Porn Battle reposts -- the good, the bad, and the ugly.
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To avoid spamming, I'll be reposting the twenty (!) little pieces I did for porn_battle in groups by fandom and theme, over the course of the next few days. There should be enough for four posts--odds and ends, bsg/suikoden/xxxholic, sei/sub, and Elastic gets a post all its own. This is the Odd and Ends batch.
Prompt: Death Note, Light/Misa, would you shut up already?
Rating: SO NOT WORKSAFE.
Why: See opening sentence:
Lesson
death note
Mithrigil Galtirglin
Even with his cock in her mouth she still makes noise. More noise than he does, even-it’s been a while since she worked him up enough to coax more than a heavier-than-usual breath out of him. But she’s off the edge of the bed, with his cock and his fingers stuffed into her mouth and her own hands busy somewhere under her skirt, making little whirring noises obscene enough that he starts to wilt, starts to entertain thoughts of taking care of this himself. He presses his palm to himself a little harder, tightens his thighs a little more.
“Misa,” he says-like he’s chiding, so she can’t mistake it for a compliment. “This isn’t working.”
The protesting sound she makes gets her cheeks fluttering against him, determinedly. He translates; a generic but, a hopeful assertion that her love and her skills and whatever else she’s using this for will overcome her sheer ineptitude and annoyance. He’s always been better at making himself come.
It occurs to him that Misa doesn’t know that.
Gritting his teeth-from frustration as much as the change in texture-he pulls out, reaches down with spit-roughened fingers and grabs her by the bra-straps, hauls her up to the bed. That gets another one of those sounds out of her, a high-pitched, dramatic, manga-style oof that sends a flare of anger down from Light’s solar plexus to his balls. (Is this the stereotype of testosterone-driven aggression that gets men to beat their wives? Light thinks, and thinks he understands. No wonder.)
Light leans on one leg, bending her over the edge of the bed and pinning her spread thigh with his knee. Her panties twist, the thong raised and only half-covering her. When she flails, murmuring a tangle of his name, he pins her arms as well, up over her head, in his left hand. “Would you just shut up already?” he snarls, and takes himself in hand. “And keep your eyes open for this.”
He jerks off hard, with haste-she bites her lip, her hollow throat and soft stomach shivering from the suppressed simpering noises. But that look on her face, the muscles twitching under his grip-the wild dart of her eyes as she obeys him unquestioningly-that’s a contrast, that’s depth, that’s wanting one thing and doing another, and that’s closer to what he wants. He doesn’t tell her so but the breaths shove out of him, pitched and heavy, quickening-one hoarse cry of hers tries to mix in and she stifles it, she’s watching him, learning this. Her spit’s dried off of him by the time he comes, all over her skirt, her underwear, her stubbled inner thighs.
Her wrists go limp-her hips lift off the bed-
“Like that, next time,” Light tells her, and lets her go, steps back-not as shaky as he could have been?-and takes a deep breath before stepping over her stockings on the way to the bathroom.
---
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Prompt: 12 Kingdoms, Youko/Rakushun, difference conscious
Rating: Not quite workafe...
Why: Xenokink.
Shift Up
twelve kingdoms
Mithrigil Galtirglin
It began with just a parting touch that lingered-it was meant to be a brush of her hand against his paw. But in emerging from that merest gesture Rakushun turned his head, and his whiskers dipped into her long sleeve. Youko stood transfixed at the shiver that wrought in him, the way the fur of his maw ruffled. She cast her eyes down first, but knew that his would follow.
He stammered, her given name, the one he knew her by, not by any royal title-at the same time, she intended to apologize. Instead the words that emerged from her mouth took, well-a different form entirely.
“If I kiss you now,” Youko said, looking at the shared space of their feet, “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to stay.”
