Wanting [FFXII, Bergan/Vossler, NC-17]
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no_true_pairTitle: Wanting
Author:ellnyx
Fandom: FFXII
Pairing/characters: Bergan/Vossler
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violent consensual sex, verbal abuse, unexplored hints of d/s.
Prompt/challenge: Vossler throws caution to the wind and allows Bergan, and Bergan's hot body, to make this fling even hotter!
.
There was something ridiculously crude about the man, Vossler decided, jarred beyond judgment with the emphasis of their efforts: observe, he could only observe. Strung along Vossler's periphery, that silvering cord was Bergan's sweat, a dangle that became a drip; or was it even his saliva, thick and spattering from a well fleshed and bitten lower lip? Chains of sweat would meld them so closely, the echoing sound of smacking, sucking flesh that resounded, not in unison, but at the least like two great mismatched bulls pulling harness in tandem to a single goal.
Vossler ejected profanity along with his restraint. The word was the only mark of his release, driven beyond even the white-sight, thigh-shivering sensation of orgasm by the sheer glut of weight and effort and striving that continued without any respect for the body, so suddenly emptied, that no longer wanted to be filled this way. He keened. Barbarian, barbaric, crude; the Archadian's practiced palm planted in the spill and immediately, obscenely, unbelievably, returned to Vossler's flesh to wrench from it again a second, pained erection, a fist that lingered only until Bergan was assured the response he demanded was there.
Those fingers, which had broached Vossler, and tormented him, and pinched and twisted nipples and even kneaded teats to a bruised and swollen shapeliness, went to his mouth still sticky and stinking; oh, fuck yes, Vossler would savour this, and suck, fingers and fucking, filled two to one.
The Archadian laughed behind him, which echoed in those great lungs almost as though he had still been clad in that infernally obstructive suit of armour. Half an hour wasted, Vossler cursed, getting it off to reveal what he had known lay beneath. The brute could paint himself in colours of so-called civilisation; Vossler knew the form of a beast, the chaos that matched his own, the craving for the foreign stink of an animal's sweat slicking his spine.
'Suckle, slut,' Bergan said, and bent Vossler's head back and tormented his spine with it; foreign fingers thrust to seek the vulnerability of throat-flesh, the score of a jagged nail that had stingingly blooded him before, sharp and threatening. 'Ah, feel your arse open when I raid your throat, slut, wide mouth and wide hole; you'd take it even now, wouldn't you, suck me clean of you? What would your pretty blue eyed cohort say to witness that, your diplomatic tongue licking clean the taste of Dalmasca from Archadian pride?'
How did the Archadian know? How did he know best the words that would build that mix of coiled rage and shame in Vossler's belly; how the shame would make him harder than all the handling before? Shame, too, that Vossler's ascribed diplomatic duties could be cast aside so easily at the sight of shoulders broader than his, the decadent lips and roving eyes that wanted nothing more than flesh bent before, and willingly unwilling. Vossler could not even blame his lust on having seen the ridges of Bergan's overbearing muscle; he had fantasised about it for days of this designation, surprised to find in foreign Archades what was difficult to discover in Dalmasca; that cracked armour would reveal a fantasy so well constructed that the truth came as no surprise. Bergan was clearly, impossibly huge, a sign beyond all signs that Vossler could not, would not win dominance no matter his striving; only so could Vossler strive freely in the battle before the fucking, honestly vying for control, trusting at last that he could never win what he did not want.
Roaring at that, fucking back hard enough to throw Bergan's weight, so briefly, and free himself for speech; Vossler clenched his teeth to cling to his smile. 'He would say please sir, may I watch!'
'That's what you want,' Bergan laughed, raucous as a pirate. 'You desperate, self-slaved slut, how many times am I going to make you give it up before you limp back home? I'll bet fifty! A hundred! Until you're crawling from want of remembering how to walk!'
