Warning: Rough sex, choking, #painispleasure, mentions of disordered eating
Helena took in the sights: three round bubblegum pink tablets and four tiny blue tablets, the blue reminding her of the ink from her pen. She would have to contact her doctor for a refill soon, she mused as the pills congregated in her mouth. She took a sip of water from the bathroom tap, and she was good for the day. She felt so different now on the medication. The thoughts subsided into nothingness quite simply, with little fight. But the dreams were ever-present. It had only been a few weeks, so she knew she had to be patient. She was never patient, however, a trait she picked up from her mother.
"I know very little of my parents," Sephiroth said above a hush, clenching and releasing his knuckles. "Do you have parents?"
"I do," Helena responded curtly.
"Ah," Sephiroth answered, "a touchy subject?" Helena's mother was a "born again" Planetologist. She had little compassion for her children, especially Helena, who desperately clung to any semblance of stability in her life. She left when Helena was seven, leaving her with her father and sister. It was only recently that her mother found herself in Helena's life, a changed woman.
"I think it's important to focus on you, Sephiroth." It must be tempting for him. He must want more information to hold you back. Little did he know that there was nothing left to hurt when it came to her family. She knew where she came from.
"Oh. My apologies." He leaned back, taking in Helena's tender and vulnerable flesh like a fine wine—Banora, perhaps?
"I think I'm the one who should apologize." Helena tapped her pen against her jaw; the feeling of the sharp and jagged edge anchoring her. "Do you think you'd like to talk about...?"
"I think you shouldn't worry so much about who you were, Ms. Menninger." Sephiroth adjusted his pants, draping one leg over the other with such grace that Helena shivered. "I just wanted to know what I was getting myself into, that's all."
Ms. Menninger? "You feel like this hasn't changed anything?"
"No. Why would it? You said so yourself: Shinra is a small circle. I was bound to run into someone who worked for R&D."
"How do you feel about the work that we have been doing?" Helena changed the subject out of instinct. She hated how much his eyes, pupils dilated yet focused on her like prey. They were hunting a part of her that she wasn't willing to offer for slaughter.
"I've learned… so much." Sephiroth let the words linger before adding, "I'm happy I chose you."
Helena leaned to her right side, her hand resting on her face to camouflage a blush. "I'm glad you have the space to express yourself."
"I obviously needed it," Sephiroth chuckled. "You're very good at what you do."
Helena was silent, a creeping sense of euphoria stealing her tongue. Sephiroth smiled, a hand touching his lip. "Do you not believe me?"
"I… I'm just glad-."
"That you gave me the space to feel. Is that what you were going to say?"
Helena wanted to tear at his hair, imagining it to be soft to the touch; pulling taunt the skin of his scalp. Helena swallowed the bile that snuck its way past her esophagus. She wanted him in turn to hold her down, hands clasped so tightly around her windpipe, massaging the bile back down. His words were… too kind.
"Thank you, Sephiroth. For your kind words." Helena needed a drink.
You want me, don't you? Sephiroth was elated to see Helena squirm under the weight of his words. He was always quite intentional about the words he formulated. He knew that words meant so much to First Class. He knew it meant so much for the therapist. She had a hold on him. You want me.
Sephiroth was wearing a tailored suit, and Helena was enraptured by the soft silk and knit cotton. He was going to a big meeting. "Do you want to talk about your mission in Wutai?"
Sephiroth unbuttoned the coat of his suit. "What would you like to know?"
"It isn't what I'd like to know. It's the experience of going off to some land and..." Helena trailed, hoping the SOLDIER would pick up the slack, but he was staring her down, watching her falter.
"I'm built for this," Sephiroth said pointedly, the pupils of his eyes widening as Helena adjusted herself.
"You have a nervous system, though. Anyone who has gone through what you have gone through would live on some sort of edge."
Sephiroth said nothing, the corner of his lips slightly turned at the word "edge." Was she trying to validate the sense of horror he had every time he sat in a helicopter, now long suppressed? Was she trying to make sense of the reservation he had whenever Hojo instructed him to undergo some inane experiment? He wanted to run his fingers through those tightly wound curls, more so today than usual. To feel her scalp as he dragged his nails. He wanted to make her scream. He imagined she would like it.
"I think I'm rather stable," he joked.
Helena swallowed her disapproval. "We may be talking about something that you are not prepared to discuss with me. And I'm wondering what sort of processes are behind that." Why won't you open up?
"I don't want to upset you." He was sincere.
"I think I'm built for this," Helena reflected his word wryly, avoiding the pitfall of it landing on deaf ears.