His toe-claws skittered on the tile and the cement between it; the sound startled Youko, enough for her to raise her eyes again, to the level of his face at least. His eyes, so large and glossed near-black, were half-lidded in consideration as he wrung his paws, like the knot of the pack he once wore about his shoulders. If he was in human form, he would have blushed, of that Youko was certain. The apology came to her lips again-
“I oughtn’t shift up, here,” he said, and a wave of relief thrilled down Youko’s shoulders, “not without-”
“I’ll come to you,” Youko interrupted before either of them could change their minds.
She sank to kneel, took his cheeks in her hands-his paws came up to clasp her wrists so deftly that she gasped-and closed her eyes. And with that air in her mouth she bowed to meet his, as with a sword-strike. The bar of his teeth was still and so clearly present behind soft lips framed in slick fur, and the rough pad of his tongue crept between them to buss hers. Her fingers closed around his whiskers, goaded his cheeks. His paws stroked her arms, claws catching on her sleeves.
-When the air she had taken was no longer enough, when his cheeks were hot beneath her palms and his lips shaking with the urgency of a word unsaid, she recoiled to let him say it. “-ought to,” Rakushun’s words turned out to be, part of something larger that Youko questioned with a dazed hum, “ought to-go someplace where I can-properly-touch you properly, Youko-”
She drew him near again. “You’re Rakushun either way,” she breathed, startled at the rasp of her voice, “so-so either way is proper.”
His nose twitched rapidly, the rough hairs close enough for her skin to benefit. “But you yourself abolished the custom of prostration.” Mischief-smart, knowing laughter-flickered in his eyes, and when Youko laughed with him, he let slip his paw to take her by the hand in earnest. “If I do stay, I hope you’ll allow me to keep you off your knees.”
---
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Prompt: Digital Devil Saga 2, Heat solo, "He doesn'tknow if he wants men or women, and the being that comes to him behind closed eyelids doesn't seem to be either."
Rating: Not quite workafe.
Why: That man has a strange relationship with God.
The Wrong Side of the Cross
digital devil saga 2
Mithrigil Galtirglin
How can he wake up in a cold sweat when the world is dying? Or is that just the chill of lapsed repression, of Sunday School teachers in the back of his head, reminding him no, no, a thousand times no?
This is ridiculous. The bed’s sopping and chilled with the rushed acidity of come and central air conditioning, and the image burned into his mind barely has a shape, let alone a name. I am made all things to all men. Heat stretches out, winces at the abrading wetness along his side, bites his lip and realizes it’s already bruised. For fuck’s sake. Did he do that to himself? This would make so much more sense if he was thinking about himself. (Sheffield probably does.)
-A mistake, thinking about Sheffield when he’s lying in the smear of his own come.
So he pries himself out of bed, groans, feels another solid sharp ache around his neck-slept on the wrong side of the cross, looks like, it’s left a welt with the pock-mark of an effigy burnt angry and red and inhuman. The bathroom rug slides along the tile in there when he leans on the sink, cracks his back upward with his elbows locked. It better not have been Sheffield in his head through all this, not unless that asshat crook yankee was on his knees taking it across the face-but the shape coalescing is almost the same, lithe and shorthaired and nearly an androgyne. Heat’s never known if he’s wanted men or women, or at least known that assuming just women feels wrong, but whatever he’s seen for the last god-knows-how-long doesn’t seem to be either.
And if he doesn’t open his eyes right now and turn his body the fuck off, he’ll be seeing whoever it is again in the shower.
---
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Prompt: The Princess Bride, Fezzik/Inigo, in verse
Rating: Not worksafe and not brainsafe either.
Why: Because it violates your childhood over an anvil.
Iambs
the princess bride
Mithrigil Galtirglin
“I did not think you’d respond with such…ardor,” Inigo deliberately emphasized.
The first half of Fezzik’s response was a bit understandably muffled, but the last word was clearly “harder”. Not one to deny his friend anything, perhaps least of all an impassioned salvo in a situation that demanded a swordsman’s precision, Inigo redoubled his efforts, hands grasping Fezzik’s shoulder and hip squarely.
