Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 8 > Only This
Only This
YAOI. Squall's a man of very simple needs (OR, what happens when all you want is to see Squall desperately acting out his desire for Laguna by taking him mercilessly on a squeaky bed).
?Blocked
Other Warnings: INCEST. YAOI. PWP. OOC. Written in about 45 minutes. Not-beta read.
**
Only this.
This was all he needed. He had a vague recollection of other things, basic survival things. But he couldn't have cared less about those. Through the haze of alcohol and the steeped smell of sweat on skin, he could barely focus, but his body knew what would sustain it.
The tightness that grasped him, the slick oil of sex coating their bodies, the angry, dull sound of skin bruising skin--yes, this would provide for him. This would consume him from the inside and then let him burn himself out. To be reborn this way, accompanied by the gutteral sounds of two men, coming together, drinking each other's needs and feeding them back--that was what nothing else could give him.
"I...I..." he tried to explain, but he had no words for this. All he had was the feeling of taking what he knew was his. Only his.
The bed rattled, the headboard slammed against the wall, a flailing arm knocked every jar on the nightstand onto the floor and sent the alarm clock flying.
"Shit...ah! There! Again!"
And so Squall obliged.
The rattle of plastic bottles rolling across the floor didn't interrupt the pattern, the rhythm that made the floor groan and the pictures on the walls shake.
This wasn't lovemaking. This wasn't even really sex. There are other, harsher words for this. Truer words.
And each time he disappeared inside the writhing body beneath him, it was like a tiny rebirth to plunge back in again. There might have been sparks of electricity behind his eyes, there might have been god. Certainly nothing but this deserved devotion. Nothing else called for him to anoint with oil and enter in order to praise. So here he was, inside a temple.
Here was his religion. He worshipped here with the squeaky bed, the creaking floor boards, the lamp the swung with each brutal thrust.
He kissed every inch of skin that slid within range of his mouth and muttered things that he wouldn't recall later.
"So good, so tight...want you...want this...want..."
Because that's all Squall was, wants and desires overgrown with the tools to achieve. He could take, he could control.
And Laguna, he wanted to let go.
"Please don't stop..." he panted. Every time Squall reached deep inside him, Laguna's back arched, his neck twisted, his fingers clenched.
Tomorrow, he would ache. His body would burn.
He would still want more.
Because Squall moved within him like he belonged; like there was no one else, nothing else, no other thing that could give him these waves that crashed and swelled and slid and pounded him into something hot and needing.
Squall was larger than life inside him, was fire made into a solid, responsive tool that made Laguna cry and beg all at once.
"No, no, oh, please! It hurts. Nng...feels good. W-wait...harder...more. No more, I can't...ah! Squall, I...now!"
Squall new these words, drank them in. He buried his face against Laguna's neck. His voice was a deadly whisper made mad by lust.
"No one else?"
Laguna whimpered and spread his legs wider. "N-o. Never." Never, never, never when Squall could do this, make him feel this, take him like this; make it hurt beautifully; make him forget; make him scream; make him all the things he never thought he'd be but always wanted. Make him want it rough and desperate like this so that the pleasure was a trailing tail flickering behind the beautiful pain of beind driven into over and over and over with enough force to make your teeth rattle.
Now Squall's voice was a feral smile.
"Good."
He bit down and Laguna came, his body curved like a bridge.
"Squall!"
He rode him out, letting Laguna crest ocean-like against him, body jerking up, down, up, and then settling like a blanket on a windless day.
When Squall came, it was softly. Only his arms were rigid, holding the body beneath him as if he feared it might disappear. Taking him so hard, that was proof that he was still here. Still his.
Now he felt complete. He felt sated like a king at a feast though all he had dined on was the sweat dripping off Laguna, lapping at it with a gentle tongue. Gorged himself on the words from his mouth and the feel of his body wound tightly around his sex.
Laguna could feel every bruise. His arm hurt from where he slammed it into the nightstand. Everything between his thighs was just hot pain. Squall had left bite marks spanning the breadth of his chest and deep scratches across his back. The chances of him being able to sit down without hot pain shooting through his body were slim.
"That," he breathed, "was good."
Squall, for his part, said nothing. He pulled Laguna closer until he complained that it was hard to breathe. Even then he wouldn't let go. Laguna had to make himself as comfortable as possible with Squall's fingers digging into the irritated, scratched skin of his back, his thigh wedged in between Laguna's and his face buried in his neck. He didn't complain, only dozed off to the feeling of fingers flexing possessively against his back.
