Broken [blitzkrieg revised]

By twentysix years of therapy

I need to practice how to breathe.

Taut as a wire; I don't flinch for him but I tense further so that I think I might break if he touches me. It's no more a sparring match than it is a game; it's over now and the walls are down.

His breath is hot on my face, a faint coffee taste to it, and his eyes are cool blue mercury with pupils large and dark. The narrowing flat of his gunblade presses against my neck delicately, coldly.

I exhale slowly, counting to five, and lean back against the wall he fancies me pinned to while relaxing my clenched hands, arms, legs; I relax and flatten my surprised mouth to indifference.

The edge of his lips twist and he pushes forward, closer; a sharp quick of pain darts from my lungs as the blade's flat momentarily drives too hard into my throat, his torso presses to mine, and his knee nestles between my legs to press against the wall for stability. The arch of his eyebrows tell me he thinks he's pushed me too far, and that he has the upper hand.

"Leonhart," he murmurs, almost sweetly.

I widen my stance just enough to make a statement and tilt my head back against the wall in a submissive gesture, which has the added indulgence of allowing me to look down to meet his eyes, the very idea making me feel cocksure.

His nostrils flare, and his eyes narrow. But then his mouth curves upwards, sly and sure, and his voice purrs like the contented lion. "Oh, Leonhart? Now what is this?"

This is me taking responsibility for my actions. But you wouldn't care about that.

"This," I say, "is me finishing what you started." Leaning forward now, ignoring the blade as he lets me move despite it, leaning into that knee, I tilt my head to the side so that we almost kiss. My eyes are wide open, watching his. They slide closed, his lips parting, and I run my tongue along his lower lip. The blade lowers and one of his hands grasps my shoulder.

I meet his lips with my own, taking it deep, feeling my heartbeat accelerate as the seconds stretch longer. But when it threatens my composure too much I end it, withdrawing just enough so we face one another again, his eyes still dreamily half-closed and his lips still wet.

He looks oddly calm, and merely watches me for a moment. But when he speaks his words are a challenge, though his voice is bereft of the usual conceit. "Come to my room in twenty minutes," he says as he takes a step backwards, nodding. Only a shade of his supercilious smile appears as he tips his blade in a salute to me before he leaves, swagger in place.

I run a hand through his hair, making no effort to hurry after him to the change-room as I allow myself time to think.

There is no question that I will show up, of course. Nor did I have doubts before that he would take it that far if I played along with him.


Would he, I want to ask, have continued to press if I did not respond?

I'll never know.

I stand in the hall in front of his door, across from my door, twenty-four minutes later. Give or take two minutes from my estimation of when he issued the invitation. But I feel no moral obligation to be perfectly punctual, as he has left me waiting once or twice before.

I knock three times, just sharply enough so I don't sound tentative. The door opens quickly. Almost as if he'd been waiting just on the other side.

His room is neat, moreso than I'd have expected, at any rate. A few audiodiscs scattered across his dresser, the 5-disc player's slide-tray out and half-filled, and a haphazard stack of books sit beside his desk.

I enter wordlessly, and wordlessly he locks the door. I sit myself down in the chair before his desk, spinning it 'round to face him in the centre of the room, and wait for him to say the words first.

He has regained his arrogance, and his practised poise makes me comfortable in its familiarity. "You know what you're here for."

I look bored, but lift my lips in an almost-amused almost-smile. "You want me."

He steps forward, closing the distance between us somewhat, but waits for me to continue with the air of someone listening to a clever child.

"You can have me," I tell him. Any way you want, I don't tell him. I am sure he knows, but I don't want to say the words just yet.

Just yet. Unfathomable only days ago, and now it's a very real part of my life.

Will be.


I stand, but allow him to come to me. He places his hands on my hips, fingers flexing as he spreads them as far as they will go, thumbs stroking through the PVC against my legs. His eyes are as cold as glass.

He pulls me forward as he moves backwards, stopping when he hits the edge of the bed. He sits, pulling me down in front of him, and I sink to my knees.

His eyes are on me, not trained on my eyes as we usually face off, but flickering over my face, my body. My eyes don't leave his. "Tell me what you want me to do."

His gaze is as dark as the winter sea. "Suck me off," he says, the words coarse and exotic from his lips.

I smile slightly. "Yes," I murmur, reaching forward and unbuckling his belt, loosening it, then pulling down the zipper to his slacks.

"All the way off," he instructs me. I do as I am told, pulling them down his legs, beginning a pile of clothes on the floor. Then with steady hands I do the same with his underwear, eyes straying to his half-erect sex. I shiver slightly, then bite my tongue to focus on something else as sexual desire finally squirms its way to my insides.

Hands on his thighs to steady me, I lean forward and tentatively touch my tongue to him. Hands come up to grab my shoulders, and I look upwards. His eyes are wide and fighting not to be so; he wins while I watch. "Keep going," he says, and I obey.

I practise this unlearned skill, listening carefully to his sounds, his moans, his changes in breathing as I try different things and see what gets the best response. His hands flex and clench constantly, moving from my shoulders to my face, cupping it in his hands.