“I-” Bothered for a continuation, Inigo descended into carnality for a few decisive thrusts-the good Doctor’s lubricant made this much easier-before the words burbled up from his throat on the edge of a moan. “I wonder if-next time, we switch positions.”
“I think that this-is no time for decisions.” Poetry-iambs in particular-had an uncanny ability to instill a steady rhythm in Fezzik, and quite the pleasant one for Inigo. The anvil they were doing this over (beds had a tendency to break) scraped across the floor in time.
“But you-are strong, and of impressive girth-”
“And is-” Inigo could swear that Fezzik’s breath rattled the tongs near the fireplace. “-is that what our friendship is-is-worth?”
“It was at first, I am forced to admit.”
“But since, we both have made the more of it?”
Faster, now. “I-I think we did as circumstance commanded-” And Inigo made to reach under him awkwardly, but topped the row of no-longer-standing mallets nearby, which in turn knocked over a mop, its companion bucket, and a few suspended carving and welding tools that had been on hooks a moment ago. The din would have been fantastic in most other contexts.
After a rather…awkward moment, and an interminably still one, Fezzik bucked up against Inigo sharply. Always so accommodating (if a bit more forceful than expected), thought Inigo. When Fezzik rotated his neck just so, Inigo caught his sloppy grin, and matched it. “A pity, then, that you are not left-handed.”
---
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Prompt: Babylon 5: Lyta/Kosh, mirror
Rating: Not quite worksafe.
Why: If you know what the Vorlons are...
Transcend
babylon 5
Mithrigil Galtlrglin
When she comes, her eyes are black the whole way through, at least as black as space. She can’t see out of them, but she still can see everything else around her. The only thing strange about it is the sheer magnitude of sight, of a shieldless moment with sources internal and external, literal and extrasensory.
If it wasn’t sexual, she’d think it had some scientific purpose.
She lets up off her hand, or Kosh does for her-she strokes the wetness lazily, rubs her knuckles around the cushion of the chair and each other. Her physical sight should come back in a moment, but she knows what she looks like, how her skin is gleaming from underneath with Kosh’s presence, how the room itself is bathed in overwhelming light, and lesser things like the disarray of her hair and the condition of her scarf. It hurts to breathe, hurts to come down, hurts to sit. It hurts to live, considering how wonderful it feels when she’s more than that.
Kosh speaks through Lyta’s mouth-literally, she feels it burn. “You bear so much,” he says.
Sight returns, still black and cold-she answers him, his way. “It gets easier every time.”
--
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Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Reddas/Ashe, sacrifice, "What are you willing to give?"
Rating: Worksafe.
Why: I let the language get head of itself.
Check
final fantasy xii
Mithrigil Galtirglin
He is congenial, in the fashion that in other men belies concealed derision for others or a vaunting of self. Ashe assumes it to be the latter, in the Pirate King; so much like Ashe’s father, he loves his people, but knows that they exalt him and does nothing to contest their decision. Proud, but not arrogant; surer than any knight Ashe has ever known, if less true. Or true to something within as opposed to without, perhaps.
That latter concept is something Ashe considers entirely foreign.
But it is evident in his smile, over the fractured curve of a stein, draining, the beer within not quite as dark as his skin, the foam not as white as his beard. He marks her looking, lowers his eyebrows in implicit question, and does not take his eyes from hers as he sets his drink back down. She cannot make out the sound of his words, though his voice is low enough to cut; but the motion of his lips is clear, “A word, your Highness?”
“A word,” she repeats, and rises from her chair.
He follows her to the tavern’s check, but she does not look back-in passing, the sounds of coin confirming on glass might have been his. His tread is muffled in the effluence of patrons, in the creaking of her own greaves, in the blast of night air that carries the same sounds but spread wider, dampened by the salt air and the rush of the docks.
“Speak, then,” he says, behind and over her, and now she looks. His blackness is no shadow, no spectre, no armored sheen. And though his expression has lost the congeniality of his demeanor in the tavern, it has not broached the direness of their past conversations. Perhaps this is the reality of Reddas, for all men so great wear such things like snakes do skin and antlions do shells, and reinforce anew.
