Authors note: this was interesting to write, writing in 1st person pov is new to me and to write it in such a way made it very fun to write. If you review could you please say if I caught his character right. I would really appreciate it. And if I should make it longer than a one shot. bites back tears sadly I do not own Kuja…
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Kuja.
That is my name. I have no second name, I was not granted such a privilege, unlike my brother. So I am simply Kuja, though I am sure that some would add the Terrible, the Heartless or Kuja, the Beautiful. I know people think it. I can see it in the way they look at me, the way they react to my movement. The swing of my hips, when I flick back my hair, my face, my clothes. Out of all the power I wield, that power brings me most satisfaction, the most pleasure. To see woman and men alike unable to resist their desire for me, to see them begging, pleading for me to be with them…it makes me smile. That is why I wear what I do; it brings me pleasure to see people's eyes staring feverishly upon my exposed skin, their hunger for it evident no matter how hard they try to hide it.
I've always been interested in clothes, the different materials, the feeling of them against my skin. It was the only thing that I could control about myself in Terra, He let me choose my own clothes…the only thing I could choose. But, most of all I wanted to set myself about from Them, those lifeless dolls…
My face also attracts their attention, so delicate and feminine for a boy, I know that's what they think, but I can sense their attraction for it. How they wish to cress my cheek, see if it's as smooth as it seems, if the lips are as soft. I believe they are also fascinated by my face paint. The delicate peachy pink around my eyes confuses them, drawing them closer to me as they seek to discover my secrets. However, my greatest pride is my hair. The way it trails molten silver down to the small of my back, the way it rests loosely upon my face and the three delicate feathers have me cherishing it. And I'm not the only one. I sometimes notice out of the corner of my eye peoples hands reaching slowly forward to stroke it, let its softness glide through their fingers, but they never do.
When in a room, a hand gliding over the swell of my hip, I can hear the exclaims of amazement, the whispers of beauty and the gratification of being allowed to feel it. Hands sweeping, touching, caressing all of my body, lips, kissing, sucking my delicate moonlight skin, tongue, teasing, tasting my mouth, my neck, my chest, my navel and below. And all the while the eyes cress my too, cress my smooth hairless chest, my toned stomach, my thighs, my face as it constricts in pleasure and pain. They listen to my whimpers of pain, my purrs of delight, the yelp signifying entry was also granted to some. Their hands would stoke my hair, their fingers slipping though it like water, sometimes they grabbed it by the fist using it to pull my head back and sometimes they would hold onto it as the thrust into me. Meanwhile my hands would hold tightly onto the arms, my nails nipping into the flesh, drawing blood. The hands would move lower, tickling, stroking as they came nearer, the fingers probing, squeezing and scraping across my member causing me to moan. Then the light, that inviting cherishing light would enfold and hold me before reality returned. And then a person lay beside me, no longer just hands lips and a tongue. I would stand then, dress and leave. The cry's and pleads of return ignored.