He slides inside her, cautious like the camp surgeon was before the war beat all gentleness out of him. She barely notices. She damages herself worse every day merely by training.
He's the third son of some Wutaian warlord or other, she isn't sure. She doesn't care. They met at cease-fire talks, after everyone was done fake-smiling and pretending they'll think about terms given, when all the brass socialized, traded resentful barbs, ate canapes from the same plates and so there was little poisoning risk. He approached her, offered; he was polite, she was curious, so here they are.
It's strange and a little awkward and at some points rather silly. She doesn't understand his preoccupation with several parts of her body but she allows it, it doesn't hurt. She lets him teach her the best grip, the best strokes. Overall it's all rather pleasant. She thinks maybe she will try it again, with people whose hands she can feel stronger than skin-deep, ticklish and fleeting and too-quickly gone. (She cannot ask any of her men first, it would be an abuse of her authority, but perhaps tomorrow when the rumor has gone through camp (she has no illusions about the speed of gossip amongst SOLDIERs) they will know they can offer. Perhaps. She is the General no matter what, so perhaps not.)
She spends all night half-awake, waiting for him to rise and assassinate her. Nothing.
The next morning, the way he smiles, the way his hand curls over her hip, she realizes; he thinks he has conquered her. There's no need to kill her anymore.
It's insulting enough and she isn't very interested in anything else he might teach her, so she brushes his hand off and gets up. He stares as she gets dressed, shocked and then angry. She arches an eyebrow at him -- what did he think, really? -- steps toward the door and there it is, the rush, the blade in his hand.
From the delayed shock on his face he notices the Masamune in his heart slower than she noticed his penis inside her yesterday. She shakes him off her blade. The biggest regret she feels is for the futon bed, whose sheets she liked.
His father will make trouble. Not that they weren't all planning for the cease-fire's abrupt end already.
They should have sent her a geisha, Sephiroth thinks dispassionately, because she cannot imagine that another woman would have believed her so easily disarmed.