Fic: Just Conflict Me (1/?)
Title: Just Conflict Me
Pairing: Seifer/Hayner
Disclaimer: KH isn't mine, isn't mine.
Rating: NC-17. And yes, I do mean in this chapter too.
Summary: Sometimes, Hayner presses into his own bruises just to feel the little sweet burst it gives him. Sometimes, Seifer does it for him. Most of the time, Seifer just gives him the bruises to begin with.
Author's Notes: Um. Yeah. This is my love-song to Seifer/Hayner and masochism all in one go. Tada!
Warnings: Underage sex and masturbation. Also, Seifer's a jerk and Hayner's a masochist. Also, there's a time jump in here, so to clarify, in the first scene, Hayner is thirteen. In the second, he's fifteen.
* * * * * *
Just Conflict Me
* * * * * *
He is thirteen.
He is thirteen and hard and his hand against his erection just isn’t enough anymore.
Hayner bites back a quiet sob, muffling it between his teeth as he keeps touching himself inexpertly, his entire body shaking with unfulfilled need, and it isn’t enough. His thighs are tense and his hips jerk unsteadily into the tight circle of his fist, but he just can’t get there. He can’t make it peak, can’t give himself the relief he needs, and god, it’s driving him insane because he’s so very close, he really is, and it always feels like if he just keeps going.... (He speeds up his motions, hoping.)
But no.
It’s not enough.
Hayner’s hand falls to the side and his body stutters to a halt, shivering and undulating into empty, uncaring air.
He needs so badly. He’s been trying for so long to come already, and his wrist is aching and his ears are ringing with the sounds of silence and his own muted moans, and he can’t. Make. Himself. Come.
He needs.
But his own hand isn’t enough, and he doesn’t know how to make it enough anymore.
He’s only thirteen, Hayner thinks madly, when he can focus enough to drag the words together. He should be going off like a rocket all the time.
Once more, he raises his hand, grasping and pumping his cock and for a moment - for a moment, Hayner thinks yes, this is it, I can finally-! But yet again, the budding pleasure inside him stalls out, not getting high enough for him to let go, and he hates it. He lets out a desperate whine, knocking his head back against the pillows behind him. His free hand skates across his body, trying anything, everything to just make it better, to bring him over the edge that he’s been skirting around for too long.
But no.
Still. No. Hayner squeezes his eyes shut and -those can’t be tears leaking from his eyes, they can’t be, but he’s so tired and needy that he can’t stop them- he shakes in frustration. He keeps pushing his hips against his hand and his legs have gone tense again, trying so hard to just ramp up the pleasure just that tiniest bit more, because if he does, he’ll be able to come, he will, he knows he will because this isn’t the first time the pleasure has just stopped, but this is the first time he can’t figure out how to make it keep going again.
Nothing he does can make it keep going.
He lets his hand fall to the side, defeated, breath harsh and loud, and his blood rushing in his ears.
He is aching and unfulfilled and thirteen and so very confused.
* * *
It doesn’t get any better as he gets older, he finds.
There are nights where Hayner comes hard with just his hand stroking his erection, nights where he feels normal and just tired because of his orgasm. But then he has to deal with the frustrating nights when nothing he does can make it happen, but he needs to come with a breathlessness that only shows up in those moments. He has to lie there -twisting in his sheets, sweat-slick skin tensing and relaxing and so, so uncomfortable- until he’s able to get to sleep.
During the day, he’s able to ignore it. During the day, he focuses on Olette and Pence and school (even if he doesn’t necessarily like school), and he does okay. Hayner laughs and punches people in the arm and does okay in his classes. On the surface, he’s fine.
But at night, it’s becoming a bit of a problem.
Hell, Hayner’s a teenaged boy. He should be able to at least get off every once in a while.
(To be entirely fair, he does come more often than he doesn’t. But the times he isn’t able to baffle him and make him lie in his bed shaking until the need to orgasm passes because there’s no good way of getting over it. He’d just rather he be able to come all the time, like everyone else seems to be able to.)
Then there is Struggle.
And with Struggle comes Seifer.
* * *
Sweat.
Bruises.
Hearts pounding in ears, the rasp and drag of breathing a secondary counterpoint to their dull throbbing. There is a scuff and drop of a footstep and the whistle of a bat and there-
-Hayner swings, not bothering to block the strike that’s coming towards his abdomen, but landing a painful blow of his own. A whistle shrills off to the side, and Hayner straightens slowly, wincing at all the aches that are only now making themselves apparent. He shifts uncomfortably for a second, cataloging. A darting pain around his calf, a deep ache on his lower stomach that was definitely going to form into a bruise, aching arms from overuse, nothing too out of the ordinary.
Across from him, Seifer barely even looks fazed. Hell, Hayner thinks petulantly, no one would even be able to tell he had just come out of a Struggle match if he wasn’t covered in sweat and breathing hard. Bastard.