He pulls me forward; I try my best to take him deeper into my mouth, humming down in my throat to try and ease my gag reflex. It works, but he digs his short nails into my face and thrusts into me, trying for more, and for a moment I have his entire length in my mouth and deeper. But it's too much; I let him slide from my mouth before I choke, then lean back and lick the tip of it. He thrusts forward, his sex streaking my cheek with pre-come; a strangled half-gasp tears from his mouth as he orgasms, his seed startling as it splatters wet and warm against my face.

I lick my lips clean before I think better of it; the taste that was salty and musky before is overpoweringly strong. Interesting, but not something I particularly enjoy.

Seifer opens his eyes as I reach up to wipe my face off. I feel an odd lack of embarrassment as I do so, and think in the back of my head that it won't be 'til hours later when I'm in bed and staring at the ceiling that I will recall every single second of this and die.

"Fuck, Squall," he breathes, using my first name. "Hyne on the pyre."

I wipe my hand off on his discarded pair of shorts and then cock an eyebrow. He grabs the front of my shirt, yanking me up to my feet and to him, both of us falling to the bed. The cocky grin is back, all his weakness and human frailty gone; he turns us over so my back is to the bed and he is bestride me.

I gather handfuls of sheet, and my chest constricts tightly. I make myself breathe deeply, evenly.

"That," Seifer tells me, murmuring close, "was fucking incredible, Leonhart." He starts to pull off my t-shirt and I obediently raise my arms. "Absolutely fucking incredible." He bats my hands away and pulls off his own shirt, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of his desk, then works on undoing my pants. "I want to touch you," he says in my ear, almost a whisper.

He can't expect me to say no; doesn't expect me to say no with his hands sliding my trousers down my hips and legs. "Yes," I say, not a plea or a beg, but just a word of acquiescence.

"Good," he murmurs, tossing the pants to the floor. He kisses me, gentle-sweet for the briefest of moments and then hard and wanting as he desperately shucks me of underwear. Then I'm completely naked under his body and hands, wearing only earring, necklace and ring.

I want to say something, anything, but whatever I would say would be swallowed by his ravenous mouth. I can focus only on the places we touch; mouths, hands, our entire bodies, too much for one person to keep track of and stay sane.

I turn away from him and his mouth, trying to straighten this out, but his lips only move to my throat. I find myself panting, rocking into him, and when I try to stop it only makes me shake harder. "God..." I moan, not sure of anything anymore. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. All I can do is hold him, move with him, pray he doesn't stop, pray he does. "God--oh, god, god--"

His hands are doing things too electric for words, and my eyes are shut so tightly that there is nothing else in the universe. "Seifer, Seifer, god, Seifer--".

"God, I love hearing you say that," he says huskily, and his self-satisfaction sounds oddly different than his normal tone of voice. "You're so fucking beautiful."

"Seifer, nn, yeah, yes, oh, fuck me inside," I moan, needing to feel it; I need to feel him, in me, fuck whatever the pain is, I need it--

He slows, hands still gliding across my skin. "Hyne, Squall, don't say it unless--"

"Now, Christ, now!" I find myself screaming at the top of my lungs, trembling even as I try to keep still.

"It'll--shit, Squall, it's gonna hurt--"

"Seifer, just fucking do it!"

"Oh shit..." he breathes, but fingers slide down, seeking, then pressing in and Hyne it's so fucking incredibly new, and I moan for more, letting him pull my legs up, letting him touch me, letting him--


He enters me, the pain searing into me, drawing me into some new kind of coherence paid for with stunningly brilliant pain. I buck against him, biting my lip hard, moaning through clenched teeth, wanting to scream my throat sore but making myself stop.

"Squall, you have no--no fucking idea," he pants, starting to move in me slowly, deliberately. "Squall. Squall--"

I pull him tightly to me, crushing him in my arms, him crushing me under his weight, splitting me open from the inside and drawing out this needy agony. I rub my mouth across the nearest available patch of skin, biting down and muffling a cry as he gets into a regular rhythm, moving with electric ferocity.

"Nn, Squall--" he pants. I open my eyes, looking up to him, and the sight of his eyes naked without pretence will be forever burned into my memory.

The pain turns into a tolerable burning, framing my consciousness, but now the actual feeling of Seifer starts to penetrate. It seems utterly wrong, bizarre, unheard of, but now it's my entire world and there's nothing I'd trade for it, absolutely fucking nothing.

"Squall--" he groans, going utterly tense, and it takes a moment for me to realise that he's coming, hot and liquid inside me. He collapses on top of me, his weight warm and dead unsupported. He manages to draw himself out of me, the sensation a mindfuck in itself.

I moan softly, and thrust up against his sweatslick belly. He licks my neck lazily as he reaches down to touch me, squeeze me; his teeth bite my flesh hard enough to leave marks, but his fingers are gentle and purpose-driven.

Everything turns to fireworks and dynamite, the aching pain steady under a wave of sparks deep in my flesh. I sob, climaxing in his hand, turning my head to the side and shutting him out, turning him away.

This was a mistake.

He relaxes beside me, though he leaves a possessive arm over my stomach and holds me loosely to his side.

For a very long time, neither of us say anything.

I'm cold and sticky and sore. I'm furious at him and furious at myself. But I don't know what to do.

"Tomorrow," he murmurs in my ear, barely audible.

I open my eyes, staring at the wall. "All right."


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