Tactical Decisions [Digital Devil Saga, Sheffield/Angel, PG-13] Title: Tactical Decisions Author:harukami Rating: PG-13 Warnings: DDS2 spoilers. Word count: 1106 Summary: Serph Sheffield gets to know the woman who hired him. A/N: For the prompt Digital Devil Saga, Angel/Sheffield - manipulation, preferably him attempting to use whatever issues she has with her sex against her - "Are these the same tactics you plan on using on Seraphita?". Crossposted to LJ.
When Serph Sheffield locks the door behind him as he comes into her office, Angel raises an eyebrow.
She knows his type. She's done extensive research into him; more, perhaps, than he might realize. She knows his history; knows the reasons he had been kicked out of several of his classes. Knows, even, the reasons why he hadn't been kicked out of several others when he had really deserved to be. She had the project hire him on for that reason; oh, his record checked out openly, he'd made sure of that, and nobody on a surface read was likely to be suspicious of him.
But he is a man who knows exactly how far it is possible to push things to their breaking point, and that is what they need; a man with morals is fine for someone watching over the body, to make it last to the longest, but the mind is what will communicate with God, and that cannot afford to have any limits put on it from blind, stupid, outside forces.
Still, because of this, she is aware that she has saddled herself with that sort of man. She folds her fingers on her desk, prepared for anything.
"I wanted to thank you for hiring me on to this project," he says, and he leans on her desk. He's smiling, a smile with heavy eyelids and gentle lips.
She smiles back, tersely. "You're welcome," she says. "I am sure you can be useful to us."
"I recognize this isn't my place to do," he says, "but I was hoping I could get better acquainted with you. I know, I know -- I know what you're going to say, Director, but please, give me the benefit of the doubt. Since it's your daughter I'm in charge of... I do want to get a chance to talk with you off the record, that's all." He fiddles with a folder on her desk. "I want to be sure we're both hoping for the same things for her."
They are, though she hardly wants him to know that. "Certainly," she said. "But we can hardly talk off the record in here."
"Perhaps," he says, warmly, "I can invite you to dinner?"
"I don't mind," she says.
The fact is, he shows her a good time. She's not really in the mood for dating, or for a good time, and hasn't been for nearly three years now, but, yes, he shows her a good time. If she hadn't had better before, she might think that this was as good as it gets.
He pays for dinner. He talks to her the entire time, light and generous and with his attention focussed entirely on her in a way that most men don't manage; even David didn't always talk to her like she'd suddenly become the center of the universe.
Despite herself, she finds herself enjoying it a little; who wouldn't, to be fair, but the realization that it's a bit enjoyable turns bitter in her mouth and keeps the edges of her smile sharp.
"Can I walk you up?" he asks. They hadn't gone back to her office; instead they caught a ride back to her apartment. Well, it was late, after all.
There's a tight heavy anticipation building in her stomach, like a storm waiting to burst. She licks her lips. "Just to the door," she says; it sounds like a teenager's comment, an innocent girl's comment not knowing what would come next. She laughs inside, silently; it doesn't reach her eyes or her mouth.
Serph walks her up.
At the door, he kisses her; it's not forceful, exactly. It's slow, gives her time to apparently refuse, but it's also relentless; he moves in like it's inevitable. She lets him, lets the inevitable happen. His mouth is soft against hers, catching her lower lip, working them apart with light tugs. She parts her mouth, slides an arm around him, lets him put his tongue in her mouth. He kisses like a thunderstorm on the horizon, all heavy building tension and licks of rain.
Slowly he pulls away to draw a breath, doesn't yet speak; instead he leans in and presses his mouth to her neck. She tilts her head, lets him lick and suck there like he wants to draw bruises to the surface. He will, she knows; she'll have to wear turtlenecks. She bruises easily in this flawed body.
"Can I come in?" he asks.
She leans back against her door and gives him a look through her eyelashes. Despite herself, she's turned on; he's good at this. "I don't invite people in easily," she murmurs.
"Because of your body?" he asks. He's doing that thing again, the focussed thing, where the rest of the world seems to drop away.
"You'd heard about that, hmm?" She keeps her tone simple, though the husky edge in it hasn't gone away.
He rubs the back of his head apologetically. "People talk," he says; she bets they do, if he looks at them like that. "I'm sorry if it's rude of me to bring it up. But I don't mind, you know."
"Oh, don't you?"
"No," he says, and he touches her cheek. He's smiling, his eyes are gentle. "Because things like that don't matter to me. You've been judged a lot, haven't you? Any time you get close to a man, they must be repulsed... but I'm not. There's nothing repulsive about it."
She smiles at him, thin and hard. "Are these the same tactics you plan to use on Seraphita?" she asks. It isn't an accusation; she doesn't mind if he uses it on anyone else but her. Still, he must know she knows what he's doing.
For a long moment his smile freezes like that, gentle and caring. And then it leaves his eyes, if not his mouth, and he straightens. "Well," he says. "Perhaps not exactly like that."
"Liar," she says. "You should head home and sleep early. Remember that work days around here start at 7 am." And she opens the door behind her, walks through, shuts it between them.
Despite herself she's still turned on; her breathing's short, her breasts heavy, cock half-hard and she sinks down against the door on the other side, teeth bared in helpless rage. David, David, she thinks; such a pale imitator Sheffield was. She digs her fingers into the soft carpeting, tears up a handful. She wants to destroy. She wants to see them all crumble down into the fakes they are. Die, already, she thinks, die, die.
For now she has a use for him, she reminds herself, trying to calm her racing heart. Eventually she can kill him off, when another tool will be more useful.