FANFICTION ⇌ 「 Kingdom Hearts/Final Fantasy VIII 」 Leon/Squall. ``God and Fiction.``
Vincent wrote Cloud/Leon.
Zack wrote Cloud/Squall.
I felt compelled write Leon/Squall. A few references tie into those two fics given to me (and just me~~ ♥) , and onnnly they will probably get it. Enjoy, boys.
The air was thick and palpable, either from the static between two men (or, rather, a boy and a man--) who really shouldn’t be faced with each other or simply just the weight of knowing worlds could be colliding and imploding and rent to shreds from the union. Squall sits with his legs folded, shoulders neat and flawless, spine erect, eyes piercing. Leon has a more humble take, a more weathered take, masculine and carved hands criss-crossed between his legs.
Already Squall hates those hands. Ages, strong, stern, even beneath gloves. He knows his own like daintier, more effeminate (the way his face does, round instead of edged, smooth instead of angles).
Neither one of them knows how it happens. How it starts. And usually that’s the most important part, at least for Leon, who is always calculating and predicting and having such a firm grip on things. He can’t factor this one out. He can’t think it through so much that it starts making sense, even in his own twisted logic. There’s nothing to grasp, no hope that this was something even resembling premeditation, and … that scares Leon most of all.
Squall doesn’t seem to notice.
Of course, he wouldn’t. Stupid kid.
But Leon is used to this island, used to making up excuses and learning to keep that growing hate for himself held within. No one’s touched it yet. No one will.
It’s the only part of him that’s just like glass, and the biggest part of him that’s as sharp as when it’s broken.
Squall still doesn’t notice, too busy breathing through parted lips and swallowing back hard, moving those tendons and muscles that Leon, either way, finds himself looking at. The shift of flesh, the way it stretches carefully over the boy’s tight body, a spitting image of Leon when he was a kid and had--…
Why was that image coming back to him now? Fumbling fingers behind the school yard, loose belts and zippers and the way, nine years ago, his best friend had been much more vocal--
No. He had to shake it off. He’d had enough of ghosts haunting his dreams, he didn’t need them in wakefulness. Not when he had someone else (else? not … himself?) tugging and jerking at the belts to free him from his confines, wanting more, needing more. The kid’s ravenous hands tugged off jacket and shirt, palming over carved muscles (thinking, maybe he’d have them for himself some day, broad and thick and--and scarred). There’s quiet curiosity in his icy gaze, a few shades bluer than the grey Leon’s holds.
Squall licks his lips. Leon watches Cloud do it in his mind’s eye, and it’s already making him hard.
This is going to have to be enough. Neither of them have anything left to give, but Squall’s stark experience (which shouldn’t surprise Leon, not really, the way he’s thinking about his childhood fantasies anyway…) and Leon’s dark self-hate.
Self-hate so much that here he is, a parallel, a young mirror on top of him …
It should have bothered him.
Squall’s mouth comes down in a sharp connection, stinging and swelling like a blow to the face, but all the elder does against it is grunt, fisting cloth and pulling apart their harming kiss just long enough to rip of his clothes. The youth winces instinctively at the sound, knowing he’s going to regret it in the moment, but … for now … for now, he just can’t, too transfixed on the way Leon’s body moves below him, accommodating and hot (not just warm - warm is for girls like Rinoa and … and witches) to the touch, almost so much that it seems like he feels fever coming off the man.
A fever of motor oils and musk and worn-in leather. There is silent awe even as he entangles himself around Leon’s tongue, drawing and trapping secret words and dialects off of it, like why the stars flicker out in his world and about a kid wielding light who’s sworn to save the universe and -- and someone else, someone more important, someone … someone who has a bitter taste, even in the shadows.
It’s too intimate.
Leon pulls away and Squall complies, moving his hips in a smooth circle just enough to tease, and patience is both damned and praised. It’s kind of funny that Squall figures it out so quickly, that those little buckles on the sides can just be unhinged and the whole line unzips and the fabric just falls off of him. Leon is naked quicker than he can remember in any tryst (though there are some very close seconds -- himself and Cloud in the boy’s locker room with just towels, for instance) and that warm mouth is on him, kissing him everywhere but where he wants it.
And Squall knows where he wants it, but won’t oblige. Instead he slides off and leaves Leon grimacing (for two reasons; one: cold, two: where the fuck are you going?) and watching. Attention caught, there’s a wicked gleam in those icy eyes, the youth’s naked hands running down over his chest.
His … also carved … dipped chest.
Leon sees. And quietly approves, though his face belies nothing of this singular truth.
Squall knows either way. The ravish is lost (but not the edge: that dangerous, tilted edge that he’s barely balancing on anyhow) as he dexterously works all those belt buckles, tugging through innumerable loops and it seems like too long, too fucking long until he gets the damn things out, even if he can be pulled into the mesmeric shift and lull of his hips. Leon realizes with a startling growl in his own mind that he wants to fuck ‘em: brutally, harshly, roughly until he feels this younger version of himself collapsing with too much, too much.
He doesn’t think it’s going to happen that way. He knows it isn’t. He knows this isn’t exactly him, these aren’t the same tastes, the same experiences … he knows Squall Leonheart is still Squall Leonheart and hasn’t -- nor may ever -- go simply by “Leon”.
It doesn’t stop him from needing that contact, though.
Finally the dull thud of leather dropping, boots kicked off, and a fully nude glory. It’s a fine figure -- perhaps not one Michelangelo would carve into a man of God and a symbol of romantic freedom for centuries … but a fine one just the same. This is the trade-off. Leon’s breath hitches in utter silence as Squall crawls back at him like a hungry lion on the prairie stalking already fallen prey. He just needs to scare off the lionesses. The pride of the savannah, after all.
But this isn’t what Leon expects. Instead of that immediate contact, Squall just roughly kicks apart his knees and sits, facing him. A moment of puzzlement passes him until the boy’s ankles come on either side of his waist and he leans back to lay down on the mattress, sinking softly. More hands down his chest, over his hips, feeling the eyes on him with heavy eroticism and the desire is palpable until finally his own hand wraps dutifully around himself and strokes -- in one solid, long movement.
A small, unexpected groan leaves Leon.
Squall’s smirk grows (as well as another nondescript location).
He wants to help, but he … can’t find it in him to move. His body feels useless, his gut too tight and coiled and sending burning messages from his groin and right out to his fingertips, making them practically singe the bedding he grips with purpose. Squall’s already been panting and he finally moans as he continues to jack himself off, hips giving the smallest squirm. Leon wonders if he’s ever done this before (some people find it useless or degrading or below them, a problem that Leon himself never really had, not after nine years of never having a strong, hard touch--), and if he hasn’t then Leon considers himself very blessed to be a witness. Squall gasps and moans again as he discovers that pressing a thumb to his head sends those pleasant sparks radiating outward (which does indeed leave Squall to suspect he’s never done this himself) and there’s only a shake of the head from his companion.
“What?” he hisses huffily, and Leon is up between his legs and helping, reaching over in a blur as his hand wraps around Squall’s and squeezes and the boy groans because that’s almost too much -- almost. But he’s a good little soldier, waits patiently, continues with the adult’s patient strokes and using his hand like it’s a puppet’s string.
Inside. Pouring, spilling, entering, whatever fucking verb you wanted to use for it, it was white-hot and sharp and delicious and -- and angled, Squall could barely register as his skin shivered and came alive. Leon somewhere above him made a soft ‘hmph’, presumably in response to his question, a that’s what buried in his throat and unsaid. He could accept that. He could not care just as much as the rest of them, give into the pleasure of losing control and losing faith and losing something perhaps far more precious, just as Leon and Cloud had done so many years ago when he and the man above him shared more than a face, but a name -- and names are so much more powerful, more secretive.
Leon finger-fucks him until he’s raw, ready, wanting more than just what those slim digits can offer. There’s hesitation suddenly on the fellow gunslinger, and that’s when Squall’s patience runs thin. He releases himself and shoves the man over, straddling him and leaving arrogance out of the way even as he doesn’t spare a glance to this dusty mirror.
It’s okay, it’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay.
Those aren’t the promises as Squall’s hips lower and Leon’s hands grip them tight, tight, too tight, like a fucking vice or a monk clinging to prayer beads and reiterating a mantra. But there’s no God here, and there’s no author writing something about Stranger Than Fiction. There’s just two people fucking because they need it, because moving is the only means to getting away , getting away from a life that is full of tragedy and empty bullet shells and wet gunpowder firing off blanks.
Both of them would’ve laughed at that pun if they had thought of it.
Squall squirms in the man’s grasp, finding it too constricting and just right at the same time, squeezing down on those broad, broad shoulders. Hurry the fuck up, he wants to rasp at him, but all he can manage is leaning against the sweat-tossed brown tresses that hang clumsily on his neck and give his quiet whines and fucking mewls for more. Obliged (for, it’s obligation?) and them some, hips rolling up, watching that nexus of where he enters and so leaves the plaint body, finally relinquishing a hip to finish the job the own boy’s hands had started.
He comes beautifully. Hard, choked, hissing just below his ear, dragging nails down his back that burn red lines and Leon turns just so they curve like long, draped wings over his shoulder blades (though, of course, he wouldn’t realize this later until mulling over what he had done and mentally abusing himself in the mirror and he would think “hunh, look at that” in his dry, flat voice). It’s hot and sharp and pulsating on his hand, and Leon’s grip goes iron-tight again, making the kid twitch at how harsh it is with the spasms already wrecking his body, and then he feels liquid heat and tightness and looseness and some sort of completion all at the same time.
Squall collapses in an exhausted heap into the covers, body shivering and coiling up. Leon pants and breathes and takes it all in and examines -- and once again he sees the sharp, dark lines that are a youthful, spent Cloud instead of an exhausted, finished Squall.
He reaches out, just to touch, just for … for the smallest--
And Squall smacks his hand away.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but whoever you’re thinking about … I’m not that person.”
For the first time in his adult life, Leon can say he’s truly … unabashedly shocked. He pulls his stung hand back slowly, examines the red beginning to blossom …
And then just laughs and shakes his head.
This can’t be a good sign of things to come.
Zack wrote Cloud/Squall.
I felt compelled write Leon/Squall. A few references tie into those two fics given to me (and just me~~ ♥) , and onnnly they will probably get it. Enjoy, boys.
The air was thick and palpable, either from the static between two men (or, rather, a boy and a man--) who really shouldn’t be faced with each other or simply just the weight of knowing worlds could be colliding and imploding and rent to shreds from the union. Squall sits with his legs folded, shoulders neat and flawless, spine erect, eyes piercing. Leon has a more humble take, a more weathered take, masculine and carved hands criss-crossed between his legs.
Already Squall hates those hands. Ages, strong, stern, even beneath gloves. He knows his own like daintier, more effeminate (the way his face does, round instead of edged, smooth instead of angles).
Neither one of them knows how it happens. How it starts. And usually that’s the most important part, at least for Leon, who is always calculating and predicting and having such a firm grip on things. He can’t factor this one out. He can’t think it through so much that it starts making sense, even in his own twisted logic. There’s nothing to grasp, no hope that this was something even resembling premeditation, and … that scares Leon most of all.
Squall doesn’t seem to notice.
Of course, he wouldn’t. Stupid kid.
But Leon is used to this island, used to making up excuses and learning to keep that growing hate for himself held within. No one’s touched it yet. No one will.
It’s the only part of him that’s just like glass, and the biggest part of him that’s as sharp as when it’s broken.
Squall still doesn’t notice, too busy breathing through parted lips and swallowing back hard, moving those tendons and muscles that Leon, either way, finds himself looking at. The shift of flesh, the way it stretches carefully over the boy’s tight body, a spitting image of Leon when he was a kid and had--…
Why was that image coming back to him now? Fumbling fingers behind the school yard, loose belts and zippers and the way, nine years ago, his best friend had been much more vocal--
No. He had to shake it off. He’d had enough of ghosts haunting his dreams, he didn’t need them in wakefulness. Not when he had someone else (else? not … himself?) tugging and jerking at the belts to free him from his confines, wanting more, needing more. The kid’s ravenous hands tugged off jacket and shirt, palming over carved muscles (thinking, maybe he’d have them for himself some day, broad and thick and--and scarred). There’s quiet curiosity in his icy gaze, a few shades bluer than the grey Leon’s holds.
Squall licks his lips. Leon watches Cloud do it in his mind’s eye, and it’s already making him hard.
This is going to have to be enough. Neither of them have anything left to give, but Squall’s stark experience (which shouldn’t surprise Leon, not really, the way he’s thinking about his childhood fantasies anyway…) and Leon’s dark self-hate.
Self-hate so much that here he is, a parallel, a young mirror on top of him …
It should have bothered him.
Squall’s mouth comes down in a sharp connection, stinging and swelling like a blow to the face, but all the elder does against it is grunt, fisting cloth and pulling apart their harming kiss just long enough to rip of his clothes. The youth winces instinctively at the sound, knowing he’s going to regret it in the moment, but … for now … for now, he just can’t, too transfixed on the way Leon’s body moves below him, accommodating and hot (not just warm - warm is for girls like Rinoa and … and witches) to the touch, almost so much that it seems like he feels fever coming off the man.
A fever of motor oils and musk and worn-in leather. There is silent awe even as he entangles himself around Leon’s tongue, drawing and trapping secret words and dialects off of it, like why the stars flicker out in his world and about a kid wielding light who’s sworn to save the universe and -- and someone else, someone more important, someone … someone who has a bitter taste, even in the shadows.
It’s too intimate.
Leon pulls away and Squall complies, moving his hips in a smooth circle just enough to tease, and patience is both damned and praised. It’s kind of funny that Squall figures it out so quickly, that those little buckles on the sides can just be unhinged and the whole line unzips and the fabric just falls off of him. Leon is naked quicker than he can remember in any tryst (though there are some very close seconds -- himself and Cloud in the boy’s locker room with just towels, for instance) and that warm mouth is on him, kissing him everywhere but where he wants it.
And Squall knows where he wants it, but won’t oblige. Instead he slides off and leaves Leon grimacing (for two reasons; one: cold, two: where the fuck are you going?) and watching. Attention caught, there’s a wicked gleam in those icy eyes, the youth’s naked hands running down over his chest.
His … also carved … dipped chest.
Leon sees. And quietly approves, though his face belies nothing of this singular truth.
Squall knows either way. The ravish is lost (but not the edge: that dangerous, tilted edge that he’s barely balancing on anyhow) as he dexterously works all those belt buckles, tugging through innumerable loops and it seems like too long, too fucking long until he gets the damn things out, even if he can be pulled into the mesmeric shift and lull of his hips. Leon realizes with a startling growl in his own mind that he wants to fuck ‘em: brutally, harshly, roughly until he feels this younger version of himself collapsing with too much, too much.
He doesn’t think it’s going to happen that way. He knows it isn’t. He knows this isn’t exactly him, these aren’t the same tastes, the same experiences … he knows Squall Leonheart is still Squall Leonheart and hasn’t -- nor may ever -- go simply by “Leon”.
It doesn’t stop him from needing that contact, though.
Finally the dull thud of leather dropping, boots kicked off, and a fully nude glory. It’s a fine figure -- perhaps not one Michelangelo would carve into a man of God and a symbol of romantic freedom for centuries … but a fine one just the same. This is the trade-off. Leon’s breath hitches in utter silence as Squall crawls back at him like a hungry lion on the prairie stalking already fallen prey. He just needs to scare off the lionesses. The pride of the savannah, after all.
But this isn’t what Leon expects. Instead of that immediate contact, Squall just roughly kicks apart his knees and sits, facing him. A moment of puzzlement passes him until the boy’s ankles come on either side of his waist and he leans back to lay down on the mattress, sinking softly. More hands down his chest, over his hips, feeling the eyes on him with heavy eroticism and the desire is palpable until finally his own hand wraps dutifully around himself and strokes -- in one solid, long movement.
A small, unexpected groan leaves Leon.