The water laps against the docks; she looks away, and asks: “I know some measure of what you stand to gain, from aiding me in this. What do you stand to give?”
The question does not tack him aback, at least not outwardly. “The same as you, though you know it not,” he says. “In Ivalice, the greater cause compels, and so the self is forfeit to the age. I make this sacrifice the same as you, as every man to sit beneath his crown, but that which spurs a king does not so me.”
“You took this mantle not to gain-”
“-In taking up this land’s shurocracy, I have absolved a measure of my sins. In relinquishing it, I think I shall manage another dent.” And with that, the return of his tavern congeniality, his broad white smile between whiter tracks of beard. “Now come, your Highness-as words go, do these suffice?”
--
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Prompt: Gargoyles, Owen/Xanatos, loyalty
Rating: Not worksafe, HAHAHA.
Why: Because service is its own reward.
Tangible
gargoyles
Mithrigil Galtirglin
“Let me look,” David tells him, and what can Owen do but proffer his hand? It’s heavy-or it should be, so he presents himself as if it is-and Owen can’t feel David’s fingers running along it. It’s an intriguing sensation, or lack thereof, seeing that there ought to be touch. It seems equally intriguing to David, who doesn’t just lean closer to ascertain his lack of effect, but brings his other hand up to wrap both around Owen’s stone wrist. He has such large hands, Owen thinks, and they’re completely ineffectual.
So’s his mouth, when David closes it around Owen’s knuckles. Are there teeth, like he’s testing the value of a coin? Yes, it seems-Owen can see the flash of them, hear the tender scrape, and feels nothing.
Humans can be so interesting, David in particular.
Without a question of Owen’s pleasure on the matter, David straightens, taking Owen’s stone hand with him, and lays it against his neck, bared by the collar of his suit. Owen can see the fibers of David’s beard catching on the rough surface when he speaks, “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” and guides cold knuckles across a neck that’s obviously in motion, none of which reaches Owen. One of the guiding hands slides lower, along Owen’s forearm-not quite to where there’s skin, but with the insinuation of it. David steps back, lowers Owen’s hand along his chest, side, hip. Texture and sheen change; Owen feels nothing. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s an end to your loyalty.”
“To you?” Owen smirks. “Not in this lifetime.”
David smirks back, of course, but there’s a laden quality to it. He hooks Owen’s fingers into the waistband of his slacks, uses them, not his own, to unseat his shirttails. Owen should be feeling skin, right now, and sweat-he has, before-back, and forth, something untold and untoward in the one-sided contact. “You keep saying that, but there was no need to make it so…tangible,” David says, for emphasis but not for lack of words. Owen’s frozen thumb is caught under his belt-buckle. With a twist that-ah, at last, Owen can feel, in his elbow-David uses Owen’s hand to pry the pin free, and a combination of that and his own to make short work of the rest.
The hair that climbs up David’s abdomen used to feel bristly but steadily-smooth, thickening the lower it got. Owen hears the zipper of David’s pants toothing along the stone, conflating with the hiss of David somehow taking…pleasure in this. Owen looks down, sees the shape of his hand obscured by what’s in it, and remembers that there should be heat, should be the rush of another’s blood through veins he can see but not trace, slick flesh hardening (but never to the consistency of his own, now?), the correlation between a gesture and a moan.
What is David thinking, underneath all this? Doubtless, some perverse obsession with other things that are made of stone.
Owen can feel a measure of envy, even if his fists can’t tighten to betray it.
“You’ve proved your devotion a thousand times,” David says, voice lower, huskier, eyes not quite closed as he rocks his hips forward, back, against Owen’s hand-and he brings his own up unto the crook of Owen’s elbow, where there’s still skin to touch. And what a shock, that is, almost enough to ruffle him. “You’re going to remind me that ‘service is its own reward’-” and the next is almost a moan, “-aren’t you?”
Owen smiles, brings his living arm around David’s back, to make this easier. “It would seem I don’t have to.”
