Rating: NC-17

Reason: Still Alba's b-day pressie, even though it's late! x.x *bad* And now I think the title sucks. x_X BAH.

Latent Talent

Part 2

By Lena ban Obsidian


He came awake in a panic not for the first time. His hair was longer now and hot around his face, heavy. His sweat made it cling in loops and tangles of ragged brown, his eyes wild and grey with blind, animal fear. His cry was swallowed by the darkness of night around him, the sheets too heavy a layer over him for comfort, too much like chains holding him back.

A voice soothed him from the dark, from the chair where he sat, as if nothing was ever wrong in the world. "I am here."

For a moment it didn't even matter who was there so long as there was someone, anyone, and he let himself go limp, sobbing once in relief. He felt, in some corner of his mind where there was still pride, like a child, but he couldn't bear it, the thought of waking up in those tunnels again, or the wasteland again, where there was no salvation for him.

His voice quaked, breaking on the words he spoke: "...i-it's...dark..."

A soft chuckle answered him, easy reassurance. He stood and the air ripped with the sound of a match, and there was light and the peculiar burnt sulfur smell of matches that he was beginning to remember that he liked, though he didn't remember why he liked it so much. Perhaps it was comforting.

The candle flickered dangerously and he was afraid enough that he caught his breath, but his white-haired guardian steadied the flame, setting the candle on a bedside stand, smiling down at him obliquely. He couldn't find the strength in his body to smile back, cowering there like a tiny child and gazing back in wonder that was in no small amount a direct corroborant of fear.

"Is that better, my child?" His voice was gentle, not like Seifer's had ever been, like a father that he'd never had because Laguna was an irresponsible prick oh, fuck he missed Laguna so much and everyone, everyone...

He swallowed thickly, blinking away tears not entirely the fault of nightmares, and croaked his affirmative like a dying thing, "...yes."

Ansem's hands were warm and oily with hand lotion as he reached out to smooth the bangs from Squall's forehead, a demeaning kind of kindness in those amber eyes that he simultaneously wanted to lash out at and fearfully obeyed. All he needed was to misstep, and Ansem could leave him...could leave, and then...

He shuddered unconsciously. He dared not think of 'and then's.

The fingers smoothing over his face didn't go away, and he began to loathe their touch, but there was no one else to tell, no where to run. He tried to smother the crawling of his skin and endured.

"You are so frightened," Ansem said, and his voice sang like low moonsong through reeds, and it was powerful, so powerful to hear him. Squall's eyes fluttered with the power of that voice. "You are frail, but you are beautiful," the white-haired man continued, the lines of his face invisible, the laughter lines that crinkled the corners of his eyes not visible in the dim candlelight, the line of his mouth more sensual than sensible here.

He wondered in some fleeting, bird-caught-in-trap corner of his mind what kind of scientist Ansem was, to have a voice like that to have eyes and words like that, to touch him like this. He feared to know what kind of scientist Ansem was, he truly did, and told himself firmly that no, no, he never ever wanted to know.

Ansem's other hand was pulling back the covers, and he clutched at them, fearful, desperate to protect himself. This was as it had been since he'd awakened again in Ansem's care, and the man had introduced himself with his flowing words and his powerful name. He did not want to be bared to the darkness, the air of the night. He did not want to be seen, to be looked at.

So far, Ansem had respected his wishes, but tonight the hand tugging down the sheets was stronger than his feeble grip, and he had to let go because his hands were shaking, and besides, he'd lost so much strength in those tunnels that he was barely capable of sitting up, of standing.

"Yes, you are very beautiful, my boy," Ansem said, his voice tickling in Squall's ears like the tongue of a demon, sinuous and tempting, horrifyingly tempting. He shut his eyes in denial, turning his face away from Ansem's hand, breath coming a little faster.

"...so young," The hands that touched him abandoned his face, sliding up under the hem of his shirt, spicy smelling and dry and warm, making him gasp as fingers raked his flesh with such gentleness that he wanted to cry. He knew he could be strong. He had always been strong. He had been the Lion of Balamb, but here, like this, if Ansem treated him like this, so careful, so fragile, like he was made of glass...

If Ansem did these things for much longer, he was going to break, and he was so mindlessly terrified of what would happen if he broke like that that he whimpered.

"...docile," Ansem's voice was hungry as he demanded this thing that Squall was not, fighting with the pale hands gripping at his wrists, though Squall shook like a kitten in the cold. He grabbed the boy by the wrists and forced Squall's arms down to the bed, ignoring that moment of near-strength, grinning the dim of the candlelight as Squall's eyes flashed silver with anger and terror and confusion.

He held him there until the lion laid still, allowing himself to be complacent. Then he released those limbs and ran his hungry hands over cold, pale, trembling skin, marking it with his touch, violating the sanctity of Squall's body by claiming it as his own.

"I like that you are docile," Ansem purred, and there was a terrible kind of venom in his shadowy voice, that made Squall's face burn with shame at his obedience, with revulsion as Ansem's hands crept lower, pulling away the scant protection of his pants, baring him, his shirt still rucked up about his chest.

He dared not move, breathing raggedly, softly, his eyelashes trembling as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Ansem didn't talk then, but pushed apart the ice-pale thighs of his present, pulling Squall's hips closer to himself, smiling at the startled little sound the boy made as he was moved, clearly well aware of what was about to happen.

Aware, hmm? That did take some of the enjoyment out of it, and he found himself petulantly vengeful, sliding down his own pants and teasing the pucker of the boy's welcoming ass with the head of his dick, wanting to see those pretty little shudders that ran through him like the tremors of orgasm. Squall did not disappoint, trembling violently, managing to remain silent until that first violent thrust of Ansem's hips.

The unprepared ring of his anus ripped under the pressure of a considerably large foreign object, Ansem's erection in no way of average size, and Squall's courage snapped, mouth opening in a little scream that was little more than a sob of pain, the sound tempered by fear and hopelessness. He was raped like a child in his bed, and left the same way, curled into himself, bleeding and still half-naked, sobbing softly into the covers because he could not say no.

Pleased, the man with eyes that glowed evil amber left the guest he'd so graciously accepted into his home with a smirk on his lips and pleasure flushing his face. The child's ability to remain innocent would wane, certainly, but as of now it was intoxicating.

Bless the heartless for bringing him such pretty broken dolls.

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