Seifer looks over at him and quirks an eyebrow, lips curling into a derisive smirk.
Hayner glares back until the coach calls their attention.
He half-listens to the critique that is given to them, focusing instead on the myriad pockets of hurt and burn, wishing that he could just make the pain be less. Soon enough, though, the tense pain from all the impact fades, warming him as it becomes a pleasurable ache, and Hayner takes an unsteady breath. Shivers.
As the coach rambles on, he wonders if anyone else feels it too. An inner door opening to just let all the pain out and let the pleasure come in instead.
Sneaking a smug sideways glance at Seifer, who is still stretching uncomfortably, he thinks not.
The coach dismisses them. Hayner shifts (eyes fluttering slightly at the comfortable pull of his muscles, and god, getting beaten up isn’t supposed to feel good, is it?) and heads to the showers, dragging behind everyone else on the team.
By the time he gets into the locker room, all the showers are taken. Hayner sits down on the bench and leans back into the cool metal of the locker row behind him. It is almost a routine by now. He’s been in Struggle for the past year and a half, even if he is still a little scrawny for fifteen. Hayner doesn’t care. He’s stronger and better than most of them. He’s almost evenly matched with Seifer, but Seifer is just a bit more vicious, just a little faster, a little more accurate than he is.
(The bruise forming under his skin where Seifer hit him is the warmest area, and Hayner can feel it every time he breathes.)
But the routine isn’t him getting the snot beaten out of him by Seifer. No, the routine is how Hayner is the last one in the showers, and how he’s left alone in the locker room after every practice.
How he always just tilts his head in the shower’s spray and wonders when, exactly, he got hard.
The last of the showers shuts off, and Hayner stands, stripping off his shirt. He nods to the teammate passing by him, waits until the doors close and the silence rings around him.
Hayner is alone.
Breaths speeding up with anticipation, Hayner walks over to the lights and turns all but one off, leaving the lights closest to the door on and plunging the rest of the room into shadow. He pads back into the showers, eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness. Fumbling slightly, he turns the knob of the shower and steps under the spray, an involuntary breath hissing out when the water comes out cold. Hayner glances down at himself.
Yep.
Still hard.
Well, at least that means it won’t take long.
With a small sigh, he reaches down and grasps his cock, the first touch still enough of a surprise to make him jolt. Hayner starts pumping his erection, fingers skirting up and down the length, building the pleasure until he’s fighting to keep his breathing quiet. Increasing the speed of his hand, Hayner groans softly as warmth curls, hot and heavy, in his erection.
Then it just… stops.
“Fuck, no, not here,” Hayner gasps out softly, barely even a whisper over the rush of the spray. He keeps trying, bending over himself and bracing against the wall as his hand works furiously, but no. It’s not working. Frustrated, Hayner groans and clenches his fist, and with the sharp bite of his nails into his palm, there is the smallest surge of arousal.
Not enough.
But it’s more.
Cautiously, Hayner lets his clenched hand relax, and the soft after-burn of his nails doesn’t feel like pain. Maybe… Hayner huffs out a breath, leaning his head back. His eyes close - the view doesn’t change, mostly, since the lights are all off - and he fists himself harder, speeding up the movement of his hand. Tight and slick and fast. Just how he learned to bring himself off over the years.
Curiously, his other hand creeps down to his lower stomach, resting calloused fingertips on the muscle of his abs. Hayner bites his lip, curiosity swelling within him, and he shakes with need, breathing faster before carefully pressing down on the bruise Seifer left on him during their last match.
He lets out an embarrassing whimper at the warm pleasure it releases, arching tightly into it, his hand on his cock speeding up almost involuntarily. He presses down harder, gasping and bowing into the spray, because fuck that feels so good, shit, his hips stutter into rhythm with his hand and it’s never felt this good before, one hand around his cock, the other nudging against a purpling bruise. Swear words pour from Hayner’s mouth, every one a little more hitched and desperate than the last, still inaudible over the water, and he speeds up as fast as he can go, his entire body pulled tight and-
His orgasm feels like a kick to the stomach, and Hayner’s voice is a loud, needy whine as he comes down, panting. Quivering.
He gasps for breath, water sluicing around his mouth for long minutes until finally he leans back.
Well, Hayner thinks, shaking as he flips the water switch to off and stands there, watching the last of his come wash down the drain. That was... (good, amazing, confusing, made me feel dirty and strange, but God, so good) ... interesting.
Or, slightly more succinctly:
What the hell was that?
* * * * * *
Part 2.
* * * * * *
Tada! The beginnings of the Seifer/Hayner fic, and yes, I know, not much of Seifer in there right now. I'm just going to end up writing this as I feel it. Also, the title is subject to change. I'm not entirely sure I like that one yet.