--
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To avoid spamming, I'll be reposting the twenty (!) little pieces I did for porn_battle in groups by fandom and theme, over the course of the next few days. There should be enough for four posts--odds and ends, bsg/suikoden/xxxholic, sei/sub, and Elastic gets a post all its own. This is the Odd and Ends batch.
Prompt: Death Note, Light/Misa, would you shut up already?
Rating: SO NOT WORKSAFE.
Why: See opening sentence:
Lesson
death note
Mithrigil Galtirglin
Even with his cock in her mouth she still makes noise. More noise than he does, even-it’s been a while since she worked him up enough to coax more than a heavier-than-usual breath out of him. But she’s off the edge of the bed, with his cock and his fingers stuffed into her mouth and her own hands busy somewhere under her skirt, making little whirring noises obscene enough that he starts to wilt, starts to entertain thoughts of taking care of this himself. He presses his palm to himself a little harder, tightens his thighs a little more.
“Misa,” he says-like he’s chiding, so she can’t mistake it for a compliment. “This isn’t working.”
The protesting sound she makes gets her cheeks fluttering against him, determinedly. He translates; a generic but, a hopeful assertion that her love and her skills and whatever else she’s using this for will overcome her sheer ineptitude and annoyance. He’s always been better at making himself come.
It occurs to him that Misa doesn’t know that.
Gritting his teeth-from frustration as much as the change in texture-he pulls out, reaches down with spit-roughened fingers and grabs her by the bra-straps, hauls her up to the bed. That gets another one of those sounds out of her, a high-pitched, dramatic, manga-style oof that sends a flare of anger down from Light’s solar plexus to his balls. (Is this the stereotype of testosterone-driven aggression that gets men to beat their wives? Light thinks, and thinks he understands. No wonder.)
Light leans on one leg, bending her over the edge of the bed and pinning her spread thigh with his knee. Her panties twist, the thong raised and only half-covering her. When she flails, murmuring a tangle of his name, he pins her arms as well, up over her head, in his left hand. “Would you just shut up already?” he snarls, and takes himself in hand. “And keep your eyes open for this.”
He jerks off hard, with haste-she bites her lip, her hollow throat and soft stomach shivering from the suppressed simpering noises. But that look on her face, the muscles twitching under his grip-the wild dart of her eyes as she obeys him unquestioningly-that’s a contrast, that’s depth, that’s wanting one thing and doing another, and that’s closer to what he wants. He doesn’t tell her so but the breaths shove out of him, pitched and heavy, quickening-one hoarse cry of hers tries to mix in and she stifles it, she’s watching him, learning this. Her spit’s dried off of him by the time he comes, all over her skirt, her underwear, her stubbled inner thighs.
Her wrists go limp-her hips lift off the bed-
“Like that, next time,” Light tells her, and lets her go, steps back-not as shaky as he could have been?-and takes a deep breath before stepping over her stockings on the way to the bathroom.
---
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Prompt: 12 Kingdoms, Youko/Rakushun, difference conscious
Rating: Not quite workafe...
Why: Xenokink.
Shift Up
twelve kingdoms
Mithrigil Galtirglin
It began with just a parting touch that lingered-it was meant to be a brush of her hand against his paw. But in emerging from that merest gesture Rakushun turned his head, and his whiskers dipped into her long sleeve. Youko stood transfixed at the shiver that wrought in him, the way the fur of his maw ruffled. She cast her eyes down first, but knew that his would follow.
He stammered, her given name, the one he knew her by, not by any royal title-at the same time, she intended to apologize. Instead the words that emerged from her mouth took, well-a different form entirely.
“If I kiss you now,” Youko said, looking at the shared space of their feet, “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to stay.”
