Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Whore. ❯ Whore ( Chapter 1 )

Warnings: Yaoi/slash, sex, smut, bad language. All the good stuff.

 

Pairing: If I tell you, it'll ruin it, honest. But if you can't work out who's POV it's from the first couple of sentences, then I suck at writing.

 

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the FF8 characters. I just borrow them and make them do many questionable things, then return them much happier.

 

Author's Notes: If there are spelling mistakes, blame the whole it being 2:30 in the morning when I proof-read this thing. I started writing it at 12 midnight. Damn inspiration biting at inopportune moments… All in all, it's kind of a weird fic, but I like how it turned out. Not very long, but very intense, I think. See what you think. Oh… and I have no idea why dialogue is in italics, so don't even ask.

 

Whore.

 

Of course, he's always been sexy, but I've never considered myself one to fall for somethin' like that when I know better than anyone else I've got a snowball's chance in Hell. I ain't the kind to like a challenge quite that impossible, especially with the chance of landin' a gunblade through my eye or, even worse, removin' the Crown Jewels. That, I wouldn't put past him.

 

So how was it that I ended up here? Don't get me wrong, I ain't, like, complainin', but I'm totally confused as to how it happened. It's ten times better than any fantasy even I've conjured on lonely nights when it were only me, a pile of Estharii porn magazines and a hand or two, and that's the only reason I'm pretty darn sure it ain't no dream. That, and the way it actually hurts when he bites me.

 

He's apparently got a thing for bitin'. Probably for claimin', truth be told, a big fat mine scrawled across my shoulder, down my spine, by my navel, on my thigh. A dozen other places I can't feel no more because the way his cock feels inside of me has taken it all away.

 

But I still can't figure out how. Why. What.

 

We ain't drunk. We ain't on nothin'. Ain't like that time when Zell `n' me were so fuckin' lost and so fuckin' cold up in the snow somewhere miles from anywhere and so damn desperate to be warm we'd've fucked Laguna if it meant we'd be warm. Don't get me wrong, Zell's a firecracker, but there's limit to how many tattoos there should be on a body, and he's gone way past it. Guess Nida must like `em, though…

 

But I'm off track. Probably got somethin' to do with the fact that I can't exactly think straight.

 

He likes it when I moan. I noticed that the moment my shirt were gone and his fingers found the gold hoops in my nipples. I moaned then, and the most devilish of smirks came to that gorgeous mouth. Fuck me drunk, sexy as they do come, no doubt about it. Ain't many men as can measure up.

 

He notices when my mind ain't totally focused on him, and that pisses him off. His cock drives deeper and I moan for him again, arms, legs, body, mind, soul wrapped tight around everythin' he is. Hyne, there's an elegance and grace to him even durin' a good, hard fuck like this one that I can't imagine no one else matchin'. The way his muscles shift under his skin is like poetry or a paintin' come to life.

 

If I weren't so cynical, I might think I'm in love.

 

“Fuck…” I whisper, suckin' in a shakin' breath.

 

“Harder…?” he wonders, smirkin' against my throat.

 

He sounds like sex and dark chocolate. The sea and silk and satin. Lace, velvet, cream and strawberries. Sin. That, above all, he sounds like. Bad. So terribly bad that I can't speak in nothin' more than a whisper for fear of someone findin' out how bad I'm bein'. But, fuck, it feels good. Ain't no good so good as his bad.

 

I can't answer him, and it's almost unbearable when he lessens his pace to a painful slowness. His thumb presses against the slit of my own cock, then he licks the dampened pad, watchin' me. No one should have that much control.

 

“D-don't… don't… p-please…”

 

“What…?” he wonders in that same tone, liqueur and peppermint creams.

 

I nibble on his earlobe. Shameless, wanton.

 

“Whore,” he whispers, the smirk in his voice as well as on his lips. I can only moan, squirmin' like what he accuses I am.

 

…Like what I am.

 

C'mon, I know you were thinkin' it. Everyone does. Everyone's right. I've done more ladies than I can count, and don't remember half their names. Been done by just about every eligible man in Garden, save this one, and one other. Both, I thought wouldn't look at me twice, but fucked if I ain't in one of them beds right now, writhin' on night-coloured silk sheets. I ain't ashamed. Ain't nothin' wrong with want, seduce, have, enjoy. Ain't never had a lover go away unsatisfied.

