title: Landings
fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
characters/pairings: Irvine/Squall
rating: Teen
warnings: oral sex
summary: Squall wants stress relief
notes: for cyn, her ficlet on demand. ^_^ she' been having a tough time, so i'm more than happy to provide this for her... even tho final fantasy viii isn't really my fandom. ^_^ sooooo... i'm going to call this AU. any discrepancies? yeah, that's part of the AU of my final fantasy uni. whee.
also, this turned out to be so not what she was looking for. le sigh. sorry, babe, but hopefully, it will suit you anyway. *sheepish*

Over the constant whirl of the engines, Irvine muttered and cursed, radiating irritation. He had already cleaned and loaded his guns, so he disassembled them and began again. Each meticulous movement was punctuated by another curse or complaint.

"Damn arrogant bastard..."

He carefully wiped the oil off the barrel. His guns were his pride, his power, and his obsession. When he had them in his hands, they were like extensions of his arms, as if it were his will alone that brought down his enemies. He was always careful with his guns, and treated them with more respect than most people treated each other.

"Thinks he can walk all over anyone..."

His guns never let him down. He was flawless, utter perfection. Give him a target, any target at all, and he could hit it. It was his trademark, even more than the long, suede trench coat, or the ten-gallon hat. He never missed.

"Too fucking good for the likes of the common man..."

He secured his guns in their holsters. It was a comfort, the feel of their weight on him, knowing that they were there for him whenever he needed them. They were solid and steady, unlike just about anything else in his life.

"Never thinks about anything but his own goddamn self..."

He was sick to death of the fighting, of the constant burn of adrenaline, of never being able to let his guard down, of never feeling free... He was sick of this war, and he was sick of the people who started it, and he was sick and tired of the people who fought in it. Especially one man. Would it be such a horrible thing to lean on each other? Would the world come crashing to an end if Irvine took a night off from it all? Would it mean the end of days if he just put his head down on his lover's chest and just *stopped* thinking for ten damn minutes?

"Mother of a fuckin'..."

"Irvine."

The devil himself appeared, as if summoned, right before him, looking as stony as ever. It was the dull glare in his eyes that killed Irvine. Squall could look like a child surrounded by butterflies, for someone else. But for him, Squall could only dull his glare.

"What the hell do you want?"

Squall blinked, but did not otherwise react. "We're going to be landing in about a half an hour."

"Yeah," Irvine tilted his head to the side, eyeing Squall viciously. "I know. I felt the plane dropping, too."

Squall said nothing.

"Well?" Irvine shifted under Squall's dark glare. From this angle, he couldn't even see the color of Squall's eyes. He could only see the line of Squall's scar under his shaggy bangs. A rogue desire to push those bangs aside and really *look* into Squall's dark eyes blossomed, but he ignored it.

"If we're going to get any stress-relief in," Squall ground out, aggravated, "now would be the time."

Irvine stared up at him blankly for a whole thirty seconds before he burst out laughing. "You gotta be fuckin' *kidding* me! After what you said last night, after what you did, you think I'm gonna give you any *stress relief*?!?"

Squall shifted from his right foot to his left. "It only makes sense before battle to..."

Irvine groaned, shot up, grabbed Squall's collar, and took off. He dragged Squall to the back of the cargo plane, shoving him into the small lavatory. He shut the door behind them, clicking the weak lock tightly. "You wanna relieve stress? I got stress. Relieve it."

Squall stared defiantly into Irvine's eyes, and Irvine could feel his blood pressure skyrocketing. If Squall thought he was too damn good for this, then why the hell did he expect Irvine to bend over for him?

"Down on your knees, boy, if you know what's good for you," Irvine growled, and he could actually see the moment when Squall gave in.

Squall gave in.

He settled to his knees with impossible grace, and Irvine worked on ignoring how absolutely stunning Squall was. It didn't matter, because Squall was a heartless, soulless bastard whose eyes only brightened for someone else...

Irvine was caught by surprise when Squall pushed up his shirt and kissed his stomach. He wasn't in charge of his gasp, or how his heart started to thread. He closed his eyes and set his mouth in a firm line. "If you think I'm gonna kneel before you, you gotta have some kind of mental problem. So if you got any *stress*, I suggest you relieve it your own damn self."

Squall watched Irvine raptly, his partially narrowed eyes piercing right into Irvine's as his hands slipped Irvine's pants down. Irvine put his own hands behind his head, and tried to pretend that he didn't feel Squall's glare, but it didn't matter soon. Whether Squall was angry or not was irrelevant, because his hands were firm and strong, his lips were wet, his mouth was hot, and Irvine had to bit his lip to keep from promising Squall eternal devotion.

It got hot in the lavatory. Irvine banged his head on the wall in time with Squall's hands. His ten-gallon fell down over his eyes, and he used it to hide some of his pleasure.

Squall was good. There was only the one way to say it, and say it right. Squall was *damn* good. Irvine squirmed and melted and burned and felt his flesh sear as he tried to remember all the reasons why screaming out 'I love you!' was a bad idea.

It was getting cooler. He could breathe again. The plane was getting ready to land. He could feel them plummeting.

He didn't want to move.

Squall was watching him, but he just looked away. His ten-gallon was falling off his head, but he just let it. The fuckin' bastard had gotten come on his pant legs, but he didn't care so much right then.

Squall was standing up now, but he remained as he was. Gravity pulled them together as the plane dove down to the ground. Squall ripped the tie out of his hair, combing his fingers through Irvine's sandy locks, and they were kissing. Squall pushed his tongue into Irvine's mouth, and Irvine could taste himself. He felt like Squall was going to push right into him, right through him, leave him broken in half, leave him empty inside.

They bounced on the ground. His chin bumped Squall's nose. Squall was holding him steady, his arms around him, his eyes still boring into him.

The plane rushed to a stop, everything shaking and shuddering, and they were right up against each other, shaking with the rest of the ship, but it didn't look to Irvine like Squall was shaking at all; he looked rock-solid.

They were stopped, and a million witty comments clogged up Irvine's throat as he tried to break the eye contact with Squall. Squall ran his fingers down Irvine's cheek, and Irvine's eyes widened as he found he could not breathe.

Squall was gone.

Irvine closed his eyes and counted to one hundred, then pulled up his pants, wiped himself off with a damp paper towel, and followed. As usual, he was given the business about being late, and as usual, he was witty and charming and carefree.

He didn't feel a lump in his throat when he looked at Squall's back. They were soldiers, like Squall had said. Camaraderie had nothing to do with anything; they had a job to do, and they would do it.

Nothing more, nothing else.








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