stared at her. Alive. Awake. Terrified, but of him.
“What… what is it?” she whispered, her voice trembling.
His eyes dropped from her face to the stain on the sheets, a brutal, rust-brown Rorschach in the dim light. His mind, trained for combat, for the clearest interpretation of threat, failed to recalibrate. “You’re bleeding,” he choked out, the words raw. “Where are you hurt?” He dropped the sword with a deafening clatter and was on his knees at the bedside, his hands hovering over her, trembling, afraid to touch. “Tell me. Who did this?”
Understanding dawned on her face, slow and then all at once. She saw the utter terror in his eyes, the grief already etched there. He thought she was dying. He thought someone had broken in and cut her open. The absurdity of it, the devastating sweetness of his panic, welled up in her, a bubble of hysterical relief.
A laugh burst from her, sharp and startled, followed immediately by a wince as a vicious cramp seized her lower abdomen. “Oh… oh, Cloud.” She reached for his face, her fingers cold against his cheek. “I’m not hurt. Not like that.”
He flinched from her touch, his brain refusing to process.
He flinched from her touch, his brain refusing to process. The metallic scent was overwhelming, the visual evidence undeniable. “The blood,” he rasped, his voice cracking.
“It’s my period, Cloud.” Her words were soft, deliberate, a gentle landing pad for his freefall. She took his shaking hand, guiding it beneath the sheet to press against the soft, warm cotton of her sleep shirt, low on her belly. “It’s just my body. It happens.”
His palm rested there, over the source of the cramping ache. He stared at their joined hands, then back at her face. The violent tension bled from his muscles all at once, leaving him hollow and shaking. The Buster Sword lay forgotten on the floor. A shuddering breath escaped him, part sob, part groan of pure relief. He dropped his forehead to her sternum, his shoulders heaving.
“I thought…” he began, the words muffled against her.
“I know.” Her fingers wove into his spiked hair, holding him close. “You big idiot. You glorious, terrifying idiot.”
He stayed like that for long minutes, his breath warming her skin through the cotton, listening to the solid, living beat of her heart. The reality of it, the mundane, beautiful truth, seeped into him. When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were clear but haunted. “You’re in pain.”
“It’s manageable.” She brushed his cheekbone. “You’re back early.”
“I hurried.” He stood up, his movements regaining their usual purpose. He stripped the soiled sheets from the bed with quick, efficient motions, his earlier panic channeled into this simple task. He found clean ones, his hands precise as he remade the bed around her. “I’ll get the tea. The one for cramps.”
He busied himself in the small kitchen, the familiar ritual calming them both. She watched him, this man who faced down gods and monsters, now measuring ginger root with intense concentration. He brought her the steaming mug and two painkillers. “Take these.”
She obeyed, sipping the hot, spicy brew. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her as if she might vanish. The domestic silence was profound. The fear of moments ago had melted, leaving a strange, tender rawness in its wake.
“You scared me,” he said finally, the confession stark in the quiet room.
“You scared me, too,” she replied, a small smile touching her lips. “Drawn sword and everything. My own personal knight-errant, ready to slay my uterus.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at his mouth. “Shut up.”
She finished her tea, the warmth spreading through her. He took the empty mug, setting it aside. His eyes tracked her every movement, a possessiveness in his gaze that had shifted from frantic to deeply focused. He saw the way she settled back into the pillows, the slight tension in her brow from the lingering ache.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked, his voice low.
“A little.” She closed her eyes. “It’s a deep ache. Dull.”
She felt the bed dip as he moved. His hand slid under her shirt again, but this time his skin was hot against hers. He began to knead her lower belly, his fingers applying a firm, perfect pressure. His other hand came up to cradle her head. It was not a suggestion of anything else; it was pure, grounded care.
A soft sigh escaped her. “Your hands are magic.”
He hummed in response, his thumb making slow circles. With each pass, the pain receded, replaced by a spreading warmth. But something else was growing too, a different kind of heat. His touch, while clinical in intention, was profoundly intimate. Her skin prickled under his palm. She opened her eyes to find him watching her, his pupils wide in the dim light.
The air thickened. The care in his touch subtly changed, the pressure of his fingers less about alleviating pain and more about mapping her. His gaze dropped to her mouth. She felt the shift in his breathing.
“Cloud?” Her voice was a whisper.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his hand drifting lower, past the waistband of her underwear, his fingers tracing the line of her hip.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He moved then, fluid and sure. He lifted her shirt over her head, tossing it aside. His mouth found hers in a kiss that was starkly different from their usual desperate clashing. This was slow, a deep, tasting possession. He kissed her like he was memorizing the shape of relief.
He broke away only to strip his own clothes off, the hard planes of his body pale in the faint light. He was already hard, his cock standing thick and eager against his stomach. He hooked his fingers into the sides of her panties, damp from her flow, and drew them down her legs with a deliberate slowness.
He didn’t flinch from the sight or the smell. He simply looked, his expression one of fierce reverence. He bent his head and pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. Then he moved higher, his breath hot against her curls. He nuzzled her, inhaling deeply.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he growled, the words vibrating against her sensitive skin. “All of you.”
He didn’t perform any elaborate act. He just settled between her thighs, his own weight pinning her open. He reached down, guiding himself to her entrance with one hand. The broad head of his cock pressed against her, and she was slick, incredibly slick with her own blood and arousal.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.
She dragged her eyes open, meeting his intense mako-blue stare. He pushed forward in one relentless, solid stroke, filling her utterly. She gasped, a sharp sound of pleasure-pain, her back arching. He was so deep, stretching her exquisitely full.
He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of stillness. “Mine,” he breathed, the word a vow.
“Yours,” she answered, wrapping her legs around his hips.
He began to move then, a slow, grinding rhythm that had no hurry. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a profound, claiming sink back into her wet heat. The friction was intense, a raw, filthy slide. The room filled with the sounds of it—their ragged breathing, the wet slap of skin on skin.
He fucked her with a focused, possessive intensity, his eyes locked on hers. He shifted his angle slightly, and the next thrust made her cry out, her nails digging into his shoulders. He’d found the perfect spot, that deep, sweet ridge inside her, and he hammered it relentlessly.
“Right there, oh fuck, right there,” she chanted, her head thrashing on the pillow.
His control began to fray. His thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper. He dropped his head to her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice a broken rasp. “Gonna fill you up.”
The raw, crude words pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm tore through her, a convulsing wave that clenched around his driving cock, milking him. With a guttural shout, he slammed into her one final time, his body seizing as he spilled deep inside her, his release hot and pulsing, mixing with her own flow.
He collapsed on top of her, his weight a comforting anchor. They lay tangled, both of them slick with sweat and sex and her blood. His spent cock softened within her, a tender, intimate connection. For a long time, the only sound was their slowing breaths.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out gently. He fetched a damp cloth, returning to clean her with the same tender meticulousness as before. He disposed of it, then climbed back into bed, drawing her against his chest.
“You’re really okay?” he asked into her hair, his arm a steel band around her.
She tilted her head up, kissing the sharp line of his jaw. “I’m perfect. You’re here.”