[Final Fantasy XII] Sting
Pairing: Ashe/Vossler
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rough sex, dubious consent
Notes: Written to cheer up who_shot_kr
Wordcount: 858
Summary: He does not know this woman who stares him down over their crossed blades.
Beta: None
He does not know this woman who stares him down over their crossed blades; once, he would have called her Ashelia, but never the bare name alone, always swaddled and crushed with titles and formality. This woman, teeth bared, chest heaving, is even more strange to his eyes than her new name is to his lips. She presses forward and his wrist aches, bent at an awkward angle as he fights to hold Nightmare in place. "Yield," she snarls, and it is like facing a cornered animal.
He thinks to feint, to slip away and come back from the side, but she has backed him too far; his foot turns and she knocks Nightmare from his hands, shoving him back until his head cracks against the stone wall and his vision hazes for a moment with sharp, bright pain. When it recedes, he finds he can scarcely breathe from her hand on his collar, twisting it to draw the leather tighter. It chafes his skin. Air backs up in his throat, sends red spots dancing behind his eyes. "Yield," she repeats, and, left with the choice between doing as she commands and laying hands on the Princess in violence, he accedes.
The words choke him as much as his collar does, and his throat burns like fire with the effort to force them out. My life is yours. It is the ancient oath of the Order to the monarchs of Dalmasca; he swore it to her father, and when Raminas fell he swore it to her. Now she demands it again, wants proof of his fealty. So be it.
She looses him as suddenly as she seized him, and he is dimly grateful for the support of the wall as he drags air into his lungs. Sense is slower to return. When it does, he finds her hands beneath his clothes, cool and almost rough on his skin. "Touch me," Amalia demands.
Vossler accedes.
When first she sought this closeness with him, he turned away. He strove to remind himself that a Queen was ill-served indeed with a captain who could not think past the ache in his cock. But Ashelia--Amalia--had never been one to take kindly to denial, and she was as relentless in her pursuit as the River Nebra was in carving its way through the rocks of Mosphoran.
She yanks on his shirt, pulling him toward her. He is not yet sure again on his feet, and he staggers into her, sending them both tumbling to the floor; by the grace of the Father, he gets his hand between her skull and the stone before she lands. She twists beneath him, one hand scrabbling at the hem of her skirt and the garments that lie beneath. Vossler tries to clear his head, to pull back. Amalia locks her legs around his and attacks him, more than kisses him.
Her hand moves awkwardly between them, pulling aside their garments. When she guides him into her, he hates himself for the weakness of his own flesh that has him rocking forward even as his mind shouts warnings at him.
"Princess," even her hair is choking him when he tries to turn away from her sharp-edged kisses, "we cannot do this."
"We already are," she counters. He can feel her hands on his back, where the skin was abraded from a sandstorm three days past. It stings. He nurses the discomfort, focuses on it instead of her, but she has learned his tricks. She thrusts her hips up toward him, deliberately tightens around him, and his resolve falters.
She leans up to close her teeth on his earlobe, and against his best intentions he presses his mouth to the side of her neck, hears her moan when stubble scrapes her skin. She moves her hips again, and a shudder racks his entire body. A knight of the Order would not act thus.
What good the Order when the throne is fallen? For all his brave words to her, for all the training he puts his men through, he doubts they will retake Dalmasca thus.
He is lost, now, his body ignoring the commands of his will and moving against hers. Amalia never wants him to be gentle. She treats this as more of a battle than a lovemaking, fierce and angry and fast. This time, he need not even slide a hand between them to touch her; her head snaps back and a keening whine escapes her throat while her nails dig deep enough to draw blood. Vossler presses his mouth hard against her shoulder to muffle his own hoarse cry.
He rolls to the side, struggling not to crush her with his greater weight. She is still, but he dares not touch her, run soothing circles on her skin as he might with another.
The minutes strech on, broken only by their laboured breathing. When even that quiets and the silence becomes oppressive, Amalia tugs her clothing into place, rises, and leaves the room without a backward glance.
