Butterfly by Might Of Mars
Chapter 1
Author's note: Italics indicate flashbacks.
I'm making significant changes to the story, simply because I feel like it was way too tacky with the hypersexing and dramatical tropes. Here's Butterfly v2. I hope it elicits meaningful thoughts within you.
This is the after-story that Seifer Almasy deserves. Seifer Almasy; he was more than just a villain; he was a soldier, a good man. Most importantly, he was also human.
The early morning arrives with the screech of the alarm clock, and a headache that hurts like no other. The smell of whiskey and cigarettes lingers heavily around him, signaling what usually means poor judgement and bad choices. As he awakens, the first thing that he sets his eyes upon is the new uniform; a standard SeeD uniform the Garden issues to graduating students, one that he wished he had gotten 8 years ago. At age 25, he was well above the average age of recruitment for the SeeD program. The many bad choices he had made in his youth resonated throughout his life, and not a day passes that he is reminded of what a disappointment he had been to himself. Today was different, and for once, there was no sense of regret or disappointment.
Shaking off the doubts and insecurities, he rises, determined to conquer the day and emerge victorious. But first, a shower is in order. A glimpse in the mirror reflects the messy clothes from last night, crumpled and disheveled. There was a tear in the seam above the right sleeve, and what looked like blood stains. The headache worsened as he stood up; he fumbles around the drawer for a small vial of potion to dull the pain, only to come up empty. The drawer was strewn with empty bottles, and he cursed not throwing them out when he had the time.
The shower was lukewarm, as it always has been. As he stood under the showerhead, a sudden stinging racked up and down his back. Wincing, he looks into the mirror, finding that the skin on his back had been clawed. Angry red lines of fours running down the back of his shoulders, and as he stares at himself in the mirror, a recollection of the night's events came to mind.
Syrupy smoke lingered in the dark of the Black Box tavern, clinging onto everything it touched. No doubt he would leave the place carrying the scent with him. It was the day before graduation night. His classmates sat in a booth behind him, drunk with celebration and joy. They never invite him around, not when studying the training manual, not even when it was time to spar. Their paths only crossed during field training exercise, where Instructor Selphie Tilmitt would monitor their work, the way a kindergarten teacher would. It felt absolutely demeaning. The only thing that kept him going was the idea that he would eventually settle in Galbadia, serving at G-Garden.
The military would be where he would find his place in this world, he was sure of it. No prodigal sons were ever turned away from G-Garden. After all, that's where aimless wanderers who find their way end up most of the time, if they didn't die first; die doing something stupid, something impulsive, like help start the Sorceress War.
It still bothers him that the only human contact he had experienced were kept formal. He had no friends, no one whom he could confide in. Even Quistis seemed to hold him at arm's length. She did her best to comfort him, but she was no different than the rest of them, constantly walking on egg shells. Solitude had become a part of his life; he rarely spoke, rarely smiled. He could not recall the last time he had laughed.
He had thought of leaving, of living out the rest of his life as a fisherman in the horizons, but the depression that came over him after leaving the Garden would not subside. Too many nights were spent in the bottle and on the empty fields, with him wandering the planes without a sense of purpose or direction. Tonight was different; he had passed the SeeD Exam. He had achieved something in life that gave him a reason to be proud of himself. It was a strange sensation, one that seemed completely alien to him. Finally, a reason for celebration.
And yet he finds himself joyless, empty of anything good, just the buzzing of the alcohol, the taste of smoky sweet tobacco in his mouth, and a profound sense of loneliness. Down goes the last of his second glass of beer. One of the younger students came to the bar, making sure to keep distant as he ordered another round of drinks for him and his friends.
Hinger his name was, Seifer thinks. Johnny Hinger, or something. He never bothers to learn their names. Their eyes met for a mere second before he shifts so that he faces the bartender onwards, finger tapping on the wood surface, impatient for the drinks and eager to put as much distance between himself and the convict. He was more willing to spend time with the two girls in class who never even look at him, except if they needed his 'help' grabbing lunch, 'help' with the class assignment, and a hundred other menial tasks the poor fool gladly takes on in hopes that they would pay attention to him. 'He actually feels a lot more comfortable with those stuck up ratchet females than he ever does being around me,' Seifer thinks bitterly.
