Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Lightning. ❯ Chapter, the Forty-Seventh: In Which a Grat Gets Strangled. ( Chapter 47 )

Kitty: Hehehe... got distracted from doing author's notes by Irvine trying on nurse's outfits... hawt... Anyway! This is a good chapter. You should read it.

Eoko: Of course it's good. Kitty wrote it.

Kitty: And even if I didn't, it woud be good, because that would mean Eoko wrote it! XD Also... -shifty eyes- Don't tell anyone, but I think ff dot net has stopped eating punctuation! SHOCK!

Eoko: Shh! If you say it it'll stop doing it and be stupid again!

Kitty: -gasp- Oh! -slaps hands over mouth- Righff. Al mufft goo reaff nooow...

Eoko: I have... no idea what she said there. Anyway, read, enjoy. Yay.

Kitty: -takes hands off- I said; Right. All must go read now.

Chapter, the Forty-Seventh: In Which a Grat Gets Strangled.

There was nothing difficult about shooting a few Grats, even icing a T-Rexaur was little difficulty when one was not only in possession of Blizzaga spells, but junctioned with a hundred Blizzara ones. Irvine's desperate need to kill something, however, was thoroughly satisfied by the muted roar as said dinosaur keeled over, and the thunderous thud as it hit the ground. Grats were fun too. They exploded.

He didn't know why he was so desperate to make sushi out of whatever crossed his path, but he had a feeling it had something to do with the fact that every monster gained Seifer Almasy's features before he wiped it from the face of the Training Center. But then, he didn't know why he was pissed off at Seifer - he had no reason to be. The man had actually been civil to him lately.

Maybe that was why. There was a sly, sneering edge beneath the veneer of civility, and the way Seifer smiled way too... knowingly when Zell was around too was seriously getting on Irvine's nerves. Not that he had any reason to. He knew he was probably imagining things, there just seemed to be something secretive about the gunbladist that Irvine instinctively knew related to him somehow.

To make things worse, Zell was late...

He'd been training with Seifer, Irvine knew. The fighter had let him know that, and told him when their room booking would expire. They'd agreed to meet for dinner, before heading back to one of their rooms for a movie. And probably - hopefully, Irvine thought - more. But he had been waiting around in the Cafeteria for forty-five minutes before he'd finally given up and come to blow off some steam. It had even come to the stage where he'd started throwing his gun aside and beating the shit out of any Grat he saw, courtesy of Zell's hand-to-hand classes.

But that had gotten messy, so his coat and the tight tank-top he'd been wearing underneath had gone too. Blood soaked his fists and flecked his hair and torso, and there was something undeniably, carnally satisfying about killing a Grat with his bare hands.

Zell would be proud of him.

Where was he?!

Irvine tore off a flailing Grat-tenticle and strangled the thing with it, mostly just to see if Grats actually needed to breathe. Apparently, they did. It sputtered, jerked, and died.

"Impressive."

Irvine twitched and gave a roll of his eyes, not turning around, but instead falling on the next Grat - they always seemed to attack in packs of two or three. By the time he had disposed of the second one, the third one had died, screaming, on the end of a silver gunblade.

"What do you want?"

The gunbladist's mere presence was starting to grate on Irvine's nerves and he was sick of the way he seemed to appear at the most inopportune moments...

"That isn't polite."

Irvine said nothing, only went for his clothing, but the other man moved like a cat to block his path, a slow smile crossing perfect lips.

"What do you want?" Irvine repeated in lieu of responding, and wished he wasn't standing there topless, nipple rings glinting.

Grey-blue eyes raked his form unashamedly, lingering first on his nipples, and then between his legs. It didn't scare him anymore, to see naked desire for him in another man's eyes, but it was seriously starting to piss him off in the eyes of one Squall Leonhart.

"Irvine. You're not naive enough anymore for there to be any question about that. You know what I want."

Squall shifted a little and muscles flexed under a black tank-top and beneath leather pants. A picture flashed through his mind, straining bodies and belts binding his wrists. Fuck me, Squall...

It sounded wrong. He shook his head to clear it and glared at the gunbladist, dearly wishing Exeter wasn't behind Squall. Hand-to-hand classes or not, he knew he would be no match for Squall. Actually, he thought I should probably practice more with Zell... It never took his thoughts long to shift back to the fighter.

