Pairings: Squall/Sora, unrequited Riku/Sora
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Owned by Squaresoft, Disney, et al.
Summary: Riku's terminally straight; Sora's horny; Squall's available.
A/N: Be forewarned—this is a peculiar child of a peculiar brain. Whether the reader may find anything worthy of approbation, the author cannot say—except that she hopes the reader will show enough human respect and dignity to refrain from sacrificing her upon the alter of the reader's indignation. Thank you most kindly for your time and for, if you may be so inclined, a memento of your visit in the form of a review. The author is, as always, the humble and pitiable servant of your entertainment.
::Liquid Delicious::
His cock's about to explode out of his shorts. Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. But that's the problem, or at least the lack of it. Where is he? He'd better be home. This monster isn't going to take care of itself. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fu-uck.
Sora tackles Squall in the living room. Clawing open the older man's shirt—buttons scattering, ping ping ping—and sucking deep marks along his neck, the boy groans and whimpers and writhes. Strong hands attempt to pry him away, or at least settle him down, but he won't let them. He needs this. He's going to die. He really is. His dick is so hard, like granite or diamond.
"Sora! Sora, stop for—shit. Hold on. Just—!"
Sora dives for the zipper on Squall's jeans as he rocks his clothed cock in the furrow between the older man's closed legs. Squall has one hand against his forehead, forcing his head back, and the other against his shoulder. Sora growls in frustration as he scrabbles wildly at the closing of the man's pants. Must get it. Must get it.
"Squall!"
"Breathe and calm down for a goddamn second."
He obeys—at least the first part of the command. Squirming and whining as he straddles his guardian's knees, he pulls in a few deeps breaths and scratches at the rough material stretched across the older man's thighs. Calm. Calm. Ca-a-alm. He squeezes his thighs together.
"You look like you have to pee," Squall says, filliping Sora's nose. The boy glares, digging his fingers into Squall's thighs. The man winces, but remains unrepentantly smug looking—not that anyone else would call it that, but Sora knows him. He's being smug, and Sora's still hard, still aching and wet. He doesn't want to talk and Squall is going to make him. Bastard. "Now tell me what's going on."
"Riku. It's always Riku. He was being erotic again." He paws at the wintry gold line of skin revealed by the lost buttons on Squall's white button-down shirt. "We got popsicles because it's really hot out. Really, really hot out. They started melting all over our hands." A small groan slides out between the boy's pink lips and he humps his pelvis against his guardian's knees. God. Melting all over. Sticky and sweet and cold. "Cream popsicles." He bounces a bit. Ooh. "Had to lick it up." He slides up close to the man, breathing heavily against his chest, fingers petting the hard bulge beneath the man's jeans. Right there. That's what he needs. So bad. "He kept licking and licking the popsicle and his hand, smearing it all over."
"And, unfortunately for you, he's terminally straight."
Arms encircle him and draw him close. Mmm, the smell of him: peppermint candies and allspice. Firm and strong and big. Almost like… not quite. No.
"I love you, Squall. I love you," the boy whispers, lapping at the chest beneath his flushed, sweat-dewed cheek. "Please. I need it. Please. Please. I can't… it's so hard. It hurts." He can taste his heart spreading across his tongue; he can feel the pulse of it heavy and sanguine between his trembling thighs, driving him on, driving him mad. Hot, sweet, liquid need fills his cock to bursting. "Please, help me. Please, uncle."
"You know what?" the man whispers huskily against the boy's burnt-caramel hair as he fumbles under the couch cushion, "Before you, I only had condoms and lube in the bedroom, and now I need to hide them all over the house just to keep up with you."
Yes. Yes. Sora tugs at his small shorts, his last ditch effort to attract Riku's attention—futile, like all the others. Riku's probably on his way to fuck that girl he's been dating for the past three months. She's finally giving it up. Oh yes, he told Sora all about the hotel room he's booked for the weekend on the big island—huge bed, cherry-red Jacuzzi big enough for eight people, private balcony and a view of the ocean—while sucking on that popsicle and laughing as it melted in sticky white rills over his fingers.