His toe-claws skittered on the tile and the cement between it; the sound startled Youko, enough for her to raise her eyes again, to the level of his face at least. His eyes, so large and glossed near-black, were half-lidded in consideration as he wrung his paws, like the knot of the pack he once wore about his shoulders. If he was in human form, he would have blushed, of that Youko was certain. The apology came to her lips again-
“I oughtn’t shift up, here,” he said, and a wave of relief thrilled down Youko’s shoulders, “not without-”
“I’ll come to you,” Youko interrupted before either of them could change their minds.
She sank to kneel, took his cheeks in her hands-his paws came up to clasp her wrists so deftly that she gasped-and closed her eyes. And with that air in her mouth she bowed to meet his, as with a sword-strike. The bar of his teeth was still and so clearly present behind soft lips framed in slick fur, and the rough pad of his tongue crept between them to buss hers. Her fingers closed around his whiskers, goaded his cheeks. His paws stroked her arms, claws catching on her sleeves.
-When the air she had taken was no longer enough, when his cheeks were hot beneath her palms and his lips shaking with the urgency of a word unsaid, she recoiled to let him say it. “-ought to,” Rakushun’s words turned out to be, part of something larger that Youko questioned with a dazed hum, “ought to-go someplace where I can-properly-touch you properly, Youko-”
She drew him near again. “You’re Rakushun either way,” she breathed, startled at the rasp of her voice, “so-so either way is proper.”
His nose twitched rapidly, the rough hairs close enough for her skin to benefit. “But you yourself abolished the custom of prostration.” Mischief-smart, knowing laughter-flickered in his eyes, and when Youko laughed with him, he let slip his paw to take her by the hand in earnest. “If I do stay, I hope you’ll allow me to keep you off your knees.”
---
-
Prompt: Digital Devil Saga 2, Heat solo, "He doesn'tknow if he wants men or women, and the being that comes to him behind closed eyelids doesn't seem to be either."
Rating: Not quite workafe.
Why: That man has a strange relationship with God.
The Wrong Side of the Cross
digital devil saga 2
Mithrigil Galtirglin
How can he wake up in a cold sweat when the world is dying? Or is that just the chill of lapsed repression, of Sunday School teachers in the back of his head, reminding him no, no, a thousand times no?
This is ridiculous. The bed’s sopping and chilled with the rushed acidity of come and central air conditioning, and the image burned into his mind barely has a shape, let alone a name. I am made all things to all men. Heat stretches out, winces at the abrading wetness along his side, bites his lip and realizes it’s already bruised. For fuck’s sake. Did he do that to himself? This would make so much more sense if he was thinking about himself. (Sheffield probably does.)
-A mistake, thinking about Sheffield when he’s lying in the smear of his own come.
So he pries himself out of bed, groans, feels another solid sharp ache around his neck-slept on the wrong side of the cross, looks like, it’s left a welt with the pock-mark of an effigy burnt angry and red and inhuman. The bathroom rug slides along the tile in there when he leans on the sink, cracks his back upward with his elbows locked. It better not have been Sheffield in his head through all this, not unless that asshat crook yankee was on his knees taking it across the face-but the shape coalescing is almost the same, lithe and shorthaired and nearly an androgyne. Heat’s never known if he’s wanted men or women, or at least known that assuming just women feels wrong, but whatever he’s seen for the last god-knows-how-long doesn’t seem to be either.
And if he doesn’t open his eyes right now and turn his body the fuck off, he’ll be seeing whoever it is again in the shower.
---
-
Prompt: The Princess Bride, Fezzik/Inigo, in verse
Rating: Not worksafe and not brainsafe either.
Why: Because it violates your childhood over an anvil.
Iambs
the princess bride
Mithrigil Galtirglin
“I did not think you’d respond with such…ardor,” Inigo deliberately emphasized.
The first half of Fezzik’s response was a bit understandably muffled, but the last word was clearly “harder”. Not one to deny his friend anything, perhaps least of all an impassioned salvo in a situation that demanded a swordsman’s precision, Inigo redoubled his efforts, hands grasping Fezzik’s shoulder and hip squarely.
“I-” Bothered for a continuation, Inigo descended into carnality for a few decisive thrusts-the good Doctor’s lubricant made this much easier-before the words burbled up from his throat on the edge of a moan. “I wonder if-next time, we switch positions.”