Squall stepped closer, but Irvine stood his ground, watching those grey-blue eyes. A hand came up, and Irvine deflected it and ducked around the gunbladist. Surprise almost got him his gun, but he was careless and as he lunged he left a wrist, vulnerable, out behind him. Squall's hand wrapped around it and brought him up short, tugging him against a hard, lean body.

"You're good, but not that good. Irvine..." Squall's voice dropped to a sultry purr and his arms snaked around the sharpshooter's waist, pulling his back flush against him. "Irvine... Zell doesn't deserve you..."

"Get the hell off, motherfucker!"

The first inane thought that flickered through Irvine's head was that Zell saying "motherfucker" was really hot. Then Squall's arms tightened around him and his training kicked in. He drove a foot into Squall's instep and was rewarded by a hissed curse - not as hot as Zell - and a release. He darted out of the gunbladist's arms and away.

"Zell," Squall said calmly, with a polite hello nod as though nothing had happened.

"Don't fucking Zell me! Who do you think you are?! You're supposed to be my friend! You've got your hands all over my boyfriend! That's not okay!"

"And where have you been...?" Squall wondered with an arching eyebrow, still infuriatingly calm.

"Training!" was Zell's sharp reply. "Irvine, get your stuff, and go back to my room. I've got some shit to deal with..."

"You just want him to go so he doesn't find out what your 'training' entails..."

Zell's eyes narrowed and he moved closer. Irvine froze, clothing and gun in hand.

"The hell you talking about?!" the fighter snarled, hands tight fists.

"I know what you've been doing with Seifer."

Irvine twitched and Zell showed his teeth like a feral animal.

"Yeah. Training. Irvine, go."

The sharpshooter hesitated, but then he turned. He didn't want to hear anymore, anyway. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. And anyway, Squall hadn't said anything yet, and it couldn't be... that. Zell wouldn't hurt him like that. Ever. Squall was lying. Had to be.

"Training for what?" Squall scoffed. "Porn?"

Zell was on him in seconds, a fist driving into his gut and the other grabbing and jerking a wrist outward. Bone snapped - Irvine heard it clear across the open ground - and Squall cried out as the fist landed again.

"Zell!" Irvine cried, terrified the fighter would go too far. "Zell, let him go!"

The fighter either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore him, because he rammed Squall into the ground, and this time, a foot connected with kidneys.

"Zell!"

Irvine dropped his armload and leapt forward, grabbing two fistfuls of Zell's shirt and dragging him backward. He could only hope the fighter registered him and realised what he was doing, because there was no way he could physically drag him off the gunbladist.

Zell whirled, wrenching his shirt free, and his fist was barely an inch from Irvine's own side before he went completely rigid. Seconds ticked past, in which there was only silence save for Squall's sobbing breaths. Then Zell gave a shuddering gasp and his eyes went wide, his fist snapping back to his side so fast, it was as though he were burned.

"Oh, Hyne... Irvine... I nearly... I almost..."

The terror in Zell's eyes calmed Irvine's own tight-strung nerves and he touched his lover's cheek.

"But you didn't. You didn't, like, touch me. It's alright. I gotta help Squall. Take my stuff and go on back to my room. I'll come soon."

Zell nodded mutely, in utter shock, and went, movements slow and shuffling.

Irvine went to his knees beside the gunbladist and efficiently sent a couple of Curaga spells under his skin.

"Maybe that will teach you not to, like, bait someone who can pick up a Ruby Dragon," Irvine muttered.

"I wasn't baiting him," Squall insisted as Irvine stood up. "It's true. I've got-"

"I don't want to hear it, Squall. I know he loves me. He wouldn't do anythin' like that. Go home."

And with that, Irvine left and went to deal with his lover.

- - -

Zell was pacing restlessly when Irvine arrived back at his room, the blood drying on his skin really starting to irritate him, as was the way his hair clung in limp strings to his sweat-sticky body. But it didn’t seem to bother the fighter, because Zell was on him the second he stepped in the door, crooning and apologising.

