Final Fantasy VIII, GF/Squall, compatibility (3/3)
Her lips twitch up. She rises slowly and takes a breath.
Squall watches her chest rise and then fall, wants to ask, 'Did you know your skin is freezing?'
But she's not cold. As close as she is, he can feel the heat she radiates.
Her lips part. She takes another breath, holds it, then releases it in a slow stream of frost.
He doesn't want to believe it. But her warmth spreads through the blankets, and crystallized air dampens his bare arms.
"Shiva," he says, but she puts a pale blue hand over his mouth.
The serene sparkle of her eyes makes her look patient despite the sad crook of her lips, the distant way she holds her head. Has he disappointed her, like that first time? (Does he care?) Is she waiting for him to make sense?
She looks at him for a long moment before she seems to come to a decision.
When she moves, her body's a sky-bright softness, shimmers with the dappled shine of sunlight on the sea.
There's no time to react before she straddles his waist: she's the liquid, undulating flow of ice floes on curling waves.
"Shiva," he says again; again, she covers his mouth.
She walks her hand away from his lips, trails her fingertips across his cheek, his chin. Her nails trace a line on his neck.
He jerks, wary and unnerved, but undeniably aroused.
In an impressive display of flexibility, she bends forward until her lips press against his. Her mouth is soft, tastes of sweet almonds and the weightless frost that sears the air before a snowstorm.
He reaches one arm around her, grips the back of her neck.
She traces her way down his jaw, his throat, to his chest, toys with his pendant.
And then the pendant is off. Shiva lifts his hand, tugs at the ring. Her nails leave red lines on his hand. When she tosses the ring away, he turns his head to follow it. It skitters along the floor, settling in a corner.
She takes his chin in her hand and turns his head toward her. Maybe she's trying to tell him something.
Whatever it is, he's not getting the message.
He's strangely comforted by the fact that he has no idea what's going on in her head.
She leans a little away from him so she can slide her hands under his shirt.
He jerks again, startled at her freezing hot touch, at the jolt up his spine when her fingers graze the mark of his desperate leap into the hydrofoil.
Her lips curve up, flash silvery teeth. She tugs on the hem of his undershirt before leaning away again.
He drops his hands to his waist, peels the shirt off, sends it flying. He unbuttons the uniform trousers with trembling hands.
Pants, undershirt, and underwear tossed away, he can only stare as Shiva arches over him. The stalactite bikini melts into nothingness.
Squall reaches for her and she lets him. His fingers skim the curves and planes of her body. Her breasts are full and heavy in his palm.
She curls a hand around his cock.
This is all she wants. Now he knows—but the knowing is cold.
She sinks onto him. He lifts his hips, tries to find purchase without gripping her waist too hard. He settles for bracing his palms against the wall behind his head.
Shiva is tight around him, hot. Wet. She starts their rhythm, keeps their hips sliding against each other like the first snowflakes of an avalanche.
The press of her against him, around him, the way she tightens is perfect. The Blizzard spells sharpen again. His hands dig into her hips as she rides his; his mouth can't suppress a groan.
He throws his head back, lets out a harsh gasp from a throat hoarsened by desire and damage.
Her body takes him under. It's like waves crashing against a shore and he yields to it.
She doesn't make a sound when she finally closes her eyes. Her body tightens around him even further, until finally she gives a ragged sigh. Around them, the moisture in the air freezes. It reflects the light for an instant, making the entire room glow cold, but then it shatters and she's gone.
He's left naked on the bed with weak knees and sharply unbearable Blizzard spells coursing through his veins.