(no subject)
For lassarina because she requested a smutty Jecht/Auron/Braska with the theme of "Time is running out".
Ages later, I return from the basement with this. I hope it makes some smattering of sense, even in its PWPness.
Fandom: FFX
Characters: Jecht/Auron/Braska
Title: Toxin
Rating: NC-17
Auron wakes to the sensation of his supine body being pulled in a shoopuf cart along a gravel road.
No --there is no cart. There is no road and he does not wake up. He is dead.
And yet he opens his eyes and lifts his head. It is windy and he sees the earth gliding slowly, far beneath him. He must be flying; he must be unsent. What has he become? Panic buckles in his throat.
Chill, man.
Jecht's voice --no Jecht's thoughts? No --Jecht's presence, in every sense, is suddenly around Auron like water. While he still feels the vacuum of the wind, he still sees the blue of the above and the green of below, but at the same time all he sees, feels and hears is Jecht. The musk and heat of his hide, the steel-wool of his voice, the frank sincerity of his grin. All the questions mingle with all the answers, and there is nothing left to for Auron to ask. Jecht is Sin and he is dead. He feels warmth rising in his throat and he is dizzy.
"Jecht. It hurts. Hard to breathe." Auron doubts that speaking is a necessity, but it a comfort to hear his own voice, however wrinkled and weak.
Auron's flesh shudders with Jecht's chuckle. Who needs to breathe? We're dead! Besides, the air's pretty thin up here and that Yunalesca chick got you pretty bad and--
"I don't like this." Auron's voice shakes. He wants the ground, he wants the grave, he wants to be history.
Auron, if you're not gonna settle down, then I'm gonna have to...
And he is home. Not his ratty monastery bunk in Bevelle. Not the night guard station. Not the countless, anonymous campsites or travel agencies. Home. His thoughts recede like a tide and he lowers himself into the grass, cradled by the smell of his mother's clover tea brewing and the clank of his father's hammer and anvil. He smiles up at the wondrous sky, full of promise and light and grinning like a boy. This is it. This is everything. All he ever wanted was to go back home. All he ever wanted was --ah.
He feels the slight release of his belts unsnapping and falling away and startles at the damp hard ridge of teeth and the hot drag of a tongue skimming against the muscle of his lower abdomen. He peers down and coughs in surprise. "My lord?"
A very naked Braska smiles at Auron from under his lashes, lowering his head to rub his cheek against Auron's pelvis. "You want this, Auron."
And for the first time, Auron cannot deny it --particularly not to himself. Braska slides his long, cool fingers under the waistband of Auron's trousers. As the shimmering, light contact of Braska's fingers slips progressively lower, Auron's bottom half tenses and arches and rattles with fire and need.
Shaking with disbelief and pleasure, Auron reaches down to brush his summoner's face with the back of his hand. The same high cheeks, slightly thistled by a day's worth of beard. Solid and not-going-away. Real. "How?"
Braska looks up to meet Auron's eyes, long hair pooling in curls upon Auron's stomach and hips. "I was summoned." With that, he traces a circle around Auron's nipple, almost playfully.
Lightly, Braska kisses his way down the firm paths of striated muscle, Auron seizing at each grazed contact. Braska pauses at the edge of the dense dark curls.
His guardian pulsing and gasping below him, Braska cocks his head and flashes an uncharacteristically toothy smile.
Suddenly embarrassed, Auron lifts his head, everything discarded but his trousers around his knees.
He snaps to awareness, and he's falling, the wind violent in his ears.
Moments before his body slams into the wet sand, he hears two voices, one in each ear, speaking the same words across thousands of miles and two worlds.
"Thank you."
Ages later, I return from the basement with this. I hope it makes some smattering of sense, even in its PWPness.
Fandom: FFX
Characters: Jecht/Auron/Braska
Title: Toxin
Rating: NC-17
Auron wakes to the sensation of his supine body being pulled in a shoopuf cart along a gravel road.
No --there is no cart. There is no road and he does not wake up. He is dead.
And yet he opens his eyes and lifts his head. It is windy and he sees the earth gliding slowly, far beneath him. He must be flying; he must be unsent. What has he become? Panic buckles in his throat.
Chill, man.
Jecht's voice --no Jecht's thoughts? No --Jecht's presence, in every sense, is suddenly around Auron like water. While he still feels the vacuum of the wind, he still sees the blue of the above and the green of below, but at the same time all he sees, feels and hears is Jecht. The musk and heat of his hide, the steel-wool of his voice, the frank sincerity of his grin. All the questions mingle with all the answers, and there is nothing left to for Auron to ask. Jecht is Sin and he is dead. He feels warmth rising in his throat and he is dizzy.
"Jecht. It hurts. Hard to breathe." Auron doubts that speaking is a necessity, but it a comfort to hear his own voice, however wrinkled and weak.
Auron's flesh shudders with Jecht's chuckle. Who needs to breathe? We're dead! Besides, the air's pretty thin up here and that Yunalesca chick got you pretty bad and--
"I don't like this." Auron's voice shakes. He wants the ground, he wants the grave, he wants to be history.
Auron, if you're not gonna settle down, then I'm gonna have to...
And he is home. Not his ratty monastery bunk in Bevelle. Not the night guard station. Not the countless, anonymous campsites or travel agencies. Home. His thoughts recede like a tide and he lowers himself into the grass, cradled by the smell of his mother's clover tea brewing and the clank of his father's hammer and anvil. He smiles up at the wondrous sky, full of promise and light and grinning like a boy. This is it. This is everything. All he ever wanted was to go back home. All he ever wanted was --ah.
He feels the slight release of his belts unsnapping and falling away and startles at the damp hard ridge of teeth and the hot drag of a tongue skimming against the muscle of his lower abdomen. He peers down and coughs in surprise. "My lord?"
A very naked Braska smiles at Auron from under his lashes, lowering his head to rub his cheek against Auron's pelvis. "You want this, Auron."
And for the first time, Auron cannot deny it --particularly not to himself. Braska slides his long, cool fingers under the waistband of Auron's trousers. As the shimmering, light contact of Braska's fingers slips progressively lower, Auron's bottom half tenses and arches and rattles with fire and need.
Shaking with disbelief and pleasure, Auron reaches down to brush his summoner's face with the back of his hand. The same high cheeks, slightly thistled by a day's worth of beard. Solid and not-going-away. Real. "How?"
Braska looks up to meet Auron's eyes, long hair pooling in curls upon Auron's stomach and hips. "I was summoned." With that, he traces a circle around Auron's nipple, almost playfully.
Lightly, Braska kisses his way down the firm paths of striated muscle, Auron seizing at each grazed contact. Braska pauses at the edge of the dense dark curls.
His guardian pulsing and gasping below him, Braska cocks his head and flashes an uncharacteristically toothy smile.
Suddenly embarrassed, Auron lifts his head, everything discarded but his trousers around his knees.
He snaps to awareness, and he's falling, the wind violent in his ears.
Moments before his body slams into the wet sand, he hears two voices, one in each ear, speaking the same words across thousands of miles and two worlds.
"Thank you."