Warnings: Language, only a li'l yaoi, het lemon (argh! Het!) character obsession… That's about it… for this chapter. Trust me, it'll get better. ;)

Disclaimer: I do not own the FF8 characters or their affiliates. All I own is this plot, the chocobo's personalities, a Chihuahua and a plastic sword.

Pairings: Not a chance in hell I'm telling.

Author's Notes: I believe I owe you an explanation. The explanation is "cowboys". Therefore, the explanation is "Hicky". Hicky's got this obsession with cowboys that she says stems from Irvine, and her obsession seems to have recently rubbed off on me. Anyway, there was this one-hour special on when the west was wild and the men were men and all that stuff. It was on while I was in Bendigo, and my landlady didn't like it, so she turned it off fifteen minutes in – about five seconds before the cowboys turned up. So pissed off.

Anyway, I'd been anticipating cowboys all day, so I decided I had to give myself some. Hence, this fic, starring our very own resident cowboy, Irvine Kinneas. Damn, I love Irvine.

On location: I have no idea where this fic is located. Somewhere in the FF8 world, or some other world of my own creation. I did find a place on a FF8 map that fitted, but I can't remember what it was and I can't be bothered going to look, because it's one a.m. I'm sure Hicky will tell me when she finds this – she's obsessive like that.

The working title of this fic (it's currently 85 pages long, including footnotes) was "West", because that's what it's based off, but that's a pretty fucking pathetic title, so I changed it. The title I have given it, I'm not going to explain, because that would be too much giving the plot away.

This is a yaoi story, I swear.

Anyway. Enjoy.

Mine. – KittyMeowMaxwell

Chapter One – Taken.

Irvine straightened, ducking flailing beaks and flying feathers with a grin and a laugh as the chocobos darted in all around him to get at the grain he'd put in their feed trough. They avoided him, but only because his father had them trained, a whip-crack by their ears a well-learned lesson for pecking or kicking a human. But only ever close, they'd never even lost a feather to the pin-point crack of Eli's stock-whip.

The cowboy got out of the flurry of chocobos and dusted off his hands against one another, then righted his hat on his auburn hair, turning to watch the birds feed. He loved chocobos. There was no deceit or trickery in them, and they adored him without question. They didn't care what he looked like or what he thought, they only cared that he fed them and combed out their feathers, plucking the dead ones and stroking their crests.

"Irvine!"

Irvine groaned and ducked around the flock of chocobos, putting the yellow birds between himself and the homestead. It was Eli's voice, gentle and commanding all at once, and the cowboy knew what his father would be calling him for. He hadn't milked the cows yet. They'd be heavy with milk this time of the day, and mooing mournfully at the gate, waiting for him to let them in and relieve them of the painful burden.

But, Hyne, he hated the job. He could handle anything to do with the chocobos, even mucking out their stables, but he hated cows. He hated how they smelled, how they felt, how they shuffled their feet and moved so that he missed the metal pail he was aiming for and hit his boots instead, how they complained if his hands were too cold, how they threw their heads back and moooooed until he tied them in position for their milking. The only thing he liked about cows was their big, liquid eyes, and the softer mooing sounds they made when they gently nudged their new calves up onto wobbling legs and encouraged them to take their first steps.

"Irvine!"

He didn't move, still remaining behind the flock of chocobos.

"C'mon, son, I know yer there with them damn birds. Yer always there with them damn birds. C'mon out. Jerseys're mooin' for yer."

Irvine sighed. If he made Eli come down from the house, then he'd end up having an audience for the milking, and that only made him fuck up more, generally speaking. Damn cows… They did it on purpose, he was sure.

"Yeah, Pa. I'm goin'. I hear them." He came out from behind the flock, lifting his hat from his head and waving it at his father. He couldn't see it from here, but he knew there'd be a grin on that weather-beaten, once-handsome face.

"Get on inside when yer done. Ma's just about got supper on the table."

"Yessir," Irvine called back, then went to see to the cows.

There were only four of them, big eyes and brown-on-white fur. It probably didn't take him very long to milk them and put them to bed, but it seemed to him to take an age, because he couldn't stand them. When he was done, he closed the gate behind the last Jersey and headed out of the barn, waving his hat at the chocobos as they warked at him over the fence, hoping he might feed them again.

"You ain't gettin' nothin' more. I'll come put you to bed after supper," he told them, then went inside.

"There you are. Thought them cows'd swallowed you."