"I don't need it. You know I don't. You know," he says against Squall's sweaty neck as he wriggles the shorts down over his ass, his thighs. He runs into difficulties when it comes to his knees, both planted firmly on the ground to either side of his guardian's hips, but he's young and flexible. Bouncing, twisting and grinding against the older man all the while, he manages to work them underneath his bony knees, down his calves and then off. His hard cock almost slaps against his soft stomach as it pops free. Thick, musky drops of precome slide down from the flushed head, dripping down the shaft and catching in the sparse hairs covering his balls. The body beneath his freezes, and a deep growl rumbles up from the man's throat.
"There needs to be some responsibility somewhere in all of this," Squall grits out, straining to reach the supplies hidden in the couch. He gives a satisfied grunt and sweeps several packets of lube and a strip of condoms onto the beige carpet. He grabs a handful of the packets and uses his teeth to tear them open.
"Hurry. Hurry." Sora grapples with the button and zipper on Squall's jeans, fingers clumsy and awkward with need. Soon. Soon. The button finally pops free, but the metal tab of the zipper keeps slipping away from him. Nearly howling with frustrated need, he clutches the tight fabric to either side and pulls with all his strength. Something gives and the zipper teeth part with a metallic rasp.
"Shut up."
A long, slick finger shoves into his clenching hole. Sora shudders and lets out a liquid string of incomprehensible vowels. The digit pushes deeper, working him open, but not enough. Wider. Thicker. Deeper. Never enough.
The finger stills for a moment when he finally gets his young hand around Squall's cock. A husky gasp stutters past the man's lips and he bucks upward, stormy gray-blue eyes closing briefly in surrender to molten sensation. Sora releases the cock to grab up the strip of condoms and rip one loose. Shifting restlessly, fingers maddeningly uncooperative, he finally manages to open it. He fumbles it over the flushed head of his guardian's dick, as if he's still a virgin, as if he's never rolled one down his uncle's hot length before. He clinches desperately around that taunting, tantalizing finger and whines angrily. So close. Goddamn condom. Goddamn Squall and his safe sex. This could never be safe. Dangerous fucking animalism caged in ripe, throbbing flesh. Esurient. Need. Need. Need.
Riku's probably kissing her shoulders, touching her and whispering sweet reassurances. The lights low. Candles flickering. In the Jacuzzi, wet flesh sliding together.
"Please. Please."
Squall's elegant, artisan's fingers slip around his and finally the pre-lubed sheath cooperates. One hand working Sora beyond the heights of his frenzy, pushing his greedy breath out in moist gasps, the other rolling on the condom despite Sora's clumsiness—the man is talented. Only with him can Sora struggle and flail past this, past a heart too hungry to ever be satiated, past the pain driving him to spread himself open for this transgression. Past Riku.
Holding her down. Moving into her. Riku. Riku. Riku.
"I love you. Love you. It hurts. Make it stop. Please, uncle."
Sora wakes like an animal. Asleep one minute and then fiercely awake the next. He blinks away the crust gumming his lashes and stares up at the textured ceiling with hot, dry eyes. The fan stuffed into the corner by the door whines as it oscillates, churning up the sticky tropical air. Squall's gone. His queen-sized bed seems likely to drown Sora in its great expanse of gray-on-white. Sora's bed is small and neat, still sporting the blue and green comforter his mother made him before the accident. But he doesn't sleep there on weekends; he sleeps with his uncle, swimming through the sheets and settling in a sprawl of young limbs against the firm mattress, or across Squall when the man feels amenable to a bit of a cuddle.
Riku's probably had her already, several times. Bang. Bang. Bang.
A line of fire crawls up Sora's spine as he rolls over onto his side. His elbows and knees throb with a dull yet insistent pain. Carpet burns again from the—was it the second or the third time? The fourth was in this bed, Sora dry-coming and near insensate from exhaustion.
