Vices
folder
Final Fantasy VIII › Yaoi - Male/Male › Seifer/Squall
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
657
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Final Fantasy VIII › Yaoi - Male/Male › Seifer/Squall
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
657
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Final Fantasy VIII or any of its characters, and I do not profit from writing this in any way.
Vices
/Oh but lover, I've got vices like any other man/ ..
It began much like a simple way to pass the time; to rid himself of the almost painful boredom that flared when he wasn't actively involved in something stimulating. Slicing grats in half with one swing lost its appeal far sooner than it used to, and for some reason -- he thought, maybe, his heart just wasn't in it -- teasing the chickenwuss seemed more tedious, less satisfying than it used to be.
This need was an almost constant hunger seated at the base of his spine, gnawing with too-sharp teeth at any bone it could reach -- and settling for the marrow when it had chewed clean through -- demanding wordlessly that he pay attention. It began as a game, with a sharp grin and almost-sweet words, deceptively soft touches against equally soft skin.
He made it a point to ask their names in the beginning, just to eliminate any awkward moments shared in the corridors. Fleeting glances from shaded green eyes, cold and calculating; he almost never remembered them.
/Vices that you're not used to/ ..
All too soon they became nameless. Less importantly, a means to an end. They weren't him, so it didn't much matter.
When he looked at them, he saw blue-gray eyes and chestnut hair, a mouth that rarely moved save to speak, or scowl. When he looked at them, he was reminded of everything he was persistently denying himself, consciously or no.
When he looked at /him/, he saw what he could never have. At least, in his own mind, he could go through the motions and almost pretend to care, if only to make it that much more real.
They weren't him. They weren't /him/, and he tried not to notice.
When their faces joined their names in anonymity, he almost wanted to stop. Almost never counted, but the hollow ache did -- and he only paused when he was too exhausted to feel guilty, tasting his name on the back of his tongue like a vivid reminder of everything he was doing wrong. They aren't you. They will never be you.
/Oh but lover, I've got vices like any other man. Vices that you're not used to -- vices that will make you think less of me/ ..
Each night when he collapsed into rumpled sheets, the scent of sex clinging to his skin like a disease, he tried not to be ashamed. It just wasn't his way.
It began much like a simple way to pass the time; to rid himself of the almost painful boredom that flared when he wasn't actively involved in something stimulating. Slicing grats in half with one swing lost its appeal far sooner than it used to, and for some reason -- he thought, maybe, his heart just wasn't in it -- teasing the chickenwuss seemed more tedious, less satisfying than it used to be.
This need was an almost constant hunger seated at the base of his spine, gnawing with too-sharp teeth at any bone it could reach -- and settling for the marrow when it had chewed clean through -- demanding wordlessly that he pay attention. It began as a game, with a sharp grin and almost-sweet words, deceptively soft touches against equally soft skin.
He made it a point to ask their names in the beginning, just to eliminate any awkward moments shared in the corridors. Fleeting glances from shaded green eyes, cold and calculating; he almost never remembered them.
/Vices that you're not used to/ ..
All too soon they became nameless. Less importantly, a means to an end. They weren't him, so it didn't much matter.
When he looked at them, he saw blue-gray eyes and chestnut hair, a mouth that rarely moved save to speak, or scowl. When he looked at them, he was reminded of everything he was persistently denying himself, consciously or no.
When he looked at /him/, he saw what he could never have. At least, in his own mind, he could go through the motions and almost pretend to care, if only to make it that much more real.
They weren't him. They weren't /him/, and he tried not to notice.
When their faces joined their names in anonymity, he almost wanted to stop. Almost never counted, but the hollow ache did -- and he only paused when he was too exhausted to feel guilty, tasting his name on the back of his tongue like a vivid reminder of everything he was doing wrong. They aren't you. They will never be you.
/Oh but lover, I've got vices like any other man. Vices that you're not used to -- vices that will make you think less of me/ ..
Each night when he collapsed into rumpled sheets, the scent of sex clinging to his skin like a disease, he tried not to be ashamed. It just wasn't his way.