Irvine could never help but smile at his mother. She was almost as tall as him, only a few inches shorter, and he was only a few inches shorter than his father. Her hair was golden, which hid the grey coming in at her temples, and she had a pair of the brightest, bluest eyes Irvine had ever seen on a human being. People told him he had his mother's eyes, and he usually just smiled and thanked them. She was slender, but all muscle and so strong. She could carry a basket of potatoes as heavy as one Irvine could manage back from the vegetable patch, and she kept the house as free of dust and dirt as was possible out here.

'Out here', of course, was the edge of nowhere. Frontier country where only the strongest could survive. The land was cheap, but the life was hard. It was an hour-and-a-half ride to the little town that marked this stretch of the cattle drive, and eight hours by stagecoach from there to the nearest permanent town. From there, Irvine knew, one could get a stagecoach to anywhere, or at least to the edge of the ocean, where one could get on a ship. He, however, had no wish to go anywhere, except into town for a drink at the saloon, or a chat at the general store.

"Irvine," his mother said, snapping him out of his thoughts, and he looked up from his unseeing contemplation of the tablecloth to blink owlishly at her.

"Ma?"

She tapped her forehead and he winced, then reached up to drag his hat free of his head. It became such a part of him during the time he spent outside that he always forgot to take it off inside. His mother was patient, but he hated to disappoint her, even a little.

"Sorry," he said, but she only smiled and put a bowl of steaming stew and a hunk of fresh-baked bread before him.

"Boy'd forget his head if it weren't attached, sure 'n' certain," Eli said, reaching across to rap his knuckles lightly against Irvine's head.

"Pa," Irvine complained, batting at the hand, but they both laughed.

"Eat up now, boys, afore it goes cold."

"Slave-driver!" Eli lamented. "Yer a slave-driver, Leanne." But he set to with a will. He was as dark as his wife was fair, with a thick mop of shaggy brown hair, shot through, now, with grey, and dark, warm brown eyes that sometimes made Irvine think of the innocent, liquid gaze the cows had. His shoulders were broad and his hands were work-calloused, his arms thick with corded muscle. Leanne had once said with tender teasing to her son that his father was like a walking wall.

Leanne shook her head at Eli and sat down to her own dinner, watching Irvine briefly as he carefully tore a strip off the bread and dipped it in the stew. She loved him dearly, but he really was more than a little strange. He spent more time with the chocobos than he did with people, and even when they went into town, she rarely saw him with a girl. Eli had noticed it too, but they said nothing to Irvine – he was too dear to them. They would have expected him to be thinking about striking out on his own by now, at the age of nineteen, but he didn't seem inclined to do anything of the sort.

"Irvine," Eli said when they were all done with their stew and had moved onto Leanne's specialty, peach pie. "That new young chocobo. He's headstrong and difficult, but the O'Learys want him. They were here not two days ago and decided on him. I want yer ter take him over to them tomorrow."

Irvine looked up, arching a brow.

"Why not do it yourself?" he wondered curiously.

"Too much ter do around the ranch. I'll milk the cows for yer, if yer take him."

Well, Irvine thought, I sure won't be passin' up a chance to miss out on that

"Sure I'll do it, Pa. I'd, like, be glad to."

"That's settled, then. Ye'll pack a lunch, Leanne?"

"Well o'course. I sure ain't gonna let him starve to death!"

Irvine grinned at his mother, pushing his ponytail back over his shoulder. He loved her so much. It was a huge part of the reason he never bothered to explain to people that he couldn't 'have his mother's eyes', because she wasn't really his mother. Nor was Eli his father. They had adopted him long before they all came out here, picked him up from an orphanage in one of the big towns. He didn't remember it very well, only remembered how his new mamma had smelled and how it had felt when his new dada patted his hair.

And there were painful feelings, too, far more vague and unnamed. A place in him that hurt when he tried to completely forget the time before Eli and Leanne had come for him. He couldn't remember anymore why that was.

After they finished dessert, Irvine headed back outside in the failing light to put the chocobos in their stables, separating the new yearling and his own bird ready for the morning. That done, he slipped out of stables and went to the railing of the corral, climbing up and swinging his legs over to sit and watch the sun set.

The sky was painted in an array of reds, golds and dark, dark blues that made Irvine take a breath of pure awe. The mountain tops threw the colours back in pale relief and the spindly trees ranged across the horizon scribbled a black contrast across the rich reds. A Grendel howled at the rising moon as it lifted, silver and majestic, over the jagged peaks.

It was so beautiful. Irvine never ceased to be amazed by Hyne's skills.

- - - - - -

Ah, ah, ah, the cowboy was a sight to see.

He had never felt any express need to associate with so-called 'civilized' peoples, but this cowboy – Irvine he had heard him called – easily lead him to think otherwise. He would very much like to associate with this 'civilized' person… and perhaps turn him 'savage'.