Pairing: Seifer/Hayner
Disclaimer: KH isn't mine, isn't mine.
Rating: NC-17. And yes, I do mean in this chapter too.
Summary: Sometimes, Hayner presses into his own bruises just to feel the little sweet burst it gives him. Sometimes, Seifer does it for him. Most of the time, Seifer just gives him the bruises to begin with.
Author's Notes: Um. Yeah. This is my love-song to Seifer/Hayner and masochism all in one go. Tada!
Warnings: Underage sex and masturbation. Also, Seifer's a jerk and Hayner's a masochist. Also, there's a time jump in here, so to clarify, in the first scene, Hayner is thirteen. In the second, he's fifteen.
* * * * * *
Just Conflict Me
* * * * * *
He is thirteen.
He is thirteen and hard and his hand against his erection just isn’t enough anymore.
Hayner bites back a quiet sob, muffling it between his teeth as he keeps touching himself inexpertly, his entire body shaking with unfulfilled need, and it isn’t enough. His thighs are tense and his hips jerk unsteadily into the tight circle of his fist, but he just can’t get there. He can’t make it peak, can’t give himself the relief he needs, and god, it’s driving him insane because he’s so very close, he really is, and it always feels like if he just keeps going.... (He speeds up his motions, hoping.)
But no.
It’s not enough.
Hayner’s hand falls to the side and his body stutters to a halt, shivering and undulating into empty, uncaring air.
He needs so badly. He’s been trying for so long to come already, and his wrist is aching and his ears are ringing with the sounds of silence and his own muted moans, and he can’t. Make. Himself. Come.
He needs.
But his own hand isn’t enough, and he doesn’t know how to make it enough anymore.
He’s only thirteen, Hayner thinks madly, when he can focus enough to drag the words together. He should be going off like a rocket all the time.
Once more, he raises his hand, grasping and pumping his cock and for a moment - for a moment, Hayner thinks yes, this is it, I can finally-! But yet again, the budding pleasure inside him stalls out, not getting high enough for him to let go, and he hates it. He lets out a desperate whine, knocking his head back against the pillows behind him. His free hand skates across his body, trying anything, everything to just make it better, to bring him over the edge that he’s been skirting around for too long.
But no.
Still. No. Hayner squeezes his eyes shut and -those can’t be tears leaking from his eyes, they can’t be, but he’s so tired and needy that he can’t stop them- he shakes in frustration. He keeps pushing his hips against his hand and his legs have gone tense again, trying so hard to just ramp up the pleasure just that tiniest bit more, because if he does, he’ll be able to come, he will, he knows he will because this isn’t the first time the pleasure has just stopped, but this is the first time he can’t figure out how to make it keep going again.
Nothing he does can make it keep going.
He lets his hand fall to the side, defeated, breath harsh and loud, and his blood rushing in his ears.
He is aching and unfulfilled and thirteen and so very confused.
* * *
It doesn’t get any better as he gets older, he finds.
There are nights where Hayner comes hard with just his hand stroking his erection, nights where he feels normal and just tired because of his orgasm. But then he has to deal with the frustrating nights when nothing he does can make it happen, but he needs to come with a breathlessness that only shows up in those moments. He has to lie there -twisting in his sheets, sweat-slick skin tensing and relaxing and so, so uncomfortable- until he’s able to get to sleep.
During the day, he’s able to ignore it. During the day, he focuses on Olette and Pence and school (even if he doesn’t necessarily like school), and he does okay. Hayner laughs and punches people in the arm and does okay in his classes. On the surface, he’s fine.
But at night, it’s becoming a bit of a problem.
Hell, Hayner’s a teenaged boy. He should be able to at least get off every once in a while.
(To be entirely fair, he does come more often than he doesn’t. But the times he isn’t able to baffle him and make him lie in his bed shaking until the need to orgasm passes because there’s no good way of getting over it. He’d just rather he be able to come all the time, like everyone else seems to be able to.)
Then there is Struggle.
And with Struggle comes Seifer.
* * *
Sweat.
Bruises.
Hearts pounding in ears, the rasp and drag of breathing a secondary counterpoint to their dull throbbing. There is a scuff and drop of a footstep and the whistle of a bat and there-
-Hayner swings, not bothering to block the strike that’s coming towards his abdomen, but landing a painful blow of his own. A whistle shrills off to the side, and Hayner straightens slowly, wincing at all the aches that are only now making themselves apparent. He shifts uncomfortably for a second, cataloging. A darting pain around his calf, a deep ache on his lower stomach that was definitely going to form into a bruise, aching arms from overuse, nothing too out of the ordinary.
Across from him, Seifer barely even looks fazed. Hell, Hayner thinks petulantly, no one would even be able to tell he had just come out of a Struggle match if he wasn’t covered in sweat and breathing hard. Bastard.