Vossler closes his eyes, and lets the cool stone beneath him soothe the welts on his back.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rough sex, dubious consent
Notes: Written to cheer up who_shot_kr
Wordcount: 858
Summary: He does not know this woman who stares him down over their crossed blades.
Beta: None
He does not know this woman who stares him down over their crossed blades; once, he would have called her Ashelia, but never the bare name alone, always swaddled and crushed with titles and formality. This woman, teeth bared, chest heaving, is even more strange to his eyes than her new name is to his lips. She presses forward and his wrist aches, bent at an awkward angle as he fights to hold Nightmare in place. "Yield," she snarls, and it is like facing a cornered animal.
He thinks to feint, to slip away and come back from the side, but she has backed him too far; his foot turns and she knocks Nightmare from his hands, shoving him back until his head cracks against the stone wall and his vision hazes for a moment with sharp, bright pain. When it recedes, he finds he can scarcely breathe from her hand on his collar, twisting it to draw the leather tighter. It chafes his skin. Air backs up in his throat, sends red spots dancing behind his eyes. "Yield," she repeats, and, left with the choice between doing as she commands and laying hands on the Princess in violence, he accedes.
The words choke him as much as his collar does, and his throat burns like fire with the effort to force them out. My life is yours. It is the ancient oath of the Order to the monarchs of Dalmasca; he swore it to her father, and when Raminas fell he swore it to her. Now she demands it again, wants proof of his fealty. So be it.
She looses him as suddenly as she seized him, and he is dimly grateful for the support of the wall as he drags air into his lungs. Sense is slower to return. When it does, he finds her hands beneath his clothes, cool and almost rough on his skin. "Touch me," Amalia demands.
Vossler accedes.
When first she sought this closeness with him, he turned away. He strove to remind himself that a Queen was ill-served indeed with a captain who could not think past the ache in his cock. But Ashelia--Amalia--had never been one to take kindly to denial, and she was as relentless in her pursuit as the River Nebra was in carving its way through the rocks of Mosphoran.
She yanks on his shirt, pulling him toward her. He is not yet sure again on his feet, and he staggers into her, sending them both tumbling to the floor; by the grace of the Father, he gets his hand between her skull and the stone before she lands. She twists beneath him, one hand scrabbling at the hem of her skirt and the garments that lie beneath. Vossler tries to clear his head, to pull back. Amalia locks her legs around his and attacks him, more than kisses him.
Her hand moves awkwardly between them, pulling aside their garments. When she guides him into her, he hates himself for the weakness of his own flesh that has him rocking forward even as his mind shouts warnings at him.
"Princess," even her hair is choking him when he tries to turn away from her sharp-edged kisses, "we cannot do this."
"We already are," she counters. He can feel her hands on his back, where the skin was abraded from a sandstorm three days past. It stings. He nurses the discomfort, focuses on it instead of her, but she has learned his tricks. She thrusts her hips up toward him, deliberately tightens around him, and his resolve falters.
She leans up to close her teeth on his earlobe, and against his best intentions he presses his mouth to the side of her neck, hears her moan when stubble scrapes her skin. She moves her hips again, and a shudder racks his entire body. A knight of the Order would not act thus.
What good the Order when the throne is fallen? For all his brave words to her, for all the training he puts his men through, he doubts they will retake Dalmasca thus.
He is lost, now, his body ignoring the commands of his will and moving against hers. Amalia never wants him to be gentle. She treats this as more of a battle than a lovemaking, fierce and angry and fast. This time, he need not even slide a hand between them to touch her; her head snaps back and a keening whine escapes her throat while her nails dig deep enough to draw blood. Vossler presses his mouth hard against her shoulder to muffle his own hoarse cry.
He rolls to the side, struggling not to crush her with his greater weight. She is still, but he dares not touch her, run soothing circles on her skin as he might with another.
The minutes strech on, broken only by their laboured breathing. When even that quiets and the silence becomes oppressive, Amalia tugs her clothing into place, rises, and leaves the room without a backward glance.
Vossler closes his eyes, and lets the cool stone beneath him soothe the welts on his back.