Riku and that girl are probably eating a room service breakfast right now. Curled up and feeding each other slices of juicy, sticky fruit by hand, licking the sweet spills from the corners of bruised lips.
He throws back the covers and crawls to the edge of the bed. He needs the bathroom right now. The muscles in his thighs and back scream out in red hot bursts of pain. Too much use. Too much abuse. Squall fucked him until he started crying, and then fucked him until he stopped. Filled him, albeit temporarily, and held him close. For those blurred hours of excruciating pleasure his uncle was enough; Sora's heart was small enough to love one soul wholly, ecstatically. But now his heart is expanding again, swelling within his chest and beating against his ribs, hungry for more—for Riku.
"Stop right there, Sora." His guardian stands in the doorway, freshly showered, chocolate brown hair still dripping and a beige towel knotted about his trim waist. Mmm, nice stomach. The midmorning light looks delicious as it teases over the man's damp, athletic body. "There was blood on the last condom."
Oh, that would explain a certain persistent agony in his backside. No more sex this weekend, and probably none the next—but what if Riku comes back and starts being all erotic again during the week? How will Sora survive that?
"So?"
"You're not getting out of that bed until you've healed. I was… careless. I'm sorry." The man looks like he's freshly carved from naked stone. So cold. Remote and distant. He makes everything into a matter of guilt after the fact.
"I wanted it," Sora says, trying to catch Squall's eye. "I needed it. You know that. Nothing's your fault. And… I really have to pee. Can I leave the bed for that?"
The stone cracks, crumbles, and falls away. "I suppose that's feasible." A small, awkward smile tugs at the corner of the man's mouth as he walks to Sora's side. "But you're not walking."
The accident broke something in him.
Being carried around all morning isn't such a bad thing Sora decides. Sure there's the whole threat to masculinity thing, but a tendency towards laziness and not wanting to be in bright-star-bursting agony more than excuses it. Besides, it's not like anyone else knows about this besides the two of them.
Peeing in this condition had been interesting to be sure. Unable to find a comfortable position on the seat, and standing being wholly out of the question, Sora found himself manhandled into the shower-tub and told to just let go—after all, he still needed to wash up. Then his uncle had scrubbed him clean and hadn't that been fun?
Squall doesn't look it, but he can be gentle, even tender; he hadn't even minded—much—getting wet for a second time that morning. Why can't Sora just love him, just want him?
"Because being difficult is so much fun," he mutters sarcastically into the pillow underneath his cheek, a pillow that smells of Squall and him and sex. Stomach down on the bed, wearing a pair of Squall's boxers, post-injury inspection and breakfast, with a cotton ball dipped in antibacterial ointment up his bum, Sora exhales a hot breath into the pillow and turns to give Squall, who's reading a translation of some existential German philosopher, a pointed look. I'm bored and hot, entertain me.
"Don't even think of trying to poke me," says Squall as he absentmindedly pets Sora's tangled hair with one hand and cradles the book in the other. The fan makes another pass, bathing Sora's back in tepid air. "Or provoke me."
"If you loved me, you'd—"
Three sharp raps from the front door cut him off. His heartbeat picks up, the dark organ expanding further, becoming hollow and voracious. Only one person knocks with such deliberateness, such carefully measured force and execution. But… what about the girl?
Squall is already carefully placing the book face down on the covers, stroking an elegant finger along the barely creased spine, and sliding off the bed. "Stay," he says and points at the bed. Sora rolls his eyes and buries his head back into the pillow. Squall leaves on silent feet, only the slight squeak of the door hinges announcing his exit.
That has to be Riku as nobody else has the same knock, but why? He shouldn't be back until tomorrow. It's too soon. Sora's not ready yet to laugh and smile and pretend that Riku's such a lucky bastard to have scored that hot piece of ass. But he doesn't want him to leave, oh no. God, he is pathetic. Cotton up the butt and all.
Please, don't be erotic. Please, don't be erotic. And for God's sake, don't tell me how hard and how long you fucked that girl or how good she was or how much she wanted it.