 

“Whore.”

 

He's right. And he likes it, anyway.

 

“Please…” My voice comes to my ears like somethin' I don't recognise. “Please… d-don't stop. Too… too slow… Faster… harder… please!”

 

He licks at the hollow of my throat, nips across to my shoulder, down along my arm and back up again. There's those teeth. I whimper and thrash as they sink into my neck, markin' me all over again.

 

“Who's whore…?” he wonders idly, purrin' as he draws away. His hips still make that lazy, too-slow motion and I have no idea how he ain't fuckin' me into the mattress. He's hard as rock and rarin' to go.

 

“A-anyone's…?” I hazard, unsure what he wants to hear.

 

When he stills altogether, I know it were the wrong answer. I whine, and the lamplight catches the dampness against his lower lip when he licks it, smirkin'.

 

“Pretty noise. Wrong answer.”

 

I scratch at his shoulders, leavin' marks of my own, and run my hands down to his waist, grindin' my hips unabashedly up against his. It's a victory when he groans, forehead droppin' briefly against my shoulder. But only a small one. It don't last.

 

“Fuck, you've got no shame, do you, Cowboy? You'll spread your legs and beg anyone…” he teases, and the purrin' in his voice goes straight to my achin' cock. He's killin' me by degrees.

 

“Please…”

 

His teeth come to my jaw, but he's not so cruel as to bite there, where it'd really hurt. He teases, mouth against my cheekbone, my nose, my chin, my temple, until I finally whimper. Those lips come to mine and I open my mouth for him before he even requests it. His tongue dips inside, teasin' mine, and when he doesn't kiss me, even avoids it when I try to take one, I whimper feebly. He chuckles into my mouth.

 

“Who's whore are you…?” he asks again, voice soft, idle, and his hand runs down my side, then across to run his knuckles lightly up the underside of my cock. I shudder. So does he.

 

“I… I don't… P-please…”

 

His eyes catch the orange-gold light, turning to deep oceans, and his brows draw together over them.

 

“Give me the right answer, or I swear I'll go fuck someone else.” He gives a single thrust, offerin' me a taste of what I'll miss out on if he does.

 

Dominance.

 

Alpha.

 

Marking.

 

Claim.

 

Simple.

 

“Yours…” I breathe hopefully. “Your whore.”

 

“Good…” he breathes back and finally gives me that kiss, his iron restraint failin' him.

 

I knew no one could be that rigidly non-responsive to me. Bastard. I wish I had his control.

 

He moans low in my ear as he buries himself over and over and over inside of me, makin' me his in the most basic way possible. And I let him do it, whimperin' encouragement to him with every thrust and groan and flex of his powerful body.

 

Fuck me like this. Oh, yes. Take me, make me yours. I've been his from the moment I laid eyes on him, even when it were still impossible and we were nothin' but cold to each other. Since we were tiny, and clung to Matron's skirts whenever a stranger came to visit.

 

Maybe I am in love…

 

One of my hands goes up to curl about a bar of the bed-head, bracin' me when I arch up to him. My legs can't wrap any tighter and the other hand has got to be hurtin' him where it digs into his shoulder, but he only moans back to me, steadily losin' himself in me.

 

Knowin' that is almost better than actually havin' him fuck me. Knowin' he's as in this moment as I am, that he can't remember no more what his name is. I give it back to him, cryin' it out time and time again, nearly screamin' it like a desperate prayer when he hits that spot deep inside me.

 

He groans and drives impossibly harder, searchin' for it again, wantin' to draw that sound from my throat a second time. He gets it, a keenin' cry of his name, and I thrash beneath him with my release, totally mindless, thought scattered across our skins with the rest of everythin' that is me.

 

He's a split second behind me, that deliciously fierce body buckin' above me as he groans my name in a way I never want to forget. Is it even possible for a man to be so fuckin' perfect…? If it weren't for the way those bites sting and throb, I'd be sure I were dreamin'.