A broad-handed slap to Vossler's arsecheek came like a blow, so hard he could not help but clench around the thick intrusion to which he would not accustom himself. Bergan sneered his displeasure at Vossler's lack of control: you will be open, Bergan had said when he won that weighted fight, as open as mouth of a chicklet gaping for food. Vossler was flipped, handled like that blackfeathered chicklet he was explicitly not, slammed onto his back. Shoulders spread his knees past shaking and into an instant shocked cramp, brutal fingers forced his mouth wide, four and a thumb this time, then the other hand at his hole, the head of Bergan's cock nosing in bluntly beside a hooked thumb too impossibly wide. Tears blinded Vossler, choking on fingers. With his hands free he cast punches that did little but make Bergan's laugh hiccup, muscle-plate ribcage absorbing every blow, until Vossler could only cling to those incomparable shoulders, shaking and stretched like the strands of slaver that even now speckled his face; too heavy at one end and too light at the other. Weighted, he broke.
When Vossler came back to himself, he ached to the extent he feared himself still filled. He was not. Bergan stood over him, decadent's long hair awry, lips swelled. The houserobe hung open over muscle so rigid Vossler could have doubted the reality, had he not laved each blonde-gnarled inch clean of plate-metal sweat with his tongue. Bergan's eyes were slits, glittering; the towel with which he had wiped Vossler's face on his arm; a hand offered a goblet of wine.
Vossler grabbed it, barely hume enough to grunt a gratitude, and drank.
'I thought you were too old to last,' Bergan said, and sat on the end of his bed. The frame protested his presence. 'I sought only to tick my own tally.'
'Your right.' A sip only. Vossler's throat was ravaged, he could barely sit upright for long enough to swallow. Light help him, but sitting at the trading table on the morrow would be torture; cored like this, he would knot like a bruise. 'I have learned to hoard. Against leaner times.'
'Leaner times?' A snort, the clap on a shoulder that fell heavy, but not hard. 'Leaner men, perchance.'
That sound was nearly a laugh, a comradely, understanding laugh; Vossler shook his head to relieve himself of the urge to relax. 'Aye, perchance.'
Author:
ellnyxFandom: FFXII
Pairing/characters: Bergan/Vossler
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violent consensual sex, verbal abuse, unexplored hints of d/s.
Prompt/challenge: Vossler throws caution to the wind and allows Bergan, and Bergan's hot body, to make this fling even hotter!
.
There was something ridiculously crude about the man, Vossler decided, jarred beyond judgment with the emphasis of their efforts: observe, he could only observe. Strung along Vossler's periphery, that silvering cord was Bergan's sweat, a dangle that became a drip; or was it even his saliva, thick and spattering from a well fleshed and bitten lower lip? Chains of sweat would meld them so closely, the echoing sound of smacking, sucking flesh that resounded, not in unison, but at the least like two great mismatched bulls pulling harness in tandem to a single goal.
Vossler ejected profanity along with his restraint. The word was the only mark of his release, driven beyond even the white-sight, thigh-shivering sensation of orgasm by the sheer glut of weight and effort and striving that continued without any respect for the body, so suddenly emptied, that no longer wanted to be filled this way. He keened. Barbarian, barbaric, crude; the Archadian's practiced palm planted in the spill and immediately, obscenely, unbelievably, returned to Vossler's flesh to wrench from it again a second, pained erection, a fist that lingered only until Bergan was assured the response he demanded was there.
Those fingers, which had broached Vossler, and tormented him, and pinched and twisted nipples and even kneaded teats to a bruised and swollen shapeliness, went to his mouth still sticky and stinking; oh, fuck yes, Vossler would savour this, and suck, fingers and fucking, filled two to one.
The Archadian laughed behind him, which echoed in those great lungs almost as though he had still been clad in that infernally obstructive suit of armour. Half an hour wasted, Vossler cursed, getting it off to reveal what he had known lay beneath. The brute could paint himself in colours of so-called civilisation; Vossler knew the form of a beast, the chaos that matched his own, the craving for the foreign stink of an animal's sweat slicking his spine.