Squall’s smirk grows (as well as another nondescript location).
He wants to help, but he … can’t find it in him to move. His body feels useless, his gut too tight and coiled and sending burning messages from his groin and right out to his fingertips, making them practically singe the bedding he grips with purpose. Squall’s already been panting and he finally moans as he continues to jack himself off, hips giving the smallest squirm. Leon wonders if he’s ever done this before (some people find it useless or degrading or below them, a problem that Leon himself never really had, not after nine years of never having a strong, hard touch--), and if he hasn’t then Leon considers himself very blessed to be a witness. Squall gasps and moans again as he discovers that pressing a thumb to his head sends those pleasant sparks radiating outward (which does indeed leave Squall to suspect he’s never done this himself) and there’s only a shake of the head from his companion.
“What?” he hisses huffily, and Leon is up between his legs and helping, reaching over in a blur as his hand wraps around Squall’s and squeezes and the boy groans because that’s almost too much -- almost. But he’s a good little soldier, waits patiently, continues with the adult’s patient strokes and using his hand like it’s a puppet’s string.
Inside. Pouring, spilling, entering, whatever fucking verb you wanted to use for it, it was white-hot and sharp and delicious and -- and angled, Squall could barely register as his skin shivered and came alive. Leon somewhere above him made a soft ‘hmph’, presumably in response to his question, a that’s what buried in his throat and unsaid. He could accept that. He could not care just as much as the rest of them, give into the pleasure of losing control and losing faith and losing something perhaps far more precious, just as Leon and Cloud had done so many years ago when he and the man above him shared more than a face, but a name -- and names are so much more powerful, more secretive.
Leon finger-fucks him until he’s raw, ready, wanting more than just what those slim digits can offer. There’s hesitation suddenly on the fellow gunslinger, and that’s when Squall’s patience runs thin. He releases himself and shoves the man over, straddling him and leaving arrogance out of the way even as he doesn’t spare a glance to this dusty mirror.
It’s okay, it’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay.
Those aren’t the promises as Squall’s hips lower and Leon’s hands grip them tight, tight, too tight, like a fucking vice or a monk clinging to prayer beads and reiterating a mantra. But there’s no God here, and there’s no author writing something about Stranger Than Fiction. There’s just two people fucking because they need it, because moving is the only means to getting away , getting away from a life that is full of tragedy and empty bullet shells and wet gunpowder firing off blanks.
Both of them would’ve laughed at that pun if they had thought of it.
Squall squirms in the man’s grasp, finding it too constricting and just right at the same time, squeezing down on those broad, broad shoulders. Hurry the fuck up, he wants to rasp at him, but all he can manage is leaning against the sweat-tossed brown tresses that hang clumsily on his neck and give his quiet whines and fucking mewls for more. Obliged (for, it’s obligation?) and them some, hips rolling up, watching that nexus of where he enters and so leaves the plaint body, finally relinquishing a hip to finish the job the own boy’s hands had started.
He comes beautifully. Hard, choked, hissing just below his ear, dragging nails down his back that burn red lines and Leon turns just so they curve like long, draped wings over his shoulder blades (though, of course, he wouldn’t realize this later until mulling over what he had done and mentally abusing himself in the mirror and he would think “hunh, look at that” in his dry, flat voice). It’s hot and sharp and pulsating on his hand, and Leon’s grip goes iron-tight again, making the kid twitch at how harsh it is with the spasms already wrecking his body, and then he feels liquid heat and tightness and looseness and some sort of completion all at the same time.
Squall collapses in an exhausted heap into the covers, body shivering and coiling up. Leon pants and breathes and takes it all in and examines -- and once again he sees the sharp, dark lines that are a youthful, spent Cloud instead of an exhausted, finished Squall.
He reaches out, just to touch, just for … for the smallest--
And Squall smacks his hand away.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but whoever you’re thinking about … I’m not that person.”
For the first time in his adult life, Leon can say he’s truly … unabashedly shocked. He pulls his stung hand back slowly, examines the red beginning to blossom …
And then just laughs and shakes his head.
This can’t be a good sign of things to come.