Categories > Games > Final Fantasy 8
In its time
I misheard 'auto-erratic' as 'auto-erotic' in a song... and thus, a ficlet was born.
?Blocked
A/N: Because my new favorite word is auto-erotic.... >_>
o(O)o
It was something about release, here in the cool dark, door shut tight, blinds drawn.
Squall moaned, right hand on cock, left-hand smothering moans. There was no need for that, really. He hardly ever made a sound, but it was right. It fit.
He stroked harder, arched his back, licked dry lips, dared to moan a little louder.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Squall tried to imagine what it would be like if he weren't alone. If, maybe, Irvine were there. If Irvine were there, it wouldn't be nearly so quiet. Irvine would talk. He would whisper and murmur about how "fucking hot" Squall looked, about how beautiful he was. He had a way of making Squall believe it. Irvine was nothing if not persuasive.
Squall was panting now. He kept his strokes even, slow, going against what every nerve in his body screamed for. (He was always a little masochistic, but only a little.)
He tried to imagine Irvine again, but the image melted away to Zell. Eager, willing Zell. Zell that gave clumsy kisses and touched too gently sometimes, because he never wanted to hurt Squall. /Never ever ever/. Which was why Squall never mentioned that it was ok for it to hurt sometimes. More than ok. More than "sometimes".
He sped up the pace a little, sweating more, chest burning with trying to keep his breaths even and his voice quiet. When he came, it was almost a surprise. His back arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent (was it silent?) scream.
He slowed his breathing after a moment, willing his body to relax. Reactions and counter reactions. Force one in the wake of another. He was a master at it. Studied the art of repression and made it his creation.
A time and a place, after all.
o(O)o
It was something about release, here in the cool dark, door shut tight, blinds drawn.
Squall moaned, right hand on cock, left-hand smothering moans. There was no need for that, really. He hardly ever made a sound, but it was right. It fit.
He stroked harder, arched his back, licked dry lips, dared to moan a little louder.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Squall tried to imagine what it would be like if he weren't alone. If, maybe, Irvine were there. If Irvine were there, it wouldn't be nearly so quiet. Irvine would talk. He would whisper and murmur about how "fucking hot" Squall looked, about how beautiful he was. He had a way of making Squall believe it. Irvine was nothing if not persuasive.
Squall was panting now. He kept his strokes even, slow, going against what every nerve in his body screamed for. (He was always a little masochistic, but only a little.)
He tried to imagine Irvine again, but the image melted away to Zell. Eager, willing Zell. Zell that gave clumsy kisses and touched too gently sometimes, because he never wanted to hurt Squall. /Never ever ever/. Which was why Squall never mentioned that it was ok for it to hurt sometimes. More than ok. More than "sometimes".
He sped up the pace a little, sweating more, chest burning with trying to keep his breaths even and his voice quiet. When he came, it was almost a surprise. His back arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent (was it silent?) scream.
He slowed his breathing after a moment, willing his body to relax. Reactions and counter reactions. Force one in the wake of another. He was a master at it. Studied the art of repression and made it his creation.
A time and a place, after all.
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