'Suckle, slut,' Bergan said, and bent Vossler's head back and tormented his spine with it; foreign fingers thrust to seek the vulnerability of throat-flesh, the score of a jagged nail that had stingingly blooded him before, sharp and threatening. 'Ah, feel your arse open when I raid your throat, slut, wide mouth and wide hole; you'd take it even now, wouldn't you, suck me clean of you? What would your pretty blue eyed cohort say to witness that, your diplomatic tongue licking clean the taste of Dalmasca from Archadian pride?'
How did the Archadian know? How did he know best the words that would build that mix of coiled rage and shame in Vossler's belly; how the shame would make him harder than all the handling before? Shame, too, that Vossler's ascribed diplomatic duties could be cast aside so easily at the sight of shoulders broader than his, the decadent lips and roving eyes that wanted nothing more than flesh bent before, and willingly unwilling. Vossler could not even blame his lust on having seen the ridges of Bergan's overbearing muscle; he had fantasised about it for days of this designation, surprised to find in foreign Archades what was difficult to discover in Dalmasca; that cracked armour would reveal a fantasy so well constructed that the truth came as no surprise. Bergan was clearly, impossibly huge, a sign beyond all signs that Vossler could not, would not win dominance no matter his striving; only so could Vossler strive freely in the battle before the fucking, honestly vying for control, trusting at last that he could never win what he did not want.
Roaring at that, fucking back hard enough to throw Bergan's weight, so briefly, and free himself for speech; Vossler clenched his teeth to cling to his smile. 'He would say please sir, may I watch!'
'That's what you want,' Bergan laughed, raucous as a pirate. 'You desperate, self-slaved slut, how many times am I going to make you give it up before you limp back home? I'll bet fifty! A hundred! Until you're crawling from want of remembering how to walk!'
A broad-handed slap to Vossler's arsecheek came like a blow, so hard he could not help but clench around the thick intrusion to which he would not accustom himself. Bergan sneered his displeasure at Vossler's lack of control: you will be open, Bergan had said when he won that weighted fight, as open as mouth of a chicklet gaping for food. Vossler was flipped, handled like that blackfeathered chicklet he was explicitly not, slammed onto his back. Shoulders spread his knees past shaking and into an instant shocked cramp, brutal fingers forced his mouth wide, four and a thumb this time, then the other hand at his hole, the head of Bergan's cock nosing in bluntly beside a hooked thumb too impossibly wide. Tears blinded Vossler, choking on fingers. With his hands free he cast punches that did little but make Bergan's laugh hiccup, muscle-plate ribcage absorbing every blow, until Vossler could only cling to those incomparable shoulders, shaking and stretched like the strands of slaver that even now speckled his face; too heavy at one end and too light at the other. Weighted, he broke.
When Vossler came back to himself, he ached to the extent he feared himself still filled. He was not. Bergan stood over him, decadent's long hair awry, lips swelled. The houserobe hung open over muscle so rigid Vossler could have doubted the reality, had he not laved each blonde-gnarled inch clean of plate-metal sweat with his tongue. Bergan's eyes were slits, glittering; the towel with which he had wiped Vossler's face on his arm; a hand offered a goblet of wine.
Vossler grabbed it, barely hume enough to grunt a gratitude, and drank.
'I thought you were too old to last,' Bergan said, and sat on the end of his bed. The frame protested his presence. 'I sought only to tick my own tally.'
'Your right.' A sip only. Vossler's throat was ravaged, he could barely sit upright for long enough to swallow. Light help him, but sitting at the trading table on the morrow would be torture; cored like this, he would knot like a bruise. 'I have learned to hoard. Against leaner times.'
'Leaner times?' A snort, the clap on a shoulder that fell heavy, but not hard. 'Leaner men, perchance.'
That sound was nearly a laugh, a comradely, understanding laugh; Vossler shook his head to relieve himself of the urge to relax. 'Aye, perchance.'