Final Fantasy XII (Vayne/Gabranth)
Jul. 19th, 2007 12:44 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: Choice
Author: Anya
Rating: NC17
Warnings: power issues, rough sex
Word count: 2,289
Summary: It isn't often that Gabranth is summoned to Lord Vayne's chambers.
A/N: I don't think I actually got into blood as a kink per se... I tried, but it didn't end up as a focus. :(
Prompt: July 19, 26. Final Fantasy XII, Vayne/Gabranth: Blood - in pursuit of perfection
Author: Anya
Rating: NC17
Warnings: power issues, rough sex
Word count: 2,289
Summary: It isn't often that Gabranth is summoned to Lord Vayne's chambers.
A/N: I don't think I actually got into blood as a kink per se... I tried, but it didn't end up as a focus. :(
Prompt: July 19, 26. Final Fantasy XII, Vayne/Gabranth: Blood - in pursuit of perfection
July 19
26. Final Fantasy XII, Vayne/Gabranth: Blood - in pursuit of perfection
[A/N: warning for dark fic. Vayne/Gabranth actually grew on me progressively as a pairing: I once decided to write a 'during the game' fic called Primary Feathers focusing on Vayne as a character (which ended up 17 chapters, bloody hell) and the pairing just... happened. O_o; I have to admit I enjoy writing it when I'm PMSing (like now). Some people told me they were surprised by Gabranth's relationship role: I blame Basch. ;o (only one twin brother gets to top! ;3) And yes, like previously said, I post from Aus: 1am!]
Choice
When the manservant leads him past Vayne's offices in the East Wing of the Solidor palace, Gabranth's heart begins to quicken. This is a rare occurrence that happens only on the off chance that he's done something quite wrong, or something commendable, and such instances are uncommon indeed, for they are both of them perfectionists. It's not often that he's in great error, and it's not often that Vayne finds nothing wrong with his work.
In his private chambers, Vayne is sunk deeply in a stuffed armchair, booted heels crossed over the low crystal table before it. He's dressed in an open, white shirt edged with gold brocade, deep cuffs swallowing surprisingly slender wrists. A black leather belt has been threaded through doeskin breeches. A glass of brandy, half-drained, is held delicately in one fine-boned hand; the other holds a manila folder of confidential reports. The manservant leaves them, and locks the door. Gabranth lets out a breath that he is glad is even.
"Lord Vayne."
"Gabranth." Vayne acknowledges his presence with a little wave of the brandy glass. The crystal is delicately faceted, and in the artificial light from the muted chandelier above them, burgundy chased orange-gold on the pale cream velvet of the armchair. "There's a robe for you in the bathing chambers at the back. Remove your armor and wash off that metal stink, then return to me."
"Yes, Lord Vayne." Gabranth analyses presentation, tone, and the report Vayne had been holding, trying futilely to discern what the Prince intended. He knows there is little point, if Vayne was in such a mood: the Prince was hard to read under so many layers of defenses, save when the man was with his little brother. And besides, t'was it not such difficult complexity the reason why Gabranth was so helplessly intrigued by his master?
--
Gabranth keeps the shower just cold enough to be bearable, leaning against the tiles and taking shallow breaths. The anticipation is affecting his control, and he has to suppress any visible interest. Eagerness only feeds Vayne's considerable streak of cruelty, he knows that, but Gods, it is difficult. The expensive citrus soap enwraps him in his master's scent, and he has to bite his lip hard, careful not to break the skin. Vayne does not appreciate the sight of any marks on his knight not inflicted by his own hand.
He's not sure why Vayne affects him so, or when it had begun: he knows it's to do with the man's beauty, the flint under the velvet, his presence of aristocratic dignity and power. He's seen Vayne walk into a room of jaded, suspicious dignitaries and control it, step up before a crowd of hostile people and string them all up into his puppets. And for Gabranth, brought up a knight, in service, there had been no chance, with a leader who commanded this much charisma.
He takes another low breath, and turns off the water. Gabranth is shivering by the time he finishes toweling off, and is thankful that the cold stifles the treacherous want. The plain white robe reaches only to his knees, and the wide sleeves swallow arms marked by old scars earned from war's experience.
--
Vayne is still reading the file when he returns, but the brandy has been drained, the glass set beside crossed boots. "Sit," the man commands, indicating the foot of the armchair, and Gabranth does so, gritting his teeth as his prick twitched.
One elegant hand presses his skull down inexorably until his cheek rests against a thigh, then begins to stroke his short-cropped hair, damp from the shower. Gabranth takes a breath. It's an old form of dominance that he's used to, enough that he feels no particular humiliation, only the sensuous pleasure of fingers rubbing over his scalp. He fights the urge to purr. Eagerness isn't appreciated.
"I'm surprised," Vayne says finally, still petting, though he closes the folder and looks down at his knight. "I did expect that the Senate had some control over Metron, but I didn't think you could find any evidence of it."
Metron was a large public company, supposedly independent, that controlled the manufacture of Archadia's cab system, as well as a large part of the manufacture of Archadia's airships, and possessed a large contract with the military. Vayne had pointed Gabranth in its direction months ago, and Gabranth had to admit it was really a lucky break that his bureau had come across a leak.
