ellnyx (ellnyx) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2008-11-12 02:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | a: logistika_nyx, f: final fantasy xii, november 09, p: basch/vossler |
once traveled [ffxii, basch/vossler]
Title: Once Traveled
Author: logistika_nyx
Characters/Pairings: Basch/Vossler
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII - felching/post-orgasmic rimming - "You want me to do whatever I want?"
Word count: 930
Other: Belated post snagged from Nov 9. Hope you enjoy!
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They share their blankets, their vows and their devotion, but little else.
Vossler's vision is blurred with exhaustion. Basch's motion above him is languid, lazy with length where a born Dalmascan knows what passes between men is not a matter for longevity. The moon is high with a hard, cold light that marks the shutter's filigree in a stretched pattern across the floor. It was sunset when they started, Vossler remembers, vaguely. He stares at the white of his knuckles, fingers wrapped tight around each other for lack of any other brace. His arms, his legs: they surrendered their spasms long ago. Everything left in him is unrelenting lust.
Basch never talks, of this, through this, after this. That is one aspect that gives Vossler some comfort, familiarity: the wordlessness of this exchange. He is still uncomfortable in Basch's austere room, made so by such small things: the books Basch chooses to read, Basch's sword left across the table where the point targets the door, the crisp folds of his clothes and the scatter of his shoes. A born Dalmascan would never let his sword point anywhere but to the earth lest he unwittingly wish death on a visitor. A born Dalmascan would never let his shoes point to the bed, for the desert's dreams move in the direction of a man's forward motion. No man wants to dream the desert when he must live that battle, daily.
Basch holds himself distant. They do not kiss on the lips, and never kiss in private. Such tenderness Vossler supposes would be gifted to a wife, should a Knight of the Order be permitted such a thing, or to a woman, should he ever want such a thing. On the street they will kiss as brothers, battle-bound; lips to a sweat-slick brow for luck, or cheek to cheek with lips more on ear than anywhere else, for greeting. Basch found that a strangeness, Vossler remembers: in Basch's birth-land, men did not kiss. Not sons their fathers, not even a brother his brothers.
Vossler wonders if Basch finds anything but distaste in this act. Above him, Basch's eyes are closed, sweat turning his hair to strings. The moon's light lends itself to shadow, never clarity. The bones of Basch's face look a mask of intensity without underlying meaning. Whenever Basch ends, he wraps himself with a towel as he withdraws. He leaves Vossler with that liquid remnant of lust and a rolled-up towel between his legs. There is disdain in that action, Vossler thinks, disdain for the corporeality of this act, for the consequence. Perhaps it means nothing more than a towel rucked between them, meaningless fabric. Without words, kisses, promises, all consequence between them must be purely physical.
Vossler has age, superiority, right-of-birth. He wonders if Basch even knows he could have refused -- but that would have required being asked, and they do not talk of this.
'Basch,' Vossler says, sudden. His throat hurts as he speaks, slurred as though drunk; he thinks he is drunk, on exhaustion, the emphasis slapped against his thighs. 'Basch.'
Basch opens his eyes, only the moon's glitter in those depths of shadow to show a response.
'I want you--to--' Vossler pauses. Basch's cock pulses, hard. Vossler tenses, unwillingly for the burn. 'Is this what you want?'
Basch speaks shortly, unwilling to spare breath. 'I am still a stranger in this country, Vossler. What else should I want?'
'I don't know.' Vossler wants water; his throat is dry. 'Will you--if you want something else, will you speak?'
'Must I speak? I do not wish to give unwitting offence.'
'--will you do, then? Whatever?'
Basch grins, quicksilver. 'You trust me? You trust me. Vossler. More than words, that.'
Basch's cock throbs again, so hard and so close, almost the strike of a fist inside that Vossler bites his lip for silence. Basch has had his fist in Vossler's guts, and not in any a desirous way; a slash struck by a dying Archadian's spear where armor once had a near-fatal flaw, and Vossler remembers the struggle across a corpse-filled field. Basch's fist was all that held his life together, the stink of death, dying, degradation on them both.
Vossler closes his eyes when Basch comes. The withdrawal is almost immediate, and as it should be when they do not lie together for love. There is no immediate press of towel. Basch does not move away. Vossler opens his eyes, spun and startled, when Basch's fingers close warm and tight with about his thigh, the other hand at the base of Vossler's own unrelieved lust. Basch shoulders forward, and does not let Vossler lower his legs.
They have had their intimacies, shared them all, bound in the fluids of life and death. Basch's lips are on Vossler's thigh, his tongue, sourcing fold of flesh, sweat and crease. Vossler should speak against this; it is not a behavior even granted a streetname, such is the depravity. Vossler does not speak against this. He has exhausted all his words tonight. Basch's fingertips move to stroke his lust to spend; Basch's tongue maps the path his prick had so recently taken. The motion there soothes, wetness and the cool breath of fast exhalation, impossibly calming where Basch's cock only ever leaves such a burn.
Vossler feels the shout wrapped in the column of his throat, released all at once by Basch's hand, Basch's tongue, and the unexpected scrape of Basch's beard.
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