“Zell…” he murmured. “Darlin’, it’s alright. You didn’t mean it, and you didn’t do nothin’…”

“But I could have! Oh, Hyne, I almost did! And Squall… he…”

“Deserved it. He hasn’t left me alone since he came onto me while you and… while you were on the mission to Trabia.”

If Zell noticed any hesitation, he didn’t say anything, in fact he was so silent, Irvine felt prompted to continue, and started with a question that had plagued him.

“Where were you? I, like, waited forty-five minutes and then I were in the Trainin’ Center a long time before you, like, came along…”

Zell didn’t answer, instead dropping his head to lick insistently at Irvine’s nipple. He knew the sharpshooter would be hard pressed to resist him doing that. They were a weak point, and Zell knew it.

Sure enough, the tenseness across Irvine’s shoulders faded and the rigid way he was holding his arms relaxed, the long limbs coming around the fighter’s shoulders. He moaned when Zell’s teeth found and tugged a piercing and nuzzled at his cheek in a way the blond knew meant he wanted to be kissed.

But he could still taste Seifer. Irvine wasn’t stupid, nor did he lack knowledge anymore. He was very well aware of what a man’s release tasted like, and he would taste it on Zell’s tongue.

It had been stupid. Blindingly, idiotically, achingly, wonderfully stupid. It couldn’t – would not – happen again, and the fighter refused to hurt Irvine by letting him taste that.

“I think you need a shower, baby,” he murmured and Irvine made an agreeing sound, picking at a fleck of blood by his hip. Those jeans really were sinfully low…

He lead Irvine there and when they were both under the steaming spray, he knelt before the sharpshooter and took him into his mouth, eyes slipping shut as those long fingers slid slowly into his hair. His name, whispered, curled against his ear along with the warm steam, and he growled softly around Irvine, gaining a low moan in response.

Coming so close on the heels of the self same delight partaken of with Seifer, it was painfully easy to hear them both, to love them both, to need them both, and Zell was glad of the hot water that ran down his cheeks, disguising the tears.

And Squall knew. He knew. There was no question in the gunbladist’s eyes, no hint that he might be bluffing. Somehow, he knew, and the fighter didn’t think it would be long before he convinced Irvine.

Then what?

Irvine moaned, fingers tightening in the fighter’s hair and he rolled his tongue against the sharpshooter.

Then what will you do?

Seifer shuddered, muscles twitching, a groan tearing free and deep from his throat.

What? Who will you give up?

Irvine whimpered his name, unbelievably, delightfully submissive and responsive.

Will you have a choice? Irvine’ll leave you. It’ll break him.

Seifer held him down, the silent battle for dominance one he knew he would gladly lose.

It’ll kill him. You’ll kill him.

Irvine’s ragged breathing echoed off the tile and his hips bucked until Zell laid a hand to them, holding him still. He actually whined, a primal, needy sound and the fighter suckled a little harder, wanting more, wanting everything.

You can’t have everything.

“Zell… Oh, Zell… Mmm…”

It’ll make Seifer happy. He deserves to be happy.

The fighter put an instinctive arm around Irvine to keep him standing when his legs might fail him and gently raked his teeth along sensitive flesh. He teased and suckled at the tip before taking the sharpshooter deep again and listening to the steadily more desperate moans.

So does Irvine. You have to look after him. That’s your job.

With a last strangled cry of his name, Irvine released into his mouth and Zell gladly took every drop then stood and tugged his lover against him and devoured him, tongue delving into a soft, willing mouth. If Irvine felt the desperation in his kiss, he didn’t say anything, and later, when they’d given themselves only a cursory dry off, he didn’t say anything about the further desperation in the way the fighter made love to him.

What will you do? What? What?!

“I don’t know…” he whispered helplessly to the darkness and Irvine’s even, slumbering breathing. “I don’t know…”

Ma’s gonna kill you.

- - -

He dreamed of Zell that night, when he slept, which wasn’t often. He missed the warmth beside him that ought to be there. The fighter was his, his, dammit! And fuck the pansy cowboy. Or not. The very idea turned his stomach.

Seifer tossed beneath the sheets, plagued by moans and sweat-slick skin and the wrap of the fighter’s mouth around his length. He wished Trabia had never happened, but he was glad it had. He wished Zell hadn’t taken care of his problem today, but he was glad the fighter had. He knew, now, what he was missing, and that made it harder, but he cherished the memories, reveled in them, fantasized about them.