"I suspected it would likely not be too complex a link," Gabranth says, keeping his voice steady, devoid of the sudden hope he felt. "Otherwise it would likely have come under my attention more quickly."
"However," Vayne adds lazily, "Your report is too incomplete for me to take any issue of it up with my father. The shareholder link that you traced through two subsidiary companies is good, but you've no evidence of which member of the Senate might be in charge, or when it began, or how many shares in particular."
"Ah." Gabranth feels disappointed. He had thought... but then, he supposed he did know the report was too incomplete to Vayne's liking. "I thought it momentous news enough that you would wish to know, Lord Vayne, while I conduct further investigations."
"The Senate has several ears in the walls, Gabranth," Vayne says reproachfully. "Without enough to act on, if they were to get wind of this report, they sweep off their tracks, and we will have gained nothing."
"I apologize, Lord Vayne," Gabranth lowers his eyes. So it would be punishment. "I will make any arrangements you wish."
"Still," and Vayne's thumb strokes down, over sideburns to the curve of his sensitive neck, "I suppose you should be rewarded for having found any sort of evidence at all. My father and I may not be able to excise their control, but perhaps we can guard against it." The thumb rubs carefully back up, to his lips, and he parts them hopefully, but the finger continues merely to trace his lower lip.
"I've made recommendations." Thank Gods his voice is still steady.
"As I've read. Some are puerile, one is fairly good, which I'll refine." Vayne drops the folder over the side, and smirks. "I'll give you a choice, Gabranth. I'll reward you the way you like it, but I won't let you find release. Or I'll take you the way you deserve it, but I'll permit you completion."
Gabranth's cheeks burn as he considers this. Fingers are carding through his hair again, ample distraction, and his body's given up any attempt to control his arousal, at the velvety way Vayne offers the choice. To be taken slowly and thoroughly on his master's bed, but left to ache (and he knows his hand wouldn't be sufficient by far, afterwards, even if permitted so much), or to be taken roughly like a whore against the desk, the wall, sore for the week after, but allowed relief.
He's been given both forms of treatment before. In the first, Gabranth remembers begging Vayne afterwards until his voice was hoarse, involuntarily rubbing himself against the silk sheets, the ache in his balls unbearable, sobbing when Vayne merely laughed and toyed with his prick, tied fast at the base by the ribbon that had bound the offending report. You can take this off when you've reached your chambers. Gods, that had been torturous, worse than the pain from the second choice: at least he was familiar with physical agony.
"The second, sir." Gabranth whispers, lowering his eyes, and for one brief moment of self-pity wishes he had followed his brother, forgotten in the next, as a thumb traces the edge of his ear. Vayne hums then, deep in his throat, and takes his boots off the table, planting feet on either side of Gabranth's hips. He slides deeper down into his chair, and smirks as Gabranth, knowing what this entailed, nervously licked his lips.
"Put that mouth to work then. It's likely all the slick you'll get."
Breeches unlaced, belt disposed to the side, Vayne's prick hardens quickly under his fingers and his tongue. When he laps the tip, there's a warning growl. "Don't tease, Gabranth. Get to it." He nods (and to his surprise, there's a little pride left in him after all: his lip curls) and swallows, fighting the gag reflex and swirling his tongue about as much as he's able. Vayne sighs, throaty and pleased, when he fits as much as he's able into his throat and begins to suck. Fingers pet over his hair, the shells of his ears, biceps, filled cheeks, then there's a buck that makes him choke, and a roughened, "That's enough. Brace yourself against the mantelpiece."
He pulls back, panting, and gets a little unsteadily to his feet. Gabranth hasn't noticed how hard he already is, and he can't help but let out a low sound of anticipation as he does as told. The white marble of the mantelpiece is cold under his fingers, and he stares down at the unlit fireplace. It's the spring, after all, edging into summer.
Then Vayne is standing beside him, tugging his chin into a rough, possessive kiss that he doesn't return ('tis not appreciated), free hand pinching at nipples, making him shudder, muting whimpers against his master's lips. He hates how needy he sounds, looks, but is unable to control it, but he knows he's done something right, at least, when Vayne pulls back and replaces lips with long fingers. Gabranth sucks, drawing his tongue over digits. At least there'll be some preparation then, though spit is not nearly ever enough.
He feels the burn already as the first finger pushes into him, and he gasps at the probing and the dry chuckle behind him. "Hurts?"
"You know as much, Lord Vayne," Gabranth speaks from between clenched teeth, as a second finger is added. The robe is hitched up over his hips by Vayne's free hand.
"You're insolent when punished," Vayne observes, but fingers navigate the knot in the belt of his robe and grasp him. He bucks, with another gasp, and Vayne chuckles again. "Careful, Gabranth. You know you need permission."
He bites down on his lip to stifle the automatic retort, then arches with a choked moan of agony as Vayne pushes into him. Gods, the pain was intense, searing, and he was taking low, shallow breaths when Vayne finally stopped, sunk in to the hilt, barely registