Title: A Quiet Division of Guilt
Author: Renaissance Makoto
Fandom: FF8
Pairing: Squall/Laguna
Warnings: AU, non-consensual sex, incest
Summary: Squall decided long ago that he wanted more. What Laguna wants doesn't matter.
Author's Note: Saw this in my head an hour ago and said, "Okay!" I haven't written in so long I can't be picky when the bug bites, so here is my meager offering. It's not happy or funny and non-con means non-con, so be warned! Not beta-read. Comments very welcome!

Laguna took a deep breath, wished he had the strength to turn, to fight. His arms were free to move, but he felt paralyzed, still confused and afraid. Under all of it was acid-burn guilt and slowly rolling regret he couldn't quite place.

For a mad moment, he wished for something to see more interesting than the bland corridor of his hallway, lined with photos of innocent memories that were even now being ruined by the scene playing out before them. At the very least, he wished this were happening somewhere else, someplace with no memories to stare at and be stared at by. So not his bedroom, no. Not with the photo of Squall on the nightstand in his dress uniform, staring at them with those sharp, cold, knowing eyes. Not with the big, soft bed that might have given Squall more, worse ideas. No, somewhere neutral-the kitchen perhaps. The dining room.

Squall, pressed against him like this, felt taller and bigger than he really was. He'd always been so strong; his arms were unmovable. They were wrapped around Laguna's chest, squeezing too hard, squeezing the air out of his lungs.

"No," Laguna wheezed-so much weaker than his earlier protests. Squall just pulled him tighter. His breath was hot and moist on Laguna's neck and jaw, ragged and heavy. That sound-lust-filled and desperate, a little crazed-was enough by itself for Laguna to understand what exactly Squall wanted, but what really made the point inescapable was the hardening length of Squall's cock pushing against his ass, thrusting ever so slightly as if Squall couldn't stop himself.

Laguna tried to jerk away, but it only made the arms around his chest slip down. And when Squall's hands settled again, they settled just below his ribs. "Ahh," was the noise Squall made once everything was still once more-Laguna's hips still and the cries of 'no' silent; Squall's steady grind against his ass halted, his heavy breathing even and almost calm. Laguna blinked the sweat from his eyes, let them wander to a photo he had always loved: Squall's birthday, 8 years ago. More? Squall looking boyish and good and-

"No!" Laguna repeated because now it was very clear what Squall intended to do. What he intended...

And Laguna couldn't let him. His mind screamed a million things at him-all of them about fear and change and what it would take to stop time, rewind it-

Squall's hands never stopped pulling Laguna against him, but they were, undeniably, moving down, down.

Laguna scrambled, somehow found the strength to get hold of Squall's hands with his own, to tug back up, trying to stop their steady progress. It was like arm wrestling against gravity, like trying to lift a mountain. "Please, Squall. Don't do this. I'm your father. Please stop, don't-"

More sweat streamed down his face, mixed with the tears at the corners of his eyes. Squall's hands made it to his belt buckle and Laguna's arms were shaking, trying to stop what he knew now was inevitable.

With a final, superhuman jerk downwards, Squall's hands settled hard against his groin, finding Laguna's shame. Laguna couldn't stop himself from crying out, but he tried. Just like he kept trying to tug Squall's hands away, kept trying to struggle free.

"God, Laguna. Yes. You want this," Squall groaned. His hand flexed, the heel of his hand pushed in just so and it was the worst pleasure of Laguna's life. He jerked again when he felt his cock start to leak, a fat drop of come pushing to the tip, buried underneath his boxers and jeans and the struggle he was losing.

"No!" he screamed.

But Squall began rocking his hips in earnest now, pushing his cock hard against Laguna and pushing Laguna's groin ruthlessly into their joined hands. It was like being forced to walk through hot coals, like letting himself be raped by heat and his guts churned with a release barely held back. After a minute, Laguna's hands fell away, his head tilted back against Squall's shoulder. Then he was just holding on, one arm twisted back and over his head, clutching at Squall's neck, the other a fist he bit down on so hard his knuckles bled. It was surrender, resignation and he hated himself for it.

Squall was grunting something over and over, a string of nasty words, promises and threats and Laguna could feel his son's cock pulse followed by the spray of hot/wet soaking into his shirt; hear Squall come cursing out his name and worse, so much worse.

And he knew he was doomed, that the too hard friction, the rub of denim burning him, melting him-all of it was going to make him come like he'd never wanted to.

Come, come apart like a teen in his son's arms, surrounded by photos that had all been a lie. He looked at the birthday photo again, blinked the sweat from his eyes to see Squall's expression from all those years ago. And how had Laguna not seen? Messy-haired and bright eyed, Squall was not looking at his cake or at the candles he was to blow out. He was not looking at his friends. He wasn't laughing and his eyes were dark, hooded, turned dark by something *wrong*.

And those eyes were trained on Laguna who held him in his lap, obliviously singing Happy Birthday. Laguna who was smiling like a fool, unaware of Squall's hand on his neck, his thumb gently resting by his ear; of Squall's other hand on his chest, just over his heart, like he'd been trying to steal it, even then.

Laguna didn't feel it build up, didn't know how it happened. He arched, screamed around his knuckled and felt like his throat had been scratched with sandpaper, burned with acid. More hot, more wet, this time his own come, and Squall didn't stop rubbing, stop grinding his hand into Laguna as if he thought he could make him climax again if he just pushed harder, demanded more.

It hurt and Laguna could only choke out, "Stop," before his legs gave out.

Squall caught him, manhandled him into his arms when Laguna would have crawled away, perhaps to the bathroom to vomit or just to kill himself. "It's okay," Squall whispered, covering Laguna's face with kisses as he cradled him on the carpet Laguna hadn't gotten around to vacuuming, leaning up against that damn wall with those damn photos that he would never be able to look at again.

"I've got you," Squall whispered and tried to kiss his lips. Laguna jerked his head to the side just in time and the kiss landed on the corner of his mouth instead. "Shh, I've got you," Squall whispered against his skin. He didn't sound hurt by Laguna's rejection; his voice was patient, calm, as if whatever demons drove him had been sated for now.

And Laguna felt his stomach turn and his face burn because he knew Squall's words were true, that they had maybe always been true, and that nothing was ever going to be right again.

Squall had him-had greedily laid claim to him in every way he could now-and Laguna didn't know how to fix it. Sometime when Laguna wasn't looking, Squall had decided that father and friend weren't enough-had decided to force Laguna to be his lover as well. Laguna didn't know what he would do when Squall decided that even that wasn't enough. He had nothing more to give him after this. Nothing.

Squall shifted against the wall, pulled Laguna closer, and Laguna finally let go of his tears when that accursed picture suddenly rattled off the wall, hit hard, and sent glass tumbling across the carpet. Mostly, he guessed, he was crying for himself. The rest of it...

The rest was for Squall. For the little boy in the picture he'd never really understood.