Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VIII or anything of its characters.

So, you made it. You became everything we knew you would, Commander. But that's okay; it would never have been me. Things don't work out like that. I'm better off here, where at least I can be someone's hero. They'll kill me before I leave. But that's not a problem.

Sometimes I thought about going back to it all. I thought about escaping and returning to what I'd left behind; being an arrogant prick. I'd go back to you, and you'd still hate me, and we'd still spar in the Training Centre, us two knights, fighting hard into the early hours. But I'm a long way from home now.

Do they worry about you, Commander? Do your friends cry for you? Do you feel alone? Sometimes I hate her, Squall, because I know I'm nothing to her. But I hate them more, because they want so desperately for you to love them like they love you. Guess what Squall; I'm alone, I'm bleeding.

It's not all that bad. They'll never satisfy your hunger: at least I have that. Sometimes I think about returning to you, because I want to smell your fear and see your hatred so badly. Sometimes I need your heat and your pain more than anything. I'd kill just to know that I still had that strong hold on you, to know that no one else can take from you what I can.

Do you remember that blissful red, hot anger? I do.

When the nights are long I think about fighting you. I think about midnight in the Training Centre. "What the fuck do you want?" I take in the hot, humid air, and pull at my trench coat. "Fight me." It's a statement, not a question, because I know you can't walk away from me. You've been training long and hard all night, and you pull at your own coat, hot and sticky on the skin. I slice through the air with all the rage and frustration my forsaken life has blessed me with. I glory the blood and sweat as we waltz, chests pounding hard, and my anger venting itself into you. There's always been a beautiful clarity in my hurt whenever I could draw Hyperion to Lionheart. Our blades collide in a great surge of energy; you're eyes slicing into mine. A ghost of a smile dances within your eyes when I can't take it any more. A shiver courses through me.

I'm quick to push you to the ground, when I don't give a fuck about weapons anymore and the only thing I need is control. "Seifer..." Your voice is full of the fear I crave as I abandon Hyperion and stand over you. I kick away your blade, and move down onto you. You tense beneath me before I deliver the first blow. Your startled cry consumes me, now as I hold your wrists high above your head and punch the anger into you. I don't stop until you spit in my face. I'm still holding you in place, my left cheek wet and a mad misplaced grin spread across my face when I claim your lips. I force my mouth onto yours, taking you roughly. You bite my tongue and I snarl down at you and punch you again in the face. "Good boy." This time I go nice and deep into your mouth, bruising your lips as I go. All the while you make this pathetic whimpering sound which only makes me want to humiliate you more.

You catch me off guard. This is when I remember how you've got this hold on me too; when you start moving that wonderful tongue against mine. You move your broken face right up as close as you can and bruise my lips pretty good too. This is the point where I stop thinking, and when I want more of that lithe little body inside of me. My anger subsides. A sickly heat begins to consume me as I feel myself growing hard. You've got the upper hand.

I pull away from our kiss with a cold sweat. You're breathing hard and staring up at me with anticipation. Somewhere deep inside I consider exploring more of you just to hear that whimper again. Reaching out behind me and finding those tight leather trousers, I squeeze your hard ache, and you growl in frustration, like you've never hated yourself more. I smile triumphantly and squeeze you again, never letting go of your wrists.

The white cotton rides up over your stomach and my eyes are drawn to the tight, toned skin there. The switch blade in my pocket collides with my leg when I advance forward onto you, as if to remind me of its presence. I lick my lips when I draw it; the fear spreads across your purple face, making me want to kiss you harder than before. I bring it close to your stomach. Those usually clouded, uncaring eyes follow the tip of the metal as it travels down to your abdomen. "I'm gonna let go of you, but if you move, my knife might…slip." I smile when I release you. You lay frozen, your eyes still trained on my hands. I bring the knife to your shirt and tear the material neatly up the middle. The sweat collects on my fingertips as I sweep across your form. Sharp pain shoots through my jaw as your fist collides with my face. A rich manic laughter erupts from my throat when I feel the blood on my face, because you've been stupid enough not to obey me. Panic twists on your face as I grind you hard into the ground. Sinking all of my weight onto you as you try to escape, I begin attacking your neck with my lips. "Mmm, feels good doesn't it?" You don't answer, but instead you struggle and punch and bite with a persistence that matches my desire.

I remember wanting to fuck you into the ground. "You're a fucking bastard." I sat up knowing that you wouldn't last much longer if persisted at this rate. I direct my attention to my own clothing; pulling at my own shirt and watching you grow uncomfortable. I relish in the knowledge that I can make your body disobey you; make you want to surrender yourself to me. It makes me so hot, Commander.

Within the time it takes to redirect my attention, I think about how you're going to scream when I fuck you. I would have had you right there on the dirty fucking ground, feeling you right there against my thigh. I knead you, watching your eyes close, hearing your breath hitch. I stand up over your broken body, watching your face turn away in shame. "Get on your knees." I pull myself out and see the look of fear on your face. I lick my lips when you crawl to my feet, holding my breath as that long pink tongue tastes me. I'm almost doing that pathetic whimpering now and knotting my hands in your hair because you've licked me so good. I thrust my hurt and anguish deep into your mouth. I pull out of you and bring you close to nuzzle me and use those lips wherever you can get them. Desire eats me. This time I'm thrusting deep into your healing head again with a new kind of urgency and impatience. That's when you bite me. I hate the pain of being plucked from my reverie and my solace. I punch you in the face for not playing nicely and you fall to the ground with my pain. "If it doesn't go in your mouth then it's going somewhere else." Sinking to my knees, I push you to your stomach as you struggle. I pull at those stupid leather trousers and grind my hips into yours. You tense and moan low in your throat like you can't control yourself.

My hunger pushes me onwards. I don't care about the dirty fucking ground anymore, because I need to fuck my starvation away. Spreading your legs I position myself. You don't make any move to stop me, and I smile and grip your hips, before crushing deep into you. I remember your blissful cries of pain as I claimed more and more of you. The intensity of my pain does not deter me, because my pain is yours.

For the second time I stopped thinking. I remember the hot, painful pressure of you. I remember the way you pushed so hard back onto me, like you were venting your own humiliation and anger back onto my ache, that I feel so hot and ready for you even now. I remember your screams as you came hard and how you begged me to stop when I kept grinding hard and fast. I remember your whimpering when I came hot and heavy deep inside of you.

I can forget the cold and the apprehension that sometimes likes to swell in my chest; I just remember making my hurt your humiliation. I don't care that the world hates me Commander, because you do too.

XxX

A fan fiction by MadelineMoon.

Hope you enjoyed

x