Ain't Nothin'
Title: Ain't Nothin'
Fandom: FFVIII
Pairing: Irvine/Rinoa
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: We all want what we can't have.
Notes: For first_seventhe
The first time, it is a mistake, an accidental bump of lips and cheek. She leaves a stain of desert rose, number thirty-two--they don't make it anymore, she laments--on his skin.
He rubs it away without thinking much of it. It's unintentional, after all.
The second time, she is so close, her face inches from his, and her breath warm against his skin (sweetly tinged with the hint of Esuna), that he puts his palms against her cheeks and kisses her before he can think better of it. When he draws back, her eyes are glazed, half-lidded, mouth a little slack. He feels like Quezacoatl has just run seventy thousand volts through his entire body.
They turn and walk back to the Ragnarok in silence, where Squall's crackled voice greets them over the radio and demands a mission report. Irvine tells the commander what he wants to hear, nothing less and certainly nothing more. Rinoa spends most of the flight back in the cabin, watching the sky rip past the window, gnawing absently at her thumbnail. She says little, and even less when they part ways upon landing.
The third time, Irvine is counting sheep and failing miserably when there's a knock on his door and Rinoa enters, hugging her arms across her chest, swathed in a faded Balamb sweatshirt he recognizes as Squall's. Irvine is acutely aware of her eyes skimming across the bare-bones room, jumping from a small stack of texts to Exeter in its case to a guitar in the corner, skipping over his face with her big brown eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Ain't nothing," he says and curses the slip, the drawl that wouldn't be beaten out of him by Galbadia or otherwise.
She stands on her toes and kisses him carefully, fingers splayed against his shoulders, curiosity driving the touch of fingertips to flesh. His hand is tangling in her hair when the vague scent of men's cologne wafts off her arm and he stops everything.
Irvine jerks back.
"What?" she demands in a breathy, straining whisper; doesn't she smell it, the fabric of the shirt so close to her face? Irvine raises his hands in surrender, and takes two steps away. "Irvine--"
"Squall's probably lookin' for you," he mumbles, and it eats him up inside when she looks disappointed at his words.
Fandom: FFVIII
Pairing: Irvine/Rinoa
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: We all want what we can't have.
Notes: For first_seventhe
The first time, it is a mistake, an accidental bump of lips and cheek. She leaves a stain of desert rose, number thirty-two--they don't make it anymore, she laments--on his skin.
He rubs it away without thinking much of it. It's unintentional, after all.
The second time, she is so close, her face inches from his, and her breath warm against his skin (sweetly tinged with the hint of Esuna), that he puts his palms against her cheeks and kisses her before he can think better of it. When he draws back, her eyes are glazed, half-lidded, mouth a little slack. He feels like Quezacoatl has just run seventy thousand volts through his entire body.
They turn and walk back to the Ragnarok in silence, where Squall's crackled voice greets them over the radio and demands a mission report. Irvine tells the commander what he wants to hear, nothing less and certainly nothing more. Rinoa spends most of the flight back in the cabin, watching the sky rip past the window, gnawing absently at her thumbnail. She says little, and even less when they part ways upon landing.
The third time, Irvine is counting sheep and failing miserably when there's a knock on his door and Rinoa enters, hugging her arms across her chest, swathed in a faded Balamb sweatshirt he recognizes as Squall's. Irvine is acutely aware of her eyes skimming across the bare-bones room, jumping from a small stack of texts to Exeter in its case to a guitar in the corner, skipping over his face with her big brown eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Ain't nothing," he says and curses the slip, the drawl that wouldn't be beaten out of him by Galbadia or otherwise.
She stands on her toes and kisses him carefully, fingers splayed against his shoulders, curiosity driving the touch of fingertips to flesh. His hand is tangling in her hair when the vague scent of men's cologne wafts off her arm and he stops everything.
Irvine jerks back.
"What?" she demands in a breathy, straining whisper; doesn't she smell it, the fabric of the shirt so close to her face? Irvine raises his hands in surrender, and takes two steps away. "Irvine--"
"Squall's probably lookin' for you," he mumbles, and it eats him up inside when she looks disappointed at his words.