kinkfest | Liquid Persuasion [Final Fantasy VIII, Kiros/Laguna, M]

Title: Liquid Persuasion
Author:

sumthinlikhuman
Pairing: Kiros/Laguna
Rating: M
Warnings: yaoi, drinking, older-ish guys gettin’ jiggy with it
Prompt: Final Fantasy VIII, Kryos/Laguna: drunk of their asses - “Yes sir, Mr. President.”
Notes: YOU, YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HARD IT WAS FOR ME TO RECONCILE MY HEADCANON WITH THIS PROMPT. AGH.

In Esthar, they have a drink called Wudka, and Kiros thinks the closest thing he’s ever smell-tasted to the damn thing is the paint thinner his father used to make to strip the boards of old houses that were being repainted for new married couples.

Laguna, for some reason, loves Wudka. Kiros cannot quite reconcile this love of the drink with the—albeit randomly—intelligent man he keeps the company of, but he says nothing of it.

Especially since Laguna with a bottle of Wudka means Laguna without any vague sense of obligation. And as long as that happens after the hour of nine at night—which it almost invariably does—Kiros is off the clock, and therefore isn’t an adviser to the President of Esthar.

“Have another shot, Kiros,” Laguna murmurs, and though he smiles and doesn’t have even a tremor in his handling of the bottle, his eyes are a little cloudy. Kiros hiccoughs, knows he should stop because they are both perfectly inebriated and if they drink any more than they’ll fall asleep before anything fun happens (he hates being old) but takes the shot from his employer—friend—lover, and downs it like a professional.

The smell of paint thinner makes his eyes water.

“I will never,” Kiros begins, than hiccoughs. “Never understand why you like this vile concoction, ‘guna.”

“Makes you pretty, Ki’,” Laguna whispers, and grins. That smiles is just the same as it’s always been, and Kiros can remember being too young for the military but lying his way in anyway, can remember Laguna falling in love with him and staying in love, despite or around or because of various women (and a few men).

“Jerk,” Kiros complains, and shoves Laguna’s shoulder. He grabs Kiros’ wrist, drags him over a little and presses a kiss to the thundering pulse in the crook of Kiros’ elbow. Kiros makes a face at him. “Drunken idiot.”

Laguna grins, murmurs for a moment in Trabian and then laughs and says, “You still put up with me.”

“Somebody has to make sure you don’t develop a drinking problem.” He slides onto Laguna’s lap then, grinds against him, feels the perk in his long-time lover’s cock through their pants and lets out a breathless little sound of amusement at how easy Laguna is, even at forty-and-change.

“Ah, yeah,” Laguna whispers, grabbing Kiros’ hips and grinding up into them almost viciously; Kiros closes his eyes and arches, gripping Laguna’s shoulders for support. “That’s the idea around your neck o’ the woods, isn’t it? That you’re only a drunk if you drink alone.”

“Mm, I’m almost certain they’d call you something other than a drunk,” Kiros murmurs, and can barely keep the touch of vindication out of his voice, “whether you were drinking alone or not.”

“Probably more if I wasn’t alone, huh?”

“It’s possible.” Laguna kisses him then, and there is that smell-taste of paint thinner again, but muted because Laguna had something eat before Kiros came to his apartments, and so it is that alcoholic taste and then something sweet underneath, but mostly it is just Laguna, and Kiros has long since gotten used to that taste.

He has long since gotten used to Laguna’s wondering fingers as well, but still jumps a little when the first two fingers on either hands begin lifting at the hem of the shirt he’s been wearing under his robes all day, seeking for skin and the waist of his slacks as well. Kiros sighs a little laugh, grabbing the back of the shirt and pulling it over his head. The charms in his hair jangle against each other, and Laguna grabs a handful gently, lifting it to his mouth and nose.

His other hand plunges recklessly down the back of Kiros’ slacks. Kiros arches, grinding down against Laguna but pressing back against those long, gun-calloused fingers. Laguna drops his hair, cupping his jaw and kissing his neck with little bites. And Kiros, enough punch drunk to let his inhibition slips, arches his neck and moans.

“Fuck,” Laguna hisses, and Kiros laughs. He brings his hands up and balls them in Laguna’s thick hair—still so thick, even after all these years and all the stress and strain—pulling him about to kiss him hungrily on the mouth.

Pulling back just a fraction from Laguna’s lips, he breathes, “I want to fuck you.” Laguna groans, hips twitching up against Kiros’ enough to jar him slightly from his perch. Kiros moans softly, grinding down against Laguna’s stiff cock, and lets his eyes flutter shut.

“Don’t usually wanna—”

“I want to,” Kiros tells him, moans and pulls his hair and tells him, “Been thinking about fucking you. Let me?”

“Fuck, don’t need to be a gentleman ‘bout it, Kiros,” Laguna whispers, and Kiros grins against his lips, kissing him again as he moves them about on the couch—he doesn’t think they’d make it all the way to Laguna’s bed, even if they weren’t quite so drunk. Laguna’s slacks come undone and slide down his hips as easily as they ever have, and Kiros grins as he lifts Laguna’s shirt and kisses his stomach.

Laguna presses his head back into the cushions and moans, arched whorishly and practically begging for it as Kiros fists his cock and reaches beneath him to finger him open. He’s relaxed from alcohol, loose-limbed and murmuring encouragements as he touches Kiros’ head—never forcefully, because years of practical learning has taught him what he can get away with, and being pushy about it is never okay, unless Kiros says it is.

“Fuck, fuck, Kiros,” Laguna mutters after not nearly enough time. Kiros plunges three fingers in to the last knuckle, bites Laguna in the middle of the chest where his shirt will still cover it; it makes Laguna arch and cry out. “Oh, fuck. C’mon, Kiros, want me to beg?”

“I’d been counting on it, yeah,” Kiros replies honestly, and Laguna moans, letting out a frustrated little sob. He was always a pushy bottom.

“Please, please, god, please, just fuck me? I need to feel your cock, Kiros. Need to feel you in me. Been too long; been thinking about you fucking me, been wanting your cock. Fuck, I love it. I love it, I love you, just—!”

So Kiros does. With Laguna’s legs spread and knees supported in his hands, Kiros slips his cock in, dulled enough by the alcohol to not even care about the brash movement or the slight cringe on Laguna’s face as he cries out. Everything is slick and tight and gloriously warm around his cock; he rocks into it viciously, moaning over Laguna’s chest in pleasure while Laguna squirms and moans and mutters encouraging tones with words Kiros can’t understand.

Fucking, as always seems the case, doesn’t last as long as getting fucked. Laguna proves that he’s easy—and tonight, Kiros blames the Wudka for that—and writhes as he comes and as Kiros just keeps on, moaning and grabbing the cushion as Kiros keeps fucking him until he’s spent as well.

Their stomachs stick together slightly. Laguna groans, covering his eyes and staring toward the ceiling until Kiros pulls out and climbs off.

“C’mon,” Kiros mutters, pulling Laguna to his feet. “Time for a shower. And bed.”

“I’m going to be so hung over in the morning,” Laguna grieves. “And I’m not gonna be able to sit right either!” Then, he pouts slightly, poking Kiros in the chest as he says, “Be more gentle next time, why don’cha?”

Kiros chuckles to himself. “Yessir, Mr President.”