That was the name these 'civilized' people gave to his kind, but he could care less what they thought. He liked his people and he liked himself, and he would like to have this cowboy to himself. He highly doubted Irvine would have even entertained the notion of touching another man the way a man touched a woman, but he had decided months ago he wanted to plant that notion in the cowboy's mind.

Ai! The line of his neck, the curve of his hips, the fan of that hair across his back… Ah, yes, and those long, long legs. He could imagine them, already, wrapped around his waist in a silent plea – More, please, more!

It was all he could do to stay where he was, hidden in the wild tangle of bushes and shrubs that crept around the edges of the ranch. The cowboy's father tried to keep it tamed, but there was only so much he could do, and it always crept back, because there were more important jobs. But oh! He wanted to take the cowboy now… He would look so good without all those coverings…

"Irvine!"

He saw the cowboy look to the house and his fingers flexed against the ground. He tensed, forcing himself to stay where he was as Irvine hopped off the fence and headed up to the house and disappeared inside.

With a lick of his lips, he disappeared too, back into the wilds that were his home.

- - - - - -

The next morning, Irvine left the house with a spring in his step and a smile on his face. The prospect of almost a full day spent with only chocobos for company, and no cows made him feel like singing. His father was even going to put the cows out to pasture this morning.

Eli came out behind him, shaking his head and laughing at something Leanne had said, and gave him a hurry up when he paused at the top of the stairs.

"Off yer go, son. Chocobos still need feedin' afore you leave."

"Yes, Pa," Irvine agreed, and headed off to do just that. This morning, he filled their feed trough before he let them out, so he didn't get caught in the mob of birds. His own chocobo, and the yearling for the O'Learys, he fed separately, and once they were done, he saddled and bridled his bird, then eased a bridle over the yearling's head. He was only partially broken, and Irvine wasn't even sure what the hurry was. He supposed Mr. O'Leary wanted to break the bird in himself. He could understand that.

"Easy, fella. Shh, shh… It's alright. Ain't gonna hurt you none," he promised as he slipped the soft leather over the yellow feathers, then carefully slid the bit into the bird's beak. "There now. Ain't so bad," he murmured, stroking the orange beak.

The yearling chuffed worriedly through his nostrils at Irvine's hat, and the cowboy laughed, ruffling his crest. He fixed a lead-rope to the bridle, then tied it securely to his bird, Whipcrack's, saddle. His lunch went into Whipcrack's saddlebags, then he led the two birds out into the early-morning hush.

The sun was barely up, but the cows were off already, along their well-worn track to wherever it was they went every day. Their bells clanked dully and they mooed lowly to one another, as though afraid to break the reverent hush. Eli waved from the barn door and Leanne mirrored the gesture from the verandah. Irvine smiled at his parents and lifted his hat to them, then swung up into the saddle and set off at an easy trot, out through the gate and off towards the O'Leary ranch.

They had a lot more cattle than Eli did, Irvine knew, and while his family dealt primarily in chocobos, the O'Learys dealt in their cattle. They sold milk, cream and butter and bred and sold their stock, not only as breeders for other ranchers, but for meat as well. Irvine had tasted O'Leary beef, and he didn't think there was anything anywhere else that was so juicy and tender. Cows were better that way, he mused, which he supposed was slightly animalistic, but they tasted good.

He knew the real reason behind Eli's decision to send him off with the yearling. Selphie O'Leary – Tilmitt, really, but she rarely went by that name anymore. He remembered her from the same orphanage his parents had taken him from, so he supposed they figured he was more likely to decide he wanted to marry her than he was to decide he wanted to marry anyone else. But he honestly didn't feel inclined to marry anyone at this point in time. He liked his life exactly the way it was right now, and he'd rather it didn't change. A wife would change it drastically.

He saw the lines of worry on his father's brow when the rains were too late, or the sun was too hot or the wind blew too hard. No grass meant no extra feed for the chocobos, which meant it all had to come from Eli's pockets, and they weren't very deep. Running a ranch was too much worry, and Irvine didn't want to have to worry like that.

If nothing else, it would ruin his good looks.

Oh, yes, he knew he possessed good looks. Hell, he used them often enough. He'd spent more time in haystacks and meadows with women than his parents knew, and he'd even tumbled one Selphie O'Leary more than once down the back of her father's hayshed. He liked women well enough, he just didn't particularly fancy settling down with one, not the least reason being it would mean being faithful to her alone, and keeping away from other women.