"I'm bred for war, Helena. My nervous system is unlike yours. Unless you studied it?"
She did. "Hojo kept his secrets close," she lied. "I can only imagine… Well, he's an absolute-."
"Failure? A poor excuse for a scientist? Or perhaps a walking complex?"
"I was going to say monster. But my opinion has little bearing."
"No, it's very validating." Sephiroth looked over his shoulder. You don't have to look at the time, you know. I'm more competent than you may think.
"That may be the time. You're very perceptive of when our sessions are over."
"My nervous system is different," Sephiroth laughed.
"Well, I know you have another session booked. Maybe we should talk about our next session?"
"I'll write on it. I promise."
"As long as you think it would be helpful."
Sephiroth approached Helena's desk, his hand in his coat pocket—it was snowing again, a rare spring storm. He placed two small canisters on her desk, pushing them towards her.
"What's this?" Helena studied the small black cylinders.
"I thought you should know; they're films for a camera."
"I know what they are… Sephiroth," Helena tried her best not to scold, "I can't accept these."
Sephiroth, Helena could have sworn, blinking twice, hands clenched. "What do you mean?"
"I'm your therapist." What a joke! "I am not in a position to accept gifts. Especially film. It's expensive."
"I think you can accept the film, Ms. Menninger."
Helena, for a brief moment, saw a melancholy in the way his eyes softened, his pupils snapping shut. Sephiroth went to the door before Helena could protest further. She held the small canisters in her hands, rolling them around. Maybe you are a good therapist.
"What? Really?"
"Yeah. I can't believe it either." Helena spoke monotonously, half paying attention to her steaming rice and the conversation she was having, her phone perched on her shoulder.
"Your crush thinks you're a good therapist," Emma laughed.
"Did you tell him?" Helena plated her rice, measuring with a cup, plain.
"No. Why would I? He was looking for a therapist, we gave him your name… nothing much more. Why do you ask?"
"I don't know. He just… I don't know." Helena felt a hollowness that nothing could fill. She remembered that as a child, well-surrounded, she would feel incredibly alone. Was that how the Great Sephiroth felt? She would have to ask in session. But she feared the answer. Maybe one would finally satiate her. One that made her realize how much of a monster she was and is.
"Well, I think you might need to talk to him about the film."
"I know. He needs to understand that there are no power plays."
"It seems like you know what to do, friend. See you at the gym on Thursday?"
"You got it, chicka. I need to eat." Helena looked at her plate. A hollowness filled her; hungry and eating her whole.
"Can I help you?"
Helena blinked. "I'm here to see First Class Sephiroth."
"He's in a meeting," his secretary brushed off, her eyes returning to whatever she was working on.
"Oh, well, can I leave a message?"
She sighed, frustrated by the therapist's presence, "Mr. Sephiroth doesn't take messages."
What are you doing here, anyway? Helena was about to turn and leave when she heard her name being called in such a speaking voice she almost ignored it.
"I'm surprised you're here."
Me too, actually. "I need to talk with you."
"Well then, please, come in."
Helena followed Sephiroth into his office. It was quite spacious, with windows overlooking the city, tiny lights filled the cityscape. But this was par for the course: he was a First Class. He was, indeed, Sephiroth.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Sephiroth sat in his chair, moving one pile of papers to the side in order to have the therapist in his line of view.
Helena fished out two canisters from her pocket. "I can't accept these. I know you're trying to show your appreciation, but that's what I'm there for. You're accessing a service. And I'm the one providing it." She placed the black cylinders on his desk, reading his impossibly deadpan face.
"I understand. Are you afraid of what Dr. Rogue will say?"
"That's not it, Sephiroth. It's a power imbalance."
Sephiroth laughed, his chin slightly turning upward. He was still wearing his suit. No tie. Just how he liked it. "A power imbalance?"
Helena was unnerved and felt it necessary to leave. "Yes," She attempted to stand her ground. "I don't think it's fair for you to share expensive gifts with your therapist, someone who is meant to be there to begin with. You're not paying me. I'm already getting paid."
"Ah, yes. My therapist. Then, as my therapist," Sephiroth began, standing up from his seat, commanding a presence that made Helena weak, "you should accept my gift. As I would like you to."
"Excuse me?" Helena protested.
She would have continued on her tirade, holding on to her mace, but Sephiroth grabbed her chin, silencing any will she had left. Her knees went weak. Back against the door. Neck torn upwards, eyes begging the much taller man to make due on his threat.
"You know, I think you want me."
"Fuck you," Helena hissed in his grasp.
He leaned in, warmth trailing from her ear to her legs with fervour. "Fuck me, indeed."