 

The way his breathin' shudders in my ear echoes the staccato beat of my heart and I think I could listen to that sound forever. It speaks of a man well-satisfied, of fuckin' and everythin' that entails. Of me. Of him.

 

How did I get here?

 

It don't seem to matter anymore. His muscles twitch beneath my hands, brought down to stroke along his back, and I twitch beneath him, sated and pantin' myself. Neither of us move, unwillin' or unable, I don't know.

 

After long moments, after the raggedness of our breathing evens out somewhat, he eases away from me and onto his back. I'm reluctant to let him go, and I know he feels the hesitation before my arms fall away from his body. I close my eyes, wonderin' why the thud of my heartbeat seems painful and dead.

 

Somethin's happened, and that good old cynicism don't seem to be able to pretend nomore. I know. This moment, this fuck, this man has changed things.

 

I glance at him and he's starin' at the ceilin', hands folded behind his head. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, trace the lines of his body, gaze lingerin' on his cock. I want it. Thirty seconds after the fact and I already want it again. Want him. Want us.

 

Fuck.

 

I should have known better than to let myself sleep with this man. I always refrain from discussin' him when I write to my adoptive parents. I never mention him in that inane computer-diary-thing Selphie insisted we all write in. I even try not to talk about him if I can avoid it. Why?

 

Because I already know I'm obsessed with him and dwellin' on it would only make it worse. But dwellin' on it wouldn't be nearly so bad as bein' fucked by it.

 

His hand comes to my hair suddenly, tanglin' there, and he uses it none-too-gently to drag me over his body. I can already feel his cock stirrin' against the inside of my thigh and the fingers of his free hand trace my spine to my arse, teasin' at my entrance until he can ease a finger inside.

 

I whimper, squirmin' again.

 

“Who's whore are you…?” comes the question again, low and borderin' on dangerous.

 

“Y-yours…” My answer is instant this time and it comes with no shame, only a grim realisation. He knows me better than I know myself. After this, I am his. Bites and words aside, the thought of havin' anyone else inside of me ain't so wonderful a thought as it were just a few hours ago.

 

“That's right, Kinneas. And don't you forget it. I catch you fucking or being fucked by anyone else, and you'll learn all over again who you belong to, but less pleasantly. Got it?”

 

I shiver, noddin' against his neck and he adds a second finger. He don't need to, I'm still well prepared from ten seconds ago, but I think he likes the way I'm squirmin'.

 

“So… what do you say…?” he whispers, breath unbelievably hot against my ear and fingers tightenin' in my hair.

 

“Wh-what… what d'you mean…?”

 

He draws my head back to look in those piercin' jade eyes.

 

“Next time Selphie makes eyes at you, or Zell gets lonely because Nida's on a mission…?”

 

His fingers work deeper and one of my hands fists in the pillows beside his head as my hips lift back against them.

 

“I-I'm yours…”

 

He shows his teeth, pissed at me again, and the intensity of his gaze sends shivers down my spine. He don't scare me, but he do awe me.

 

“You don't say `I'm yours' to Zell fucking Dincht.”

 

I stare a few moments, fishin' for the answer and task made difficult by the rivulets of pleasure runnin' out from his fingers.

 

“I say… I say… I'm Seifer's…”

 

He smiles possessively, removin' his fingers and guidin' my body so he can buck his hips and bury that cock up inside me again. I cry out, pleased to have it there.

 

“Seifer's what…?” he whispers, hands leadin' my hips into an easy rockin' motion.

 

I follow his directive, leanin' over him and ridin' him like the cowboy I am. I bite my lower lip, moanin' softly, and the possessive smile grows, those eyes darkened to somethin' primal that makes it impossible for me to answer anythin' but what he wants.

 

What I want.

 

“Seifer's whore…”

 

- - - - - - -

 

Author's Notes: Strange, ne? Fun, though. This fic is dedicated to Valeska Yancey who RPs the single most fucking awesome Seifer Almasy on this planet. Some of the things she comes up with for him to say/do to Irvine (I play Irvine. Yay for Irvine! *schnoogles him*) make my knees go weak just thinking of it. Now, I'm going to bed, because it is nearly 3 am…