"Huh," he snorted at Whipcrack as they passed through shortening shadows of spindly trees and low-standing bushes. "You don't bother to pick one female and keep her for yourself, do you, boy? Hell no! You take who you want, when you want, and who, like, cares what the other females think? That's the best way to be, sure 'n' certain."

The chocobo gave a low wark and shook his crest, dancing a little on the spot.

"You wanna run, Whipcrack? I think we can do that."

And with a kick of his heels and a click of his tongue, Whipcrack bunched beneath him, then shot off like a bullet along the track, the yearling stumbling a step, then gathering himself and giving a happy kweh! at the fast pace. If nothing else, all chocobos loved to run.

- - - - - -

Aha! Now, here was a chance. The cowboy was evidently going on a long trip. He had packed food and his father was already working on his chores. Yes, but it would be safer, better, if he took the cowboy on the way back. That would give him the longest period of time to get away before Eli and Leanne realised Irvine wasn't coming back and sent out search parties. With guns.

Irvine had a gun. It was holstered in his chocobo's saddle, and he could certainly shoot with it. But he had confidence he would be able to surprise the cowboy and make sure he never laid a hand to the shining black metal.

He hated guns, but he had to admit Irvine looked good holding one. The calm ease with which the cowboy would bring it up to fire at whatever he happened to be aiming for was a sight worth seeing. And he could hit anything. Be it a stationary milk bottle or a hare streaking from one scrubby bush to the next, Irvine would hit it.

It was sheer beauty.

But he would prefer if the length of that gun was never aimed at him. Being dead wasn't a very good way to go about getting the cowboy underneath him.

He spent the day tracking Irvine, his own mount jittery and eager to say hello to the two birds the cowboy had with him, but the chocobo was well-trained, and daren't do anything her master didn't want her to do.

He left his chocobo well away from the O'Learys' ranch, but crept close himself, so that he wouldn't lose sight of the cowboy.

- - - - - -

Irvine was glad he'd swung down from Whipcrack's saddle and tethered the two birds to a fence post before he moved closer to the O'Leary homestead, because Selphie came tearing out the door and launched herself at him like a bull at a gate.

"Irvy!" she cried, as she always did, and cannoned into him with enough force to send him sprawling on his back. He was thankful her father would be out checking over his cattle at this time of day, because she wasted no time raining kisses on his face, paying special attention to his mouth, which – as was only polite – replied, seeking her lips for a deeper, hotter kiss.

"Selphie," he breathed after a moment. "Your Mamma's gonna catch us, and then what'll you do?"

"Marry you, I should hope," she retorted, but hopped off him and dusted her long skirts free of dust.

He rolled his eyes at her back as she turned and waltzed up the stairs.

"I ain't marryin' no-one, Selphie!" he informed her before she was out of ear-shot.

"Tell your Mamma that, and I might believe you sometime, cowboy."

He made a face as she disappeared inside, but he knew she was right. Eventually, he would have to get married and find his own patch of land to make a living off of, or build his wife a house on his father's land, ready to inherit when Eli got too old to run the place. But, Hyne… the very idea of getting married brought a bad taste to his mouth. Nevertheless, if he had to do it, it would be Selphie he did it with.

"Irvine! C'mon in and have somethin' to drink before you set off back, won't you?"

That was Selphie's Mamma. Irvine went up the steps to the verandah and ducked inside, for once remembering to take his hat off the moment he was across the threshold. He hung it on a peg and wandered further into the cool dimness of Selphie's home, knowing his way to the kitchen through years of time spent here.

He spent a good half hour with the O'Leary women, then excused himself and went to take the yearling to their stables. He didn't notice Selphie until he'd taken the bridle off the chocobo and slipped out of the stall, turning to head back to Whipcrack. She was grinning at him, and he knew what she wanted without her needing to say anything. But she came to him anyway and smoothed a hand across his chest.

"Listen, cowboy, why not take a minute or three to relax, huh?" Her dainty fingers dropped to his belt buckle and deftly began to undo it.

"Your Mamma's gonna find out you ain't the innocent virgin girl she thinks you are someday, Selphie, and what'll you do then…?" he wondered, but his mouth was already tracing along her hairline and the fingers of one hand were already hitching up her skirts.

"Don't matter. You're the only man for me, and you're the only man that's ever touched me, so I was virgin when my husband first took me."

"I ain't marryin' no-one," Irvine reminded her again, leading her over to lay down in the hay, at the back in the shadows where no-one who chanced to come in would be able to see them.

She laughed as his gloved hand smoothed up her thigh, her skirts gathered around her waist and her hands deep inside his pants, working to free him from them.

"Naw, you ain't marryin' no-one, you're marryin' me," she replied, affecting his drawl with a giggle and a smirk.