The front door opens and he strains his ears to listen to Squall and Riku's obligatory greetings and small talk, though Squall doesn't do small talk, so it's mostly halting queries on Riku's end. The door closes. Two sets of footsteps cross the small, wood-floored entry, but only one turns down into the short hallway leading to the bedrooms and bathroom-cum-laundry room; the other continues on to the kitchen-slash-living room-slash-dining room. Seconds later Riku pushes the bedroom door open, and Sora, twisting as much as his compromised body will allow to look over at him, catches the look of confusion on the older boy's pale face at finding him in his uncle's room; Sora also notices the bags under Riku's electric aqua eyes, the less than perfect hair and the rumpled clothes he was wearing when Sora saw him yesterday. Small beads of sweat hang on his upper lip and his cheeks are flushed. Riku's car doesn't have AC.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"I thought you'd be…" Sora gestures vaguely as Riku comes to Sora's side of the bed—left—dragging over the chair Squall uses as a clothes horse when he's too lazy to put his shirts away.
"She changed her mind when we got to the room," Riku says, slumping down into the wooden chair. It groans quietly under his weight, not used to having anything more than clothes on it. "Said she wasn't ready yet. Still. I thought—well, doesn't matter. I spent all night and morning driving her home. Couldn't even get my money back for the room. Thirty-thousand munny." Riku rubs the heels of his hands against his closed eyes and groans theatrically. Sora just tries to look duly sympathetic and best-friend-y. Of course, inside he's cheering and pumping his fists—but Riku doesn't need to know that, even though everything inside the younger boy is screaming at him to take advantage. No, that would be wrong. Besides, it's not like Sora's in much of a position to take advantage: he can't even leave the bed without being carried.
"You look like shit. Have you slept?" Sora asks, trying to poke Riku in the arm and drag the older boy's thoughts away from his personal misery. Sora can sympathize with that: there's nothing like being shot down. Blue balls might not kill a guy, but it sure as hell can feel that way. Rejection, whether deliberate or not, feels that way too.
"I can't even remember sleep. I just kept driving around after I dropped her off until the fuel light came on, and then I found myself here." The pale boy hisses out an exhausted laugh, a laugh laced with disappointment and frustration. "She wants to be friends. Fucking goddamn friends."
"Look, why don't you crash on my bed for a while, okay? Your parents think you're staying over anyways. Catch a few Z's and then—whatever. Good?"
Riku lowers his hands and gives Sora a look of unabashed gratitude. "Yeah, that sounds… It sounds really good. Yeah. Thanks."
"It's no problem." Nope, no problem at all. Not in the least.
The older boy starts to rise and then pauses, tired brow puckering in bewilderment. He casts a long, speculative look about the small, plain room with its off-white walls and dresser crammed up against the wall separating the two bedrooms, leaving only a foot of space between it and the queen-sized bed. A spartan room for a spartan man. Not the jumble of possessions and gewgaws that seem ready to explode from Sora's habitation, his bed the only sea of calm in the chaos. Sora's room might actually be bigger than Squall's, though it certainly doesn't seem that way.
"Why aren't you in your room?" Riku asks at last, turning those troubled eyes back to his best friend.
Sora shrugs nonchalantly. He's good at lying, or at least deflection—deception?—whatever. "Squall doesn't want to have to walk the extra four feet to my door to check on me."
"You're sick?"
"Injured. Hurt my butt falling down while sock racing on the hardwood floor. Didn't he tell you?"
"He just kind of growled at me and then said you were in here."
"My uncle's a total people person."
Riku snorts and stretches out a hand to ruffle Sora's bed-tangle hair. "Well, I guess I'll take you up on that sleep offer. Thanks, really. You're… you're pretty cool—you know, for a pipsqueak with no social skills."
Sora blows a raspberry at him.
If I love you I won't be alone.
Having a cotton ball removed from one's ass is not erotic. In fact, it's damned uncomfortable, and that's saying something since this particular ass has had an object of greater mass shoved up it before and often—well, as often as Sora can ambush, seduce, cajole or guilt trip his uncle into doing the shoving.
