Memories Stolen, Memories Lost by Final-Fantasy-VIII, literature
Literature
Memories Stolen, Memories Lost
There are voices -- he can hear them, garbled and faint in the back of his mind, beneath the veil of faltering lucidity that threatens to buckle, to fold and leave him a more broken mess than he already was. His eyes flicker open, dark blue-gray rimmed in red, the bruises marking pale skin just above the too-sharp rise of his cheekbones contrasting so greatly that they almost seem painted on, the stroke of a paintbrush over once flawless cream smearing blue and purple in such a way that it should have been beautiful. A battered canvas covered in shimmering hues, reminiscient of days spent wrapped in a warmth that no longer existed. He picks h
/What a skeletal wreck of a man this is. Translucent flesh and feeble bones, the kind of temple where the whores and villians try to tempt the holistic tomes/.
I look the same to you. Outwardly, at least. The same gloating, arrogant smile, the same dismissive air of careful indifference -- for everyone but you. You .. were always different from the rest of them. You /understood/, and you didn't even have to try. It was the one thing I could count on to stay consistent, to stay the same -- that little upward curve of your mouth when I said something out of line, the subtle shake of your head that always made your hair fall into your eyes. It
/I'm fine/.
He keeps telling himself this, repeating it within the stillness in the back of his mind like a mantra. A prayer, a plea. /I'm fine. I'm fine, by myself. I don't need them. I don't need /anyone//.
Because it's always been him. He thinks he'll always ever have only himself to rely on, and that fact alone keeps him from reaching out, from taking the outstretched hand that offers the faintest bit of stability.
/See, there's this boy who has all the answers, but I say that I don't need them .. cause I can find my happiness, close to my heart.
And along the way, in a different world, of a different time, of a different man -- you w
It was somewhere between two and three in the morning -- of that, Squall was certain, but the technicality of the exact time eluded him. It was late, and everyone that considered themselves a functioning member of society was asleep. Had been for a few hours, at /least/.
That simple fact was precisely the reason he was more than just a bit irritated by the knock that sounded on his bedroom door. It was soft, but persistent -- as though an overzealous woodpecker had seen fit to take up residence in the corridor /just/ outside his room. He groaned softly under his breath and threw the blanket back, swung his legs over the side of the bed and s
At first, all he registered was the cold. It had seeped beneath his skin, burrowed into his very bones; he shivered lightly and tried to sit up, braced a hand against the wall and shoved himself up onto his elbows. He forced his eyes open, blurred gaze trained on a far corner of the room. Where the hell am I?
Answers seemed few and far between until the noise began outside -- muffled voices, an order barked from one to another and the door opened with a low hiss, filtered light spilling in from wherever out there was. A figure stood prone in the doorway, and Squall lifted his head despite the protest of every muscle in his neck and shoulders
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 --
"There are no second chances."
"Seifer, you don't have to --"
"Do it, Leonhart."
The brunet stood silent, the blue-gray of his eyes darkening as the other sneered down at him, the curl of his lip far more sincere than the jade fire burning in his own gaze. "Or do I have to start calling you chickenwuss too?"
Squall shook his head. "I'm not doing it." I can't.
The blond growled, low and feral, almost a snarl and shoved him back against the wall. "You're a fucking coward. You always have been."
He hadn't realized he'd pulled the trigger until he saw the bright red stain blossoming across the front of the other's shirt. His eyes widened, m
There was something about the way he breathed, the subtle rise and fall of his chest in sleep that tugged his mouth into the softest ghost of a smile. His gaze followed the curve of his spine, bare skin above the sheet draped over his hips, sleek and smooth. The brunet shifted, rolled halfway onto his back and tucked his chin against his chest, and for a moment Seifer thought he'd wake; Squall merely sighed, dark brows furrowed above eyes lightly shut, and fell still.
He thought back to the question he'd been confronted with earlier -- "What the hell took you so long?" Looking at him now, body completely bare beneath the bedclothes, skin alm
There are moments when he can feel it -- the eyes on him, the heated gaze that raises the hair on the back of his neck, but makes his cheeks flush. It makes his stomach drop through the floor, and all he gets when he looks up is a sneer promptly followed by, "The hell you lookin' at, Leonhart?"
He doesn't understand why it bothers him that all they ever exchange are blows and insults.
He doesn't understand why the insults cut deeper than his gunblade ever could.
He bides his time, keeps quiet. He's not supposed to care about anyone in Garden, anyway.
~_~
There are moments when all he wants to do is kiss him -- grab him by the collar of t
Somewhere In Between by Final-Fantasy-VIII, literature
Literature
Somewhere In Between
He's dreaming again. He knows, because there's no way Seifer would ever smile like that. Maybe, but it almost doesn't feel right.
The touch of hands on hips, fingertips ghosting over his skin beneath his shirt, and he figures it doesn't matter. Dreams are dreams, and no matter how desperately he clings to them, they always fade at first light.
He enjoys it while he can.
The blond shifts a little closer, fingers dancing over the cage of his ribs, and Squall groans low in the back of his throat. The other grins, and leans down to press a small, teasing kiss to his lips. "I've barely even touched you," he murmurs, voice already reduced
Memories Stolen, Memories Lost by Final-Fantasy-VIII, literature
Literature
Memories Stolen, Memories Lost
There are voices -- he can hear them, garbled and faint in the back of his mind, beneath the veil of faltering lucidity that threatens to buckle, to fold and leave him a more broken mess than he already was. His eyes flicker open, dark blue-gray rimmed in red, the bruises marking pale skin just above the too-sharp rise of his cheekbones contrasting so greatly that they almost seem painted on, the stroke of a paintbrush over once flawless cream smearing blue and purple in such a way that it should have been beautiful. A battered canvas covered in shimmering hues, reminiscient of days spent wrapped in a warmth that no longer existed. He picks h
/What a skeletal wreck of a man this is. Translucent flesh and feeble bones, the kind of temple where the whores and villians try to tempt the holistic tomes/.