His mouth came against hers and he kissed her to shut her up, then murmured; "Gotta be quick, li'l darlin'. Ma'll expect me home not too long after dinner."

She made an agreeable sound, and they spoke no more.

- - - - - -

He knew what they were doing. The girl had gone in there with fire in her eyes and a swing in her hips, and he knew the cowboy wasn't one to say no. He didn't need to see or hear them to know why they were taking so long to come out of the stables.

He showed his teeth. He would like to tell the girl just what he thought of her, but he knew she would scream and run away the second she saw him. Mind, that wasn't such a bad idea. That could be an amusing activity. But he mustn't alert Irvine to his presence. This would be the best moment to snatch the cowboy away, once he and his chocobo were out of sight of the O'Leary place.

It only remained to be patient, but that wasn't easy when he could imagine those dainty little hands all over what was rightfully his. Ai! To touch that skin and smooth his fingers over the undulation of shoulder, waist, hip, thigh. He could picture the twitch of that soft skin, the way work-built muscles would flex as Irvine arched off the many-coloured pelts he would lay the cowboy down on.

And those various bits of cloth Irvine seemed inclined to cover himself with would be the first things to go, to be sure.

He backed away, deeper into the bushes when the cowboy and the girl came out of the stables, breathless and laughing. He graced her with one final kiss, then they parted, she to the homestead and he to his chocobo.

"There, Whipcrack, old boy. I'm sorry I made you wait, but I never were one to deny a lady," Irvine said as he untied the bird who warked and nudged at his hat, knocking it free of shining auburn tresses. "Bird!" Irvine accused, but he was laughing and he bent easily to sweep the hat off the ground, then swung into the saddle in the same movement.

No female deserved something that beautiful and graceful. He slipped away into the dappled shade of the scrub where his own chocobo waited for him, white-and-brown mottled feathers hiding her better than if he had made her lay down and covered her with branches and leaves. He clucked at her and she came to him, half-crouching and cocking a wing out so he could rest a knee on it and swing up onto her back. They had no need of such crude devices as saddles and reigns. He touched her lightly and she set off in pursuit of the cowboy and his mount.

They drew level quickly, moving silently along beside the track Irvine took, humming tunelessly to himself. The cowboy took no notice of him, but he noticed the cowboy. He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't.

He glanced over his shoulder to judge the distance from the ranch they'd left, and a smirk curved his lips once they drew out of sight. He reached into the little Anacondaur-skin pouch at his hip and withdrew a blow-pipe and chocobo-feathered dart. He touched his bird's shoulder, a silent steady there, then brought pipe and dart to his lips and blew, short and sharp.

Irvine's hand came up to his neck where the dart lodged and he winced, then cried out lowly when he felt the culprit. He looked wildly around, but it was too late – the sleeping poison was already in his veins and he was already wavering in his saddle. Whipcrack made a confused sound, slewing to the side as Irvine's weight slipped, and gloved hands clutched uselessly at golden feathers before he fell to the ground.

Whipcrack gave a terrified wark and nudged at his master's fallen form. Irvine struggled to get to his feet, but it was useless, and the cowboy was soon fast asleep. The cowboy's bird danced nervously on the spot, looking around, then stilled as he and his chocobo stepped out of the spindly cover. The golden bird cocked his head.

"Shh, shh…" he soothed, moving close on his bird and reaching out to touch the yellow crest.

Whipcrack was too confused to do anything but obey, and there were no complaints when he slipped off his own bird and bent to touch the cowboy's neck, feeling for the sign of life. Ah, yes. There it was, still beating strong. He lifted Irvine's weight easily and laid him carefully across his bird's neck, then climbed up behind him to steady him. With one hand, he took the golden bird's reigns, with the other he held Irvine where he was, and with his knees he turned his own chocobo and headed up into the foothills, towards the place he had prepared.

He had been waiting for this for some time.

- - - - - -

Author's Notes: On the ambiguous "him". "He" is based solidly on no real "savage", as it were. I don't profess to know much of anything about American Indians and I truly can't even say I know much about my own country's Aboriginals. This fanfiction is entirely that – fiction.

Okay, "he" might be based loosely on snippets gained from actual peoples, but "he" is mostly part of a random culture native to Gaia that I have yanked out of thin air.

Finally: There ends the hetness. It's all yaoi from here on in, friends.

So, didja like it? Updates will be pretty regular to begin with, until I get up to where I've written, and then it might take longer. Although, with Hicky spending the first ten seconds of every online conversation gong "West?" the whip is well-cracked, and I don't mean Eli's. She's a slave-driver. Really.