“I think that this-is no time for decisions.” Poetry-iambs in particular-had an uncanny ability to instill a steady rhythm in Fezzik, and quite the pleasant one for Inigo. The anvil they were doing this over (beds had a tendency to break) scraped across the floor in time.
“But you-are strong, and of impressive girth-”
“And is-” Inigo could swear that Fezzik’s breath rattled the tongs near the fireplace. “-is that what our friendship is-is-worth?”
“It was at first, I am forced to admit.”
“But since, we both have made the more of it?”
Faster, now. “I-I think we did as circumstance commanded-” And Inigo made to reach under him awkwardly, but topped the row of no-longer-standing mallets nearby, which in turn knocked over a mop, its companion bucket, and a few suspended carving and welding tools that had been on hooks a moment ago. The din would have been fantastic in most other contexts.
After a rather…awkward moment, and an interminably still one, Fezzik bucked up against Inigo sharply. Always so accommodating (if a bit more forceful than expected), thought Inigo. When Fezzik rotated his neck just so, Inigo caught his sloppy grin, and matched it. “A pity, then, that you are not left-handed.”
---
-
Prompt: Babylon 5: Lyta/Kosh, mirror
Rating: Not quite worksafe.
Why: If you know what the Vorlons are...
Transcend
babylon 5
Mithrigil Galtlrglin
When she comes, her eyes are black the whole way through, at least as black as space. She can’t see out of them, but she still can see everything else around her. The only thing strange about it is the sheer magnitude of sight, of a shieldless moment with sources internal and external, literal and extrasensory.
If it wasn’t sexual, she’d think it had some scientific purpose.
She lets up off her hand, or Kosh does for her-she strokes the wetness lazily, rubs her knuckles around the cushion of the chair and each other. Her physical sight should come back in a moment, but she knows what she looks like, how her skin is gleaming from underneath with Kosh’s presence, how the room itself is bathed in overwhelming light, and lesser things like the disarray of her hair and the condition of her scarf. It hurts to breathe, hurts to come down, hurts to sit. It hurts to live, considering how wonderful it feels when she’s more than that.
Kosh speaks through Lyta’s mouth-literally, she feels it burn. “You bear so much,” he says.
Sight returns, still black and cold-she answers him, his way. “It gets easier every time.”
--
-
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Reddas/Ashe, sacrifice, "What are you willing to give?"
Rating: Worksafe.
Why: I let the language get head of itself.
Check
final fantasy xii
Mithrigil Galtirglin
He is congenial, in the fashion that in other men belies concealed derision for others or a vaunting of self. Ashe assumes it to be the latter, in the Pirate King; so much like Ashe’s father, he loves his people, but knows that they exalt him and does nothing to contest their decision. Proud, but not arrogant; surer than any knight Ashe has ever known, if less true. Or true to something within as opposed to without, perhaps.
That latter concept is something Ashe considers entirely foreign.
But it is evident in his smile, over the fractured curve of a stein, draining, the beer within not quite as dark as his skin, the foam not as white as his beard. He marks her looking, lowers his eyebrows in implicit question, and does not take his eyes from hers as he sets his drink back down. She cannot make out the sound of his words, though his voice is low enough to cut; but the motion of his lips is clear, “A word, your Highness?”
“A word,” she repeats, and rises from her chair.
He follows her to the tavern’s check, but she does not look back-in passing, the sounds of coin confirming on glass might have been his. His tread is muffled in the effluence of patrons, in the creaking of her own greaves, in the blast of night air that carries the same sounds but spread wider, dampened by the salt air and the rush of the docks.
“Speak, then,” he says, behind and over her, and now she looks. His blackness is no shadow, no spectre, no armored sheen. And though his expression has lost the congeniality of his demeanor in the tavern, it has not broached the direness of their past conversations. Perhaps this is the reality of Reddas, for all men so great wear such things like snakes do skin and antlions do shells, and reinforce anew.