Helena pulled back, her head slamming into the door. The desires seemed so unreal, so unpleasantly foreign. She didn't want to give him satisfaction. She didn't want him to think she was nothing more than his good therapist. She was going to try and save this. She knew she had to save this. "You're mistaking my attention to you for affection."
"It is. I know how you look at me. Like everyone else."
"I'm not like everyone else, Sephiroth. You're delusional."
"Delusional? I think you might be the one mistaken, Ms. Menninger." What a beautiful specimen.
"I should correct myself," Sephiroth continued, "you're not like everyone else. As I, too, want you."
Helena's tongue moved to the back of her throat, nothing but air emanating from her mouth. Sephiroth took the opportunity to approach, his forehead resting on hers. Helena swallowed. He once told her that Genesis made fun of him for never kissing, making Helena blush all deep shades of red, making her stammer slightly at the thought of the First Class in any intimate relationship, in session. Sephiroth may not have been one to show affection, but it was enrapturing how he broke down her desire to fight. He knew exactly what to say. I want to be desired.
His thumb traced her lips, her lower lip bare and dry. What was a gentle touch was too much for Helena, too much for Sephiroth; he grasped her by the neck, nailing her body to the large door. Helena moaned, or what Sephiroth could assume was a moan from the pressure on her windpipe. He knew it couldn't be anything but a moan by the way her eyes closed. She wants this too.
"I know you want me," he whispered, pushing harder until she gagged. He released her, and she stumbled to the ground, catching air. He took a fistful of hair, dragging it until their eyes met. "Say it."
"Fuck you," Helena held onto the last shred of dignity she had as a therapist.
Sephiroth liked her fight—a push and pull that would inevitably lead her into obsession, and he would finally be gratified—or at least, that's what he had hoped. No, there was no healing that his existence provided him: a 10 by 10 cell of his childhood that he never fully escaped. He felt so vulnerable with Helena—a 10 by 10 cell with a leather chair and a woman with a clipboard and pen.
Sephiroth suddenly stopped grasping her at the nape of her neck and instead softly began stroking her cheeks with the backs of his fingers. He felt so warm to the touch; Helena quivered. "I know you want me. Why won't you just say it?"
"You don't want me," Helena, in turn, reflected on his words.
Sephiroth extended a hand, pulling the woman to her feet. "Ah, but that's where you are very wrong. I know who you are, Helena Menninger. And I crave it."
Helena took two handfuls of his suit, lips colliding with such force that Sephiroth moaned through gnashing teeth. Soft tongue pushed through tight, thin lips. Bites ensued, first gentle and playful, then hungry and vicious. She felt his heartbeat through her tight fist, her heart clamoring for more. She wanted to feel him, his beating heart snapping against his ribcage. Where's the thoracic retractor? Each beat pushed him to the edge. Was this what she meant by his nervous system? Feeling something, anything.
"Hurt me," Sephiroth sighed, "I need to feel you."
Helena bit down on his neck, copper filling her senses, her tastebuds craving more. Her bite turned into a sucking. She chuckled to herself. Would he bruise? Would he look at himself in the mirror, his infallibility put into question? When he looked at her, did he question who was in control?
"Touch me," Sephiroth considerately took her fists and unfurled her fingers.
Her cold and tingling fingertips ran through his hair, silken hair catching in her rough palms. She made her way from collarbone to bare chest, the roughness of her palms and the tenderness of her touch sent a wave of want throughout Sephiroth's body. His heart skipped a beat as she felt his sternum and then paid attention to his nipples. Inadvertently, he pushed her away.
Helena laughed. "Too much?"
"I want to touch you," Sephiroth offered. "Tell me how much you want it."
"I need you, Sephiroth," Helena complied. "Fuck me."
Sephiroth woke from the words said so assuredly, her words echoing in his empty room—no longer a 10 by 10 cell but a place that was finally his own. He needed her. His hands dug at the sheets around him; the craving was far too much. He closed his eyes again, imagining her beside him, her rough palms snaking through the sheets, caressing his bare chest. He imagined her pulling him towards her, begging him to enter her, claim what little reserve she had. He did so with pleasure, subduing the fire that burned them both, albeit for a moment. Her hips dug into his, taking the whole of his member deep inside her. Her cries becoming desperate for release, Sephiroth obliged. He imagined the sound of her voice in his room and her bare body in his bed. The thought alone was enough to send him over the edge.
Yes. He needed her.
A/N: I hope this chapter is as fun to read as it was to write! We're coming down to the climax (haha) to the story shortly. I have an idea as to where to take this story... we shall see where Helena wants to take it.
Song of the night: Dead Inside, Muse