Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 8
Smile
Squall is... looking. He just doesn't have a very good way of going about it. [slightly AU... but only slightly]
?Blocked
"Let me . . . Let me make you feel . . . Let me make you feel . . . " Seifer murmured against
Squall's neck. A wave of hysterical laughter threatened to seize Squall when he heard those
words. He'd used to think that 'good' was the implied word at the end of that sentence. It
seemed right; like something you'd say to someone you did this with. He should've known
better. Seifer never implied anything. Not as far as this went anyway. And when he thought
about it, Seifer had made good on every one of those promises. He had always felt the heat, the
friction, the pain that was beyond the physical, but never quite good, never quite . . .
Seifer started to move inside him with slow measured thrusts. This was the heat. Seifer moving
him, owning him . . . but not quite, never quite . . .
Seifer kissed a line down his back, the parody of a lover, as a rough calloused hand smoothed
gently down his stomach to grasp his erection. This was the friction. The point where he could
almost forget. He wanted the thinking to stop, to be in a place where he could just feel. He
wanted to feel 'good' but he'd settle for almost . . . almost, but never quite. Never quite . . .
He came with a keening moan, back arching to impale himself further onto Seifer's cock. Seifer
murmured something as he too came, but Squall ignored it. This is where the pain always
started; the strange sense of . . . loss? It must be, because he'd almost had something. Almost
found the answer. Almost. . . .
Seifer was getting dressed, leaving. He paused at Squall's door.
'Tomorrow?" Merely a formality.
"Tomorrow," Squall echoed, voice flat. He would find it tomorrow
He hadn't found it 'tomorrow', of course.
Or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day . . .
It didn't matter.
And then, after months and years of him, there was her.
He didn't love her.
He admired her like one does all pretty things. That's exactly what she was, pretty, like flowers
or sunsets or lace. Something meant to be seen, giving all the urge to touch. He had touched . . .
and felt . . . and kissed . . . and fucked.
But he didn't love her.
She'd been soft like those flowers he was so fond of comparing her to. Just like lilies or orchids
and, like them, she'd had her own heady perfume. She'd tasted sweet on his tongue and it
brought to mind old childhood rhymes. Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
He didn't love her . . .
They'd all just assumed he did. When he thought about it, which was often enough, he realized it
was a fair enough assumption. He looked at her too long sometimes, let his touch linger. Always
and never enough. They even caught him smiling sometimes, watching his face as if they
expected it to crack. It was enough to make sure he never repeated the act . . . except maybe for
her.
And when she cried he held her.
And when she laughed he'd let slip another smile.
"I love you" she would say in the dark every night they were together.
"I don't," he'd whisper.
"I know," she would answer, and smile.
Squall's neck. A wave of hysterical laughter threatened to seize Squall when he heard those
words. He'd used to think that 'good' was the implied word at the end of that sentence. It
seemed right; like something you'd say to someone you did this with. He should've known
better. Seifer never implied anything. Not as far as this went anyway. And when he thought
about it, Seifer had made good on every one of those promises. He had always felt the heat, the
friction, the pain that was beyond the physical, but never quite good, never quite . . .
Seifer started to move inside him with slow measured thrusts. This was the heat. Seifer moving
him, owning him . . . but not quite, never quite . . .
Seifer kissed a line down his back, the parody of a lover, as a rough calloused hand smoothed
gently down his stomach to grasp his erection. This was the friction. The point where he could
almost forget. He wanted the thinking to stop, to be in a place where he could just feel. He
wanted to feel 'good' but he'd settle for almost . . . almost, but never quite. Never quite . . .
He came with a keening moan, back arching to impale himself further onto Seifer's cock. Seifer
murmured something as he too came, but Squall ignored it. This is where the pain always
started; the strange sense of . . . loss? It must be, because he'd almost had something. Almost
found the answer. Almost. . . .
Seifer was getting dressed, leaving. He paused at Squall's door.
'Tomorrow?" Merely a formality.
"Tomorrow," Squall echoed, voice flat. He would find it tomorrow
He hadn't found it 'tomorrow', of course.
Or the day after that, or the day after that, or the day . . .
It didn't matter.
And then, after months and years of him, there was her.
He didn't love her.
He admired her like one does all pretty things. That's exactly what she was, pretty, like flowers
or sunsets or lace. Something meant to be seen, giving all the urge to touch. He had touched . . .
and felt . . . and kissed . . . and fucked.
But he didn't love her.
She'd been soft like those flowers he was so fond of comparing her to. Just like lilies or orchids
and, like them, she'd had her own heady perfume. She'd tasted sweet on his tongue and it
brought to mind old childhood rhymes. Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.
He didn't love her . . .
They'd all just assumed he did. When he thought about it, which was often enough, he realized it
was a fair enough assumption. He looked at her too long sometimes, let his touch linger. Always
and never enough. They even caught him smiling sometimes, watching his face as if they
expected it to crack. It was enough to make sure he never repeated the act . . . except maybe for
her.
And when she cried he held her.
And when she laughed he'd let slip another smile.
"I love you" she would say in the dark every night they were together.
"I don't," he'd whisper.
"I know," she would answer, and smile.
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