Seifer looks over at him and quirks an eyebrow, lips curling into a derisive smirk.
Hayner glares back until the coach calls their attention.
He half-listens to the critique that is given to them, focusing instead on the myriad pockets of hurt and burn, wishing that he could just make the pain be less. Soon enough, though, the tense pain from all the impact fades, warming him as it becomes a pleasurable ache, and Hayner takes an unsteady breath. Shivers.
As the coach rambles on, he wonders if anyone else feels it too. An inner door opening to just let all the pain out and let the pleasure come in instead.
Sneaking a smug sideways glance at Seifer, who is still stretching uncomfortably, he thinks not.
The coach dismisses them. Hayner shifts (eyes fluttering slightly at the comfortable pull of his muscles, and god, getting beaten up isn’t supposed to feel good, is it?) and heads to the showers, dragging behind everyone else on the team.
By the time he gets into the locker room, all the showers are taken. Hayner sits down on the bench and leans back into the cool metal of the locker row behind him. It is almost a routine by now. He’s been in Struggle for the past year and a half, even if he is still a little scrawny for fifteen. Hayner doesn’t care. He’s stronger and better than most of them. He’s almost evenly matched with Seifer, but Seifer is just a bit more vicious, just a little faster, a little more accurate than he is.
(The bruise forming under his skin where Seifer hit him is the warmest area, and Hayner can feel it every time he breathes.)
But the routine isn’t him getting the snot beaten out of him by Seifer. No, the routine is how Hayner is the last one in the showers, and how he’s left alone in the locker room after every practice.
How he always just tilts his head in the shower’s spray and wonders when, exactly, he got hard.
The last of the showers shuts off, and Hayner stands, stripping off his shirt. He nods to the teammate passing by him, waits until the doors close and the silence rings around him.
Hayner is alone.
Breaths speeding up with anticipation, Hayner walks over to the lights and turns all but one off, leaving the lights closest to the door on and plunging the rest of the room into shadow. He pads back into the showers, eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness. Fumbling slightly, he turns the knob of the shower and steps under the spray, an involuntary breath hissing out when the water comes out cold. Hayner glances down at himself.
Yep.
Still hard.
Well, at least that means it won’t take long.
With a small sigh, he reaches down and grasps his cock, the first touch still enough of a surprise to make him jolt. Hayner starts pumping his erection, fingers skirting up and down the length, building the pleasure until he’s fighting to keep his breathing quiet. Increasing the speed of his hand, Hayner groans softly as warmth curls, hot and heavy, in his erection.
Then it just… stops.
“Fuck, no, not here,” Hayner gasps out softly, barely even a whisper over the rush of the spray. He keeps trying, bending over himself and bracing against the wall as his hand works furiously, but no. It’s not working. Frustrated, Hayner groans and clenches his fist, and with the sharp bite of his nails into his palm, there is the smallest surge of arousal.
Not enough.
But it’s more.
Cautiously, Hayner lets his clenched hand relax, and the soft after-burn of his nails doesn’t feel like pain. Maybe… Hayner huffs out a breath, leaning his head back. His eyes close - the view doesn’t change, mostly, since the lights are all off - and he fists himself harder, speeding up the movement of his hand. Tight and slick and fast. Just how he learned to bring himself off over the years.
Curiously, his other hand creeps down to his lower stomach, resting calloused fingertips on the muscle of his abs. Hayner bites his lip, curiosity swelling within him, and he shakes with need, breathing faster before carefully pressing down on the bruise Seifer left on him during their last match.
He lets out an embarrassing whimper at the warm pleasure it releases, arching tightly into it, his hand on his cock speeding up almost involuntarily. He presses down harder, gasping and bowing into the spray, because fuck that feels so good, shit, his hips stutter into rhythm with his hand and it’s never felt this good before, one hand around his cock, the other nudging against a purpling bruise. Swear words pour from Hayner’s mouth, every one a little more hitched and desperate than the last, still inaudible over the water, and he speeds up as fast as he can go, his entire body pulled tight and-
His orgasm feels like a kick to the stomach, and Hayner’s voice is a loud, needy whine as he comes down, panting. Quivering.
He gasps for breath, water sluicing around his mouth for long minutes until finally he leans back.
Well, Hayner thinks, shaking as he flips the water switch to off and stands there, watching the last of his come wash down the drain. That was... (good, amazing, confusing, made me feel dirty and strange, but God, so good) ... interesting.
Or, slightly more succinctly:
What the hell was that?
* * * * * *
Part 2.
* * * * * *
Tada! The beginnings of the Seifer/Hayner fic, and yes, I know, not much of Seifer in there right now. I'm just going to end up writing this as I feel it. Also, the title is subject to change. I'm not entirely sure I like that one yet.