Squall was, after all, a man with needs. With a need.
Only this.
*Owari*
**
Only this.
This was all he needed. He had a vague recollection of other things, basic survival things. But he couldn't have cared less about those. Through the haze of alcohol and the steeped smell of sweat on skin, he could barely focus, but his body knew what would sustain it.
The tightness that grasped him, the slick oil of sex coating their bodies, the angry, dull sound of skin bruising skin--yes, this would provide for him. This would consume him from the inside and then let him burn himself out. To be reborn this way, accompanied by the gutteral sounds of two men, coming together, drinking each other's needs and feeding them back--that was what nothing else could give him.
"I...I..." he tried to explain, but he had no words for this. All he had was the feeling of taking what he knew was his. Only his.
The bed rattled, the headboard slammed against the wall, a flailing arm knocked every jar on the nightstand onto the floor and sent the alarm clock flying.
"Shit...ah! There! Again!"
And so Squall obliged.
The rattle of plastic bottles rolling across the floor didn't interrupt the pattern, the rhythm that made the floor groan and the pictures on the walls shake.
This wasn't lovemaking. This wasn't even really sex. There are other, harsher words for this. Truer words.
And each time he disappeared inside the writhing body beneath him, it was like a tiny rebirth to plunge back in again. There might have been sparks of electricity behind his eyes, there might have been god. Certainly nothing but this deserved devotion. Nothing else called for him to anoint with oil and enter in order to praise. So here he was, inside a temple.
Here was his religion. He worshipped here with the squeaky bed, the creaking floor boards, the lamp the swung with each brutal thrust.
He kissed every inch of skin that slid within range of his mouth and muttered things that he wouldn't recall later.
"So good, so tight...want you...want this...want..."
Because that's all Squall was, wants and desires overgrown with the tools to achieve. He could take, he could control.
And Laguna, he wanted to let go.
"Please don't stop..." he panted. Every time Squall reached deep inside him, Laguna's back arched, his neck twisted, his fingers clenched.
Tomorrow, he would ache. His body would burn.
He would still want more.
Because Squall moved within him like he belonged; like there was no one else, nothing else, no other thing that could give him these waves that crashed and swelled and slid and pounded him into something hot and needing.
Squall was larger than life inside him, was fire made into a solid, responsive tool that made Laguna cry and beg all at once.
"No, no, oh, please! It hurts. Nng...feels good. W-wait...harder...more. No more, I can't...ah! Squall, I...now!"
Squall new these words, drank them in. He buried his face against Laguna's neck. His voice was a deadly whisper made mad by lust.
"No one else?"
Laguna whimpered and spread his legs wider. "N-o. Never." Never, never, never when Squall could do this, make him feel this, take him like this; make it hurt beautifully; make him forget; make him scream; make him all the things he never thought he'd be but always wanted. Make him want it rough and desperate like this so that the pleasure was a trailing tail flickering behind the beautiful pain of beind driven into over and over and over with enough force to make your teeth rattle.
Now Squall's voice was a feral smile.
"Good."
He bit down and Laguna came, his body curved like a bridge.
"Squall!"
He rode him out, letting Laguna crest ocean-like against him, body jerking up, down, up, and then settling like a blanket on a windless day.
When Squall came, it was softly. Only his arms were rigid, holding the body beneath him as if he feared it might disappear. Taking him so hard, that was proof that he was still here. Still his.
Now he felt complete. He felt sated like a king at a feast though all he had dined on was the sweat dripping off Laguna, lapping at it with a gentle tongue. Gorged himself on the words from his mouth and the feel of his body wound tightly around his sex.
Laguna could feel every bruise. His arm hurt from where he slammed it into the nightstand. Everything between his thighs was just hot pain. Squall had left bite marks spanning the breadth of his chest and deep scratches across his back. The chances of him being able to sit down without hot pain shooting through his body were slim.
"That," he breathed, "was good."
Squall, for his part, said nothing. He pulled Laguna closer until he complained that it was hard to breathe. Even then he wouldn't let go. Laguna had to make himself as comfortable as possible with Squall's fingers digging into the irritated, scratched skin of his back, his thigh wedged in between Laguna's and his face buried in his neck. He didn't complain, only dozed off to the feeling of fingers flexing possessively against his back.
Squall was, after all, a man with needs. With a need.
Only this.
*Owari*
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