Final Fantasy XII, Balthier/Basch, fisting
--you stop when Basch arches at the fourth, shaking. You hold. Steady. Basch never begs for mercy, and you’re not the kind of man who merely gives away something that valuable. Reluctant, you shift your gaze, lift your cheek from his sweat-slick thigh, to see if he has anything to say on the matter.
The way Basch writhes turns his face away from you, his hands fisted. You cling his leg to hold him down, hold him open, mostly to just hold him; your posture’s an unflattering one if you could care about your graphic appeal at this point, which you emphatically don’t - your hand’s almost broken him, and the look of that has you forgetting about yourself, but - oh, you’re cock’s aching too, that you can’t help but grind against Basch’s leg. There’s something appropriate about the sliding discomfort of your length against the hard bone of Basch’s shin; you rut, slow, rhythmic.
You can’t see his face, but you can see his cock standing so thick it refuses to lie against Basch’s stomach. That proves sufficient approbation that you smirk against his skin, mouthing upwards with a motion not quite a kiss. His cock jerks as though keeping time with you, and slick mats his hair to his belly. A still-frantic pulse crimps your fingers, meshed with hot, soft, close; you want to feel that rhythm ringing your wrist, his pulse against yours. You blow, cool that Basch hisses at the feel of your breath, to subside against the mattress and cock his other leg open again, yet still you wait before you move. His cock wants sucking so much so your mouth waters; when you bend to bite the skin over Basch’s hipbone you leave wet behind. Basch’s fingers curl in your hair, to tug –
You can’t mistake that as anything but what it is, wordless or no. You fold in your thumb against your palm; you drag your tongue across Basch’s stomach; pre-emptive spoils prove a teaser but for whom you can’t determine, for your cock lurches but so does his. More slick spirals down his length, chained strands. His hand closes around your slick forearm between his legs, holds. When you look up this time, his eyes meet yours across the heave of his chest. A shadowed gaze, storm blue glazed, more bruise-blue now. His lips look swollen, parted, no word forthcoming. His grip tightens though; he’s going to tell you to stop. You will, if he tells yo—
He bears down --
You’re moaning, he’s laughing at you with a soundless shudder, he pushes so hard you’re giving way and you have to cup your free hand under your elbow to hold and, oh, gods, why are you the one making all the noise?
Your tongue’s around his cock, more; your mouth’s around the head, more; he’s liquid and you hold back from taking more than the head of his cock because you can’t stop moaning and you want, more, you want to taste it when he comes. There’s an ache in your arm, shoulder, elbow, you’re probably going to strain something, you’re fucking his leg and can’t stop and what’s filling your mouth isn’t completion but it is close; he’s pushing you, and - he’s - the sound - ah, past knuckles—
There’s no isolating a single trigger. You come against him, impossibly so, all over his calf and his thigh, your legs and your stomach. He still won’t release your arm; you have to let his cock fall from your mouth. You can’t breathe. Hells, you can’t even see.
You still expect him to ask you to stop, but all you hear is his harsh breath. Maybe he can’t ask. Taught himself not to beg, in Nalbina. A strange time for you to feel remorse with your hand in him entire.
Yet he forces himself down again, and you swallow his cock, deeper now, no restraint – he’s – you move your fist that you're fucking him at last; you can feel – scorching - if you twist he –
Basch is halfway down your throat and you’re all the way bound, and he comes.
You're the one who makes the noise that he doesn't.
After, you don't disengage, but you lick him dry. Basch is lax, watching you; you twine around him, lift his leg over your shoulder that you can see your handiwork, and you bring your tongue to bear on the strained flesh close around your wrist. He makes a sound, soft--