"Stop squirming," Squall says as he continues to work the puff out with one hand and hold Sora's lower cheeks spread with the other.
"It feels weird."
"Deal."
Sora huffs into the pillow bunched up under his chin. He drums his fingers against the mattress and winces with the small darts of stinging pain that Squall's attention produce. "They broke up. Riku and that girl. That's why he came over. She wasn't ready."
Squall flicks the dirty cotton ball into the wastebasket and then gently explores the damage done to Sora with a fingertip. He doesn't respond to Sora's comments, only continues his ministrations, stoic and unbending to human emotion, surface of stone and an inside of molten blood. The boy stares at the wood headboard, at the dark whorls and knots sanded smooth and varnished with a clear gloss. If he tilts his head just right, he can make out shallow crescent-shaped gouges picked out in shadow and light. Squall massages in cool antiseptic ointment, circling around and around and in just a teeny bit, and then gives Sora's right thigh a light smack to tell the boy he can pull the boxers back up.
Tugging the elastic waistband over and past the pert rounds of his ass, Sora asks, "What's the prognosis?"
"I'm calling you in sick Monday as a precaution, and liquids until Thursday." He says this in a voice dark and freighted with self-disgust, guilt, loathing.
The words Sora can say so easily in the molten rush of need stumble and falter at the root of his tongue. Instead, he reaches back and grabs hold of the soft cotton of Squall's T-shirt.
Denied by his father, lost in negligent bureaucracy of foster care for seven years, and then finally pulled into the embrace of family, Squall will forever be devoured by his own self-loathing, and Sora can only cling to him. Sometimes the boy hates his grandfather, that stern, stoic man who ruled the family from his wheelchair with an adamantine fist, for what he did to Squall, to his own son by a woman not his wife.
"You don't need a heart," he whispers at last. "You can use mine."
And this is all he can say in the sticky heat with Riku sleeping fitfully next door.
Curse you, you bright hot hungry thing. These are not the hands that strangled you alive.
The house is one of the left over two-family housing units from the days of the sugarcane plantations remodeled fifty years ago to bring up them to code so they could be sold cheaply to the no-longer-indentured families. The wooden walls, though no longer insulated with old newspapers, do nothing to repel the heat, and the roof, no longer corrugated aluminum but asphalt singles, seems to suck in the sun and trap it underneath.
Whrr click click click whrr. The fan groans with overuse and hardly does little more than stir up the hot air, roiling it within the confines of the room. Already a thin film of sweat covers Sora's back and arms. The sheets beneath his body are damp and clingy.
Squall's gone off to get this week's groceries in his old, rust-flaked pickup, and Sora's all alone and bored, with Riku still asleep in the next room. He crosses his eyes to watch a bead of sweat roll down the bridge of his nose and then run off around his left nostril.
Whrr click click click whrr.
Boring. Bored. Bored. Melting. Melted. Death.
He knows the world doesn't revolve around him—he really does!—but, sometimes, he wishes it did. Then Squall would be back already, still his uncommunicative, vaguely condescending self but there nonetheless. Or Riku would be awake and apologetic and… Sora squeezes his eyes closed and mouths the pillow. And he'd want Sora. Yeah. Right.
Sora's bed squeaks once and then again. The boy turns to stare intently at the thin wall separating the two rooms. Is he awake? Yes, there's movement. The door whines as it opens. Footsteps in the hallway. The bathroom door opens and closes. Sora stops straining his ears at this point—he has some sense of privacy—and impatiently waits for the bathroom door to open again. There. More footsteps. Three strong, deliberate knocks on Squall's door.
"Come in."
The End
End Notes: This was originally published in the author's "Unfinished Projects" LJ, but quite a few kind and wonderful readers wrote that they felt it had a sense of completion about it. So, for better or worse, the author offers this up here on FFnet despite zir own misgivings about the "finished-ness" of it—because, in truth, it is not likely that zie will ever write anything more on this particular piece. Take it as you will.