I look the same to you. Outwardly, at least. The same gloating, arrogant smile, the same dismissive air of careful indifference -- for everyone but you. You .. were always different from the rest of them. You /understood/, and you didn't even have to try. It was the one thing I could count on to stay consistent, to stay the same -- that little upward curve of your mouth when I said something out of line, the subtle shake of your head that always made your hair fall into your eyes. It
/I'm fine/.
He keeps telling himself this, repeating it within the stillness in the back of his mind like a mantra. A prayer, a plea. /I'm fine. I'm fine, by myself. I don't need them. I don't need /anyone//.
Because it's always been him. He thinks he'll always ever have only himself to rely on, and that fact alone keeps him from reaching out, from taking the outstretched hand that offers the faintest bit of stability.
/See, there's this boy who has all the answers, but I say that I don't need them .. cause I can find my happiness, close to my heart.
And along the way, in a different world, of a different time, of a different man -- you w
It was somewhere between two and three in the morning -- of that, Squall was certain, but the technicality of the exact time eluded him. It was late, and everyone that considered themselves a functioning member of society was asleep. Had been for a few hours, at /least/.
That simple fact was precisely the reason he was more than just a bit irritated by the knock that sounded on his bedroom door. It was soft, but persistent -- as though an overzealous woodpecker had seen fit to take up residence in the corridor /just/ outside his room. He groaned softly under his breath and threw the blanket back, swung his legs over the side of the bed and s
At first, all he registered was the cold. It had seeped beneath his skin, burrowed into his very bones; he shivered lightly and tried to sit up, braced a hand against the wall and shoved himself up onto his elbows. He forced his eyes open, blurred gaze trained on a far corner of the room. Where the hell am I?
Answers seemed few and far between until the noise began outside -- muffled voices, an order barked from one to another and the door opened with a low hiss, filtered light spilling in from wherever out there was. A figure stood prone in the doorway, and Squall lifted his head despite the protest of every muscle in his neck and shoulders
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 --
"There are no second chances."
"Seifer, you don't have to --"
"Do it, Leonhart."
The brunet stood silent, the blue-gray of his eyes darkening as the other sneered down at him, the curl of his lip far more sincere than the jade fire burning in his own gaze. "Or do I have to start calling you chickenwuss too?"
Squall shook his head. "I'm not doing it." I can't.
The blond growled, low and feral, almost a snarl and shoved him back against the wall. "You're a fucking coward. You always have been."
He hadn't realized he'd pulled the trigger until he saw the bright red stain blossoming across the front of the other's shirt. His eyes widened, m
There was something about the way he breathed, the subtle rise and fall of his chest in sleep that tugged his mouth into the softest ghost of a smile. His gaze followed the curve of his spine, bare skin above the sheet draped over his hips, sleek and smooth. The brunet shifted, rolled halfway onto his back and tucked his chin against his chest, and for a moment Seifer thought he'd wake; Squall merely sighed, dark brows furrowed above eyes lightly shut, and fell still.
He thought back to the question he'd been confronted with earlier -- "What the hell took you so long?" Looking at him now, body completely bare beneath the bedclothes, skin alm
There are moments when he can feel it -- the eyes on him, the heated gaze that raises the hair on the back of his neck, but makes his cheeks flush. It makes his stomach drop through the floor, and all he gets when he looks up is a sneer promptly followed by, "The hell you lookin' at, Leonhart?"
He doesn't understand why it bothers him that all they ever exchange are blows and insults.
He doesn't understand why the insults cut deeper than his gunblade ever could.
He bides his time, keeps quiet. He's not supposed to care about anyone in Garden, anyway.
~_~
There are moments when all he wants to do is kiss him -- grab him by the collar of t
Somewhere In Between by Final-Fantasy-VIII, literature
Literature
Somewhere In Between
He's dreaming again. He knows, because there's no way Seifer would ever smile like that. Maybe, but it almost doesn't feel right.
The touch of hands on hips, fingertips ghosting over his skin beneath his shirt, and he figures it doesn't matter. Dreams are dreams, and no matter how desperately he clings to them, they always fade at first light.
He enjoys it while he can.
The blond shifts a little closer, fingers dancing over the cage of his ribs, and Squall groans low in the back of his throat. The other grins, and leans down to press a small, teasing kiss to his lips. "I've barely even touched you," he murmurs, voice already reduced
~*~Purpose~*~
The purpose of this club is for you, the Final Fantasy VIII fan, to have a place to come and support the game.
~*~Rules~*~
1. Must be a fan of Final Fantasy VIII.
2. You can submit fanfiction, icons, fanart, etc.
3. Don't forget to deviwatch us and add our club icon to your journal.
~*~Joining~*~
To join just send the club a note asking to join and you'll be added.
~*~Submitting Art~*~
To submit art, just send the club a note with the link to your artwork in it and it'll be posted.
~*~Founder~*~
~Before-I-Sleep (https://www.deviantart.com/before-i-sleep)
~*~Members~*~
:iconCloudXtrife: :iconGizenya: :iconFallenAzarathAngel: :icon7Mp: :iconLudra-Jenova: :