The water laps against the docks; she looks away, and asks: “I know some measure of what you stand to gain, from aiding me in this. What do you stand to give?”
The question does not tack him aback, at least not outwardly. “The same as you, though you know it not,” he says. “In Ivalice, the greater cause compels, and so the self is forfeit to the age. I make this sacrifice the same as you, as every man to sit beneath his crown, but that which spurs a king does not so me.”
“You took this mantle not to gain-”
“-In taking up this land’s shurocracy, I have absolved a measure of my sins. In relinquishing it, I think I shall manage another dent.” And with that, the return of his tavern congeniality, his broad white smile between whiter tracks of beard. “Now come, your Highness-as words go, do these suffice?”
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Prompt: Gargoyles, Owen/Xanatos, loyalty
Rating: Not worksafe, HAHAHA.
Why: Because service is its own reward.
Tangible
gargoyles
Mithrigil Galtirglin
“Let me look,” David tells him, and what can Owen do but proffer his hand? It’s heavy-or it should be, so he presents himself as if it is-and Owen can’t feel David’s fingers running along it. It’s an intriguing sensation, or lack thereof, seeing that there ought to be touch. It seems equally intriguing to David, who doesn’t just lean closer to ascertain his lack of effect, but brings his other hand up to wrap both around Owen’s stone wrist. He has such large hands, Owen thinks, and they’re completely ineffectual.
So’s his mouth, when David closes it around Owen’s knuckles. Are there teeth, like he’s testing the value of a coin? Yes, it seems-Owen can see the flash of them, hear the tender scrape, and feels nothing.
Humans can be so interesting, David in particular.
Without a question of Owen’s pleasure on the matter, David straightens, taking Owen’s stone hand with him, and lays it against his neck, bared by the collar of his suit. Owen can see the fibers of David’s beard catching on the rough surface when he speaks, “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” and guides cold knuckles across a neck that’s obviously in motion, none of which reaches Owen. One of the guiding hands slides lower, along Owen’s forearm-not quite to where there’s skin, but with the insinuation of it. David steps back, lowers Owen’s hand along his chest, side, hip. Texture and sheen change; Owen feels nothing. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s an end to your loyalty.”
“To you?” Owen smirks. “Not in this lifetime.”
David smirks back, of course, but there’s a laden quality to it. He hooks Owen’s fingers into the waistband of his slacks, uses them, not his own, to unseat his shirttails. Owen should be feeling skin, right now, and sweat-he has, before-back, and forth, something untold and untoward in the one-sided contact. “You keep saying that, but there was no need to make it so…tangible,” David says, for emphasis but not for lack of words. Owen’s frozen thumb is caught under his belt-buckle. With a twist that-ah, at last, Owen can feel, in his elbow-David uses Owen’s hand to pry the pin free, and a combination of that and his own to make short work of the rest.
The hair that climbs up David’s abdomen used to feel bristly but steadily-smooth, thickening the lower it got. Owen hears the zipper of David’s pants toothing along the stone, conflating with the hiss of David somehow taking…pleasure in this. Owen looks down, sees the shape of his hand obscured by what’s in it, and remembers that there should be heat, should be the rush of another’s blood through veins he can see but not trace, slick flesh hardening (but never to the consistency of his own, now?), the correlation between a gesture and a moan.
What is David thinking, underneath all this? Doubtless, some perverse obsession with other things that are made of stone.
Owen can feel a measure of envy, even if his fists can’t tighten to betray it.
“You’ve proved your devotion a thousand times,” David says, voice lower, huskier, eyes not quite closed as he rocks his hips forward, back, against Owen’s hand-and he brings his own up unto the crook of Owen’s elbow, where there’s still skin to touch. And what a shock, that is, almost enough to ruffle him. “You’re going to remind me that ‘service is its own reward’-” and the next is almost a moan, “-aren’t you?”
Owen smiles, brings his living arm around David’s back, to make this easier. “It would seem I don’t have to.”
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