He didn’t think he’d been so desperately turned on by anything and everything since he was going through puberty.

Fucking cowboy. It all came back to him. Why couldn’t he just have admitted he was gay from the start so they wouldn’t have been trying to out him and Zell wouldn’t have come up with his plan, and he wouldn’t have fallen in love with Irvine.

Love! Love! Zell loved Irvine. He, Seifer, loved Zell. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Why hadn’t he realized and said something before it was too late? Zell belonged to him. Belonged with him. They were two halves of… Hyne, if he hadn’t been over that a million times since the Halloween party. Zell had known he was right.

Hell, Squall had known he was right.

The other gunbladist had been the only one to pick up on the striking similarities and opposites which made their costumes match. But then, he had been the only one to figure out previously that, as he had so delicately put it, Seifer “wanted to fuck” Zell. That was weird, too, the way their most illustrious leader – wow, even his thoughts about the man were sarcastic – was behaving about the whole thing. There was something really strange going on there that Seifer couldn’t bring himself to really care about, because he had enough to deal with by himself.

He rolled over onto his belly, huffing out a sigh and closed his eyes for the millionth time, just trying to go to sleep. It wasn’t long before his thoughts were drifting to Zell again and he was desperately glad his body just could not physically respond to the thoughts anymore, not after one or three previous fantasies following Zell’s little treat.

Damn Zell for doing that anyway. It wasn’t fair. If it was no, it should just be no!

You know that’s not fair, some traitorous part of his mind admonished. You didn’t give him much of a choice. You’re not exactly resistible. You’re the Seifer Almasy, after all, and anyone would have to be mad to say no.

Okay, so that was arrogant, but it was true. He had teased Zell, had gotten him to a stage where there wasn’t much choice but to do something about it. And the fighter had left with his own painful reaction, without even hinting that Seifer ought to do something about it. Not that he would have said no. The idea of having Zell’s cock in his mouth wasn’t one he didn’t enjoy. The idea of doing mostly anything with Zell wasn’t one he didn’t enjoy.

He sighed, rolled again, and drifted into a half sleep.

- - -

Later, he found himself outside Zell’s door, some malicious intent driving him there to tell Irvine – because Irvine would be there – everything. He keyed in Zell’s code and strode in wearing nothing but his sheet, confessions on his lip. The dramatic entrance was somewhat ruined by the fact that the lovers weren’t there.

So he went to Irvine’s room and stood glaring at the door as though just the need to expose Zell would somehow make the sharpshooter know. After roughly an hour of that, he realised how ridiculous he was being, and that any confession or exposing would hurt Zell just as much as it would hurt Irvine, and would likely lead to the fighter not even wanting to talk to him any more.

He pressed his ear against the door, straining to hear any moans or desperate pleas, but there was nothing. When he looked at his watch he realised that was probably because it was half past three in the morning. Even the most ambitious of lovers would surely have passed out by now, unless they had been out late, which Seifer knew they hadn’t been.

Tears ran down his face, and he wasn’t aware of them until he was back in bed and the pillow grew damp. Once he started crying, he couldn’t stop, and the silent tears turned into tearing gasps and sobs that wracked his entire frame. He curled up around the pillow and eventually, blessedly fell into a thoroughly exhausted sleep.

- - -

Irvine stirred around three thirty, completely baffled as to what had woken him. Zell’s breath was warm against his ear, steady and strong. The sharpshooter smiled and wriggled down further under the covers, resting his head on his lover’s chest to listen to his heartbeat. The fighter shifted, wrapping his arms more tightly around the sharpshooter, protective instincts surfacing even in his sleep.

“I love you…” Irvine whispered with another soft smile, curling his leg up over Zell’s hips.

Squall’s accusations flickered briefly through his mind, but they went out just as instantly. Zell would never do anything like that to him.

He could see the irony in the fact that one of the two men he had hated so passionately he loved even more passionately now. But then, they did say the most intense feelings gave birth to one another. He trusted this man with his life and his heart.

“And Squall Leonhart can shove his damn gunblade where the sun don’t shine…” he hissed with a viciously possessive grin as he snuggled closer still to Zell.

He drifted back to sleep in seconds.