The bartender brings a tray of his order, and he leaves without so much as a word to the lone scar faced soldier at the bar. The weariness they carried around themselves around him was apparent. He was angry at the world for treating him like a leper, but he knew he could not blame them.
'He practically led the rebellion. I mean, how many people got hurt? How many died?' he once heard Alpha Ratchet, the one with the annoyingly long and blonde pigtails he wished he could cut off, whisper to the Other Ratchet, who for some reason wears an abundance of gauche baubles in her flaming red hair. The trinkets are an actual fire hazard, as proven once when one of the 'hair ornaments' caught flame during exercise, something he could not help but laugh about right then and there as the girls wailed about frantically whilst trying to extinguish the flame.
He could never remember their names. Or, more accurately, he never bothered to remember them. Alpha Ratchet would occasionally try to seduce him, which only made him feel frustrated and manipulated. She enjoyed being able to toy with him sexually, at least that was until he had had enough and more or less had an outburst when she tried to put her hands on him. The look of terror in her eyes made him regret having held onto her arm very tightly as he loudly told her to 'fuck off before I-'
He barely managed to stop completing the sentence, imagining in his mind's eye slicing her face the way it was done to him ages ago. He made sure to stare at her as menacingly as possible before letting her go. Something about her insincere advances made his blood boil. It was the kind of advance a woman made towards men whom they only wish to manipulate. The way the Ratchets are with that poor kid Hinger, the way Ultimecia had done to him. Women; he could not trust them anymore, not after what the sorceress made him do.
He desperately needed to dive back into a bottle, perhaps something stronger like absinthe, but the new sense of self-discipline which he appreciated and loathed at the same time told him that at the very least, he should not attend the dance party tomorrow hung over. Even if no one wanted to dance with him, he would at least stand dignified, not spending the night hunched over the toilet, sick as a dog. He had done that before, when he had failed the Exam the first time, when the rest of the Garden had celebrated, where he was essentially barred from the party.
"Hey Michael, how much do I owe you?" He stood up to leave, hand in his coat pocket rummaging for a 10G note.
"It's on the house," said the salt and pepper haired older gentleman. Before Seifer could protest, the bartender raised his hand and considered the matter settle, cleaning the bar without saying a word. "Congratulations on passing the SeeD exam, son." Michael was the first and very few people over the course of his life that never judged, and would even lend a hand when he needed help. He would even venture to say that he was almost like a father figure. It was the kind of kindness he knew he did not deserve.
"Thanks." He could not think of anything else to say.
Just as he turned around, he saw her approaching the bar. Long black hair, fair skin, an intense look in her eyes, cold and forlorn. When their eyes met, it was like looking into a mirror. He recognized the look she gave him, for it was a look that he himself had mastered. The look of absolute control; however, upon closer inspection, his trained eye noticed the clenched fist by her side and the way she held her head a little too high, as though to say that the world could just fuck off, betrayed the maelstrom beneath her calm demeanor. Stormy grey eyes looked at him as they approached one another in what felt like a moment of suspended time; he could almost hear the thunder and see the lightning. The closer she got, the warmer it felt, as though a storm were approaching.
"Miss De Clare, a pleasure to see you! It's been a while since we last saw you here at the Black Box. What can I get you?"
Entitled and nonchalantly she says, "A bottle of wine, and a glass." The deep red velvet coat she had on seemed to add a rouge hue to her overall aura. Sultry, seductive, sleek, even ol' Mike seems taken in with her. And for a second, Seifer catches a whiff of her perfume. Flowers, herbs, and amber… the smell went straight to his head, and briefly, he could have sworn that he were back in the deserts of Kashkabal, where the only place to find refuge were the oases where exotic plants grew in abundance, scenting the air with foreign fragrances and fill the trees with sweet fruits. Places where he wished he could remain for the rest of his life.
The sensations he gets from this strange woman seemed all too familiar, much like when Edea, whist possessed, lured him under her service first with fragrant perfumes she used as a mind control potion. Violently, he shakes his head, suddenly needing to get a hold on his surroundings before succumbing the way he did years before, when his inhibitions evaporated at the sound of Her voice.
And yet, he could not move a muscle. He lingered, needing to hear her voice again.
"Have you had dinner yet, Miss De Clare?" Michael enquires. She curtly shakes her head as she shrugs off her red coat, taking a seat. She toys with an earring, paying him no mind, unaware of the torment her silence inflicts upon him.
Still, he stands there, gawking, almost. Michael glances at Seifer, and then to the lady, and says, "Seifer, this is Miss Christine De Clare, daughter of the illustrious Sir Reginald De Clare. Christine, this here young feller' is SeeD Officer Seifer, and he's from Balamb Garden, not far from here."
She glances at him and smiled. "A SeeD Officer, huh?" Her eyes betrayed nothing but kindness, nothing malicious. Her melodious voice was like a siren call and try as he might, he could not escape it. She holds out her hand for a handshake. He takes it, and he could not resist the urge to kiss it; it was done before he even realized. A fugue came over him, and memory faded in the night, with nothing but the scent of her perfume and smoke from the tavern surrounding him.
That was all that he could recall from the night before; the woman with grey eyes, and the sound of her voice cascading over every surface of his jagged mind. A quick glance at the clock showed that he didn't have much time left to mull over the missing pieces. He showered through the pain, and afterwards, donned his uniform with as much pride he allowed himself to feel before dashing out of his quarters.
The uniform gave him a reason to stand tall; he walked tall, and for once felt the weight over the years slowly melt away. Even Johnny Hinger managed to offer a greeting as they passed in the hallway before the Headmaster's office, curt as it may be.
"Officer Almasy," salutes Hinger, before walking off with a bit more of a skip in his step for once, a smile barely concealed on his lips. Even the kid looked a little grown up in his uniform.
"Officer Hinger," he salutes in response; very diplomatic. Perhaps he might just have a second chance in life, now. A life without Squall, or Quistis, or Gods forbid, Zell keeping a watchful eye on him every chance they get. One can hope, he thinks to himself.
He knocked on the door, and 10 seconds later, it opens. It was the scar that greets him first. Squall, groomed and in uniform, as though prepared for a formal encounter. The headmaster was at his desk, trying to fix his necktie. A very important person is expected, it seems; there was even hot, aromatic coffee in a silver teapot, with matching silver teacups.
"Good morning, Officer Almasy," Squall chirps. Being in love would do that to a man; chirping happily at everyone, even the ones who once held you prisoner and tortured you in a desert prison. The fact that he was under a spell when he committed these acts did nothing to mitigate his stinging pride.
There could only be one reason why Squall Leonhart could ever he here, and that is to keep an eye on him. Of course there wouldn't be any individual assignments, not for the fucking convict. That's what he was, that's what he'll always be. Sure, there was a trial, but only after Matron cried to the judgment panel in his defense that the charges were officially dropped. No matter; the whole world had judged him guilty and thusly sentenced him to a leper's life. Even now, they treated him the same, handling his presence hesitantly, refusing to come closer than necessary.
Anger takes over him, and by sheer will alone did he manage to keep his temper checked. 'Looks like this road trip isn't over yet,' he says to himself. One day, perhaps, wishing rather than hoping that it were true.
"Good morning, Seifer," said Headmaster Kramer, snapping him out of his daze of long forgotten violent fantasies now coming to the surface. "Congratulations on passing the exam, Officer Almasy."
"Thank you," he says, terse.
"We're going to brief you your assignment today, and Squall will shadow you for a few days just to make sure that things are going well. First of all, I'll just start with stating that today's assignment is of high priority, and that the people enlisting your help are, well…"
"This is a high profile assignment," Squall interjects; "Sir Reginald De Clare from Exeter Technologies is coming to us for assistance. Here is the assignment briefing." He hands Seifer a brown folder.
He opens it and reads, but his eyes register nothing; his mind was gripped by the mention of that name. De Clare… he's heard of it before, he was sure. Before he could put two and two together, he smells it, the smell of flowers and ambers. The siren's perfume from the desert… it filled his head once again, and he finds himself completely dazed. He barely hears the knock on the door before a familiar feeling slowly came over him, where time slowes down.
'Great Hyne, I think I'm losing my mind,' he thinks to himself, swearing upon his honor that he could feel a slight warm breeze in the closed room. The windows were shut, and the foliage outside did not sway. The door opens, and once again, he sees her, almost a reflection of his darkness and sorrow. A flash of last night's memory came to his mind as soon as their eyes locked on to one another.
Her hand feels small and helpless within his grip; he never breaks off eye contact as he kissed her hand. He could not explain what exactly it was that came over him. His free will was intact, of that he was sure. He maintains composure and his soldierly façade. A predatory sensation comes over him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt warmth coursing through his veins.
The smoldering look in her eyes betrays a similar enthusiasm, and the unfamiliar sensations that bubbled up inside him leaves him wanting more of this intrigue. They gazed upon one another the way old lovers do after a great separation, eager to drink in each other's sight.
The bartender was the first to break the tension; he clears his throat and asks, "Should I open the bottle for you, miss?"
"Sure, why not? Bring us another glass, and pour Seifer a drink as well, if you'd please."
"So… Christine. What brings you to town?" he smiles a roguish smile at her, scooting his barstool a little closer.
"You, it seems." She raises her glass to him, smiling a succubus' smile, and drinks.
That was the last of the conversation that he could recall. The next clear memory is of them leaving the establishment after downing the last shot of liquor. The streets are empty. He hears the clock in the town square chime once: the time is 1am exact. They walked for what seemed an eternity. When they spoke, the conversation carried on as though they were fencing one another.
"I swear it, I feel like I've known you before." His gut instincts urged him to return to the Garden; he needed to rest. Tomorrow (technically today,) is his first day on duty. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to say goodnight.
"How strange. I feel he same way… Seifer." That was all it took; hearing her say his name felt as though time and space itself shifted. Without saying a word, she continues to lead him away from the city lights.
The darkness in the outskirts of Balamb at night feels tranquil; there they stand, under the star in the woodlands. She led him into the night, and her visage flittered in the darkness as the moonlight filtered among the leaves of the tall ash tree. He could feel an ancient energy surrounding it, and going by the multitude of big branches that snaked around them in a cloak of foliage; it was safe to assume that it has been there for a long, long time.
He was convinced that she had cast a spell onto him. How else could he explain what it was about her that made him feel this way? It was the perfume, most likely, but even when he was under the Sorceress's spell, he could hear himself always berating his actions, despite not being able to control it. And yet, a small part of his consciousness was still aware, still able to tell right from wrong. He wanted to know what it was that nagged at his instincts, and yet he finds himself unable to ask the right questions.
She sits herself on the dip of a low hanging branch, in a corner of tangled tree limbs where they were completely secluded. She pulls him towards her, and he stood between her knees that they stand face to face, their eyes curious and exploratory. Slowly and deliberately she shrugs her coat off, letting it fall to the ground. This time, his consciousness made no objections as to why he mustn't allow himself to be seduced. Everything about her seems inviting, from the gaze in her eyes to the softness of her hands on his side. The first touch feels electric, sizzling his nerves, resurrecting him from what feels like living death.
Her eyes bore into him, seeing him for all that he is, and he could feel the animal within him come to life. He wasn't sure if it was the perfume or the liquor that intoxicated him, and he was not inclined to ask questions. All he knows is that she is willing to give him what he needed most, which was human contact; sensual, sexual, visceral contact. She kisses softly to begin with, slowly stoking a flame within him. The familiarity of how it feels when he touches her was maddening. It feels familiar, like they had kissed a thousand times before, and yet it occurs to him that they were complete strangers, having only met but a few hours before. Despite the weariness that played in his mind, he succumbs, allowing himself to be consumed by the madness.
His head is spinning. He needs to gain control of the situation immediately, before he loses his sanity. He grabs hold onto her hands and pulls it off his sides. Swiftly he holds onto her hips and pulls her closer until she presses up flush against him, the way that he holds her clearly signifying that he means to be in charge. With the other hand, he holds her head close to his, a feeling of possessiveness slowly consuming him.
He stared into her eyes, dark with secrets and mystery, hungry for something carnal, desperate to be released. She reached for his hand that nestles in her hair and guides it; he touches her face, and she leans into it. With great boldness, she opens her mouth and caresses her lips onto his palm and fingers; the warmth of her breath in his hand heightened his passion exponentially. She guides his hand lower, that he may touch her chin, her neck, until his hands slid down between her breasts, her black silk dress felt as warm as her flesh.
Her eyes smoldered as though daring him to make the first move. It was enough to undo his sanity right there and then. She made him need to claw and hiss at her skin, to suckle and lick that he may consume more of her. Lips crashed into her in a frantic assault, demanding her surrender as he presses into her; she does no such thing, and returns his kiss with as much fervor. She starts squirming, hissing, and growling into his mouth, reverberations which made his blood spill over after years of frustrations. It was as though the fire had consumed them both. His hands wandered, and he could feel her, soft and yielding through her dress. Despite her ferocity of her open mouthed kiss, she felt soft and delicate against him. His hand roams, feeling her sides and squeezing her thighs, eventually reaching between her legs.
"I need you, knight. I need you; badly," she whispers into is ear. She was all softness and heat, plump and wet on his fingertips. Her whispering into his ear of how much she needed him pushes him over the edge of reason. Any doubt that he had has vaporized, he feels like he might die if he did not have her that very instant.
He could not wait another second. He needs to be inside her; he needs her now, right this instant. They manage to undo his pants, and without hesitation, he penetrates her flesh in one stroke. She feels slick like velvet, her skin hot and slippery. The sensation blinds them both with carnal satisfaction, and he lets go of her hands in favour of her hips, so that he can impale her upon himself. She gasps, grabbing a handful of his hair, and kisses him hard, so hard, he felt blood in his mouth. She groans as she kisses him, as though his kisses had quenched a thirst in her that no potion ever could. They kissed until their lungs burned for need of air.
"Who are you?" he whispered, his voice hoarse, reduced to a growl.
"You know me, soldier." Her eyes looked familiar, though he could not for the life of him remember when it was that he beheld them.
"When? Where?" He stared at her with such intensity, and for once she betrayed a hint of trepidation. The questions he had in his mind resurfaced, but not for long.
"Once upon a time, knight." She kisses him hard, biting down.
The sudden pain brought a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He sees her smiling a bloody grin at him; the taste of blood and her heat consumed him once more. He playfully thrusts his hips, and she moans; he has control over her now. She has let her guard down, and he takes the opportunity to conquer her. He grins, a sly look upon his visage, wasting no time in finishing what she had started. He starts again, hard and unforgiving.
The frenzy consumes them both; she is mewling at this point, as he rocks against her hard, jolting them both with the impact, over and over again. Her fingernails digs deep into his skin as she clings onto his shoulders as hard as she could, the bark of the tree digging into her skin. The more he latches onto her, the harder she claws at him. The harder he thrusts, the louder she screams, and the sound of her voice was the most intoxicating sensation he had ever felt. He could not get enough of it.
Everything around them stood still for what felt like eternity, and it seems as though they were suspended once more in a moment, strangers to one another, and yet felt so familiar; they took their sweet time in taking what they needed from one another, a mutual exchange of mind bending lust and passion. He reaches behind her, pulling the ribbons that held her top; he needed to see more of her. He struggles with the bow, pulling desperately in desperation. Finally, it yields, and the fabric falls around her waist where her skirt had gathered. His hands felt calloused against her soft flesh. He touches her gently at first, only to grab and squeeze when she holds his hands against her body.
"Touch me, Seifer. Feel me; feel all of me," she sighs, squeezing his hands as he greedily grabs onto her. He gladly obliges, palming and tugging, kissing his way down from her neck to her breasts. The way she feels in his mouth… it drove him mad. His teeth hurt; such was the ferocity of lust that engulfed him.
"I swear it, you have a hold over me," he growls as he continues his assault. He needed to make her feel the way she made him feel; he needed for her to yield. He nips and kisses at her soft flesh, consumed entirely by lust. His kiss leaves her skin bruised, and he would not be content until he leaves as many bruises as he could.
"No; it is you who has power over me." It was all he wanted to hear; he has her now. He holds her head in his hand firm, stares into her eyes, those dark eyes that threatened to pull him into the abyss, and kisses her once more, exerting himself over her, ruling her, rocking up against her as the tension builds and builds until it reaches a fever pitch. She digs her nails into his shoulders, latching on as though her life depended on it.
Warmth flooded his heart, and he loses himself in that moment as they meld into one, release flooding their every senses. The taste of blood fills his mouth once more as they ride out the crashing of the tide.
She writhes and squirms against his unyielding self, consumed by pleasure. Her breathing is ragged, hitching in her chest. All that is left is the sound of her moans ringing in the cool night air. She leans her forehead against his as she catches her breath.
After what feels like an eternity, he pulls away, trying to calm his racing pulse and to catch his breath. Every sense buzzed, and he felt alive for the first time in what felt like an eternity. As their breathing returned to normal, awareness sinks in. He slowly lets her go and looks down at her as she clings to him for a while longer before letting go. Her hand falls to his chest, and she pushes him away gently. She fumbles with her dress for a little while before looking up. Her lips are blood red, as are her teeth; in the frenzy, she had bitten her lip.
"I'm sorry," he panics. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said, backing away, turning around as he zips his trousers and straightens his shirt. A sudden awkwardness came over them, the passion and familiarity now evaporated in the heat. Now, they were just two drunken adults in the aftermath of scratching an itch after a bottle of wine.
"I'm fine. Don't worry about it." She has her back to him, her hands tying the ribbon straps of her dress. They stood in silence for a moment, contemplating what comes next. She wipes the blood from her face with the back of her hand, still unable to face him. "…I should go." He could not bring himself to let her walk away, and yet, he was not able to think of anything to say to make her stay. Perhaps he did know her once, but where and when exactly, he could not say. It was like trying to grasp for an answer that seemed keen on eluding him.
He picks up their coats and hands her hers. "Do you need me to walk you back?" She shook her head.
"I'll be fine, thank you." And that was the last thing she said to him before taking her coat and walking back towards the town, the taste of her blood still in his mouth, as he watch her walk away.
He could still taste the blood in his mouth, could see her walking away from him, and yet there she was, surrounding him with the same perfume from the night before. He snapped out of the daydream, aware of his surroundings, with Squall briefing him on his assignment.
A tall grey haired man in an expensive suite whom he assumed was Reginald De Clare stood next to her, possessive. He did not offer to shake hands with anyone, merely standing there, imposing in his presence.
"…her fiancé, Charles Kingston is suspected is suspected of being in league with The Order, an organization suspected of assassinating her mother, Johanna De Clare, but as there is yet no proof, Sir De Clare decided that it was time to enlist our help."
And there it is; fiancé? She stands beside her father, her hair swept up in a ponytail, meek and quiet, dressed demurely in a green blouse and dark grey trousers. She steals a glance at him, and sees that his gaze towards her has turned cold. He had a million questions that he would like to ask her, but he decided that he didn't care. He felt used and manipulated; again.
"Charles mustn't know that we have come to you for help; this is why I have decided that Christine will enroll here as a student," her father states.
"Of course. You can expect us to maintain confidentiality," SeeD Officer Leonhart reassures.
The headmaster offered the man in the expensive suite a seat, and they continued discussing the tedious details; all the while, Seifer stood rooted, conflicted by his wounded pride and sense of duty.
"You must be Officer Almasy," she says to him, offering her hand. He could feel his heart beating in his throat.
He salutes, maintaining formality, despite the many questions that play on his mind. He hesitates before shaking it. "Miss De Clare. I look forward to being of service."
"Please, call me Christine."
Their fleeting passion the night before could not mitigate the awkwardness of their formal encounter. There they stood, complete strangers, unsure of what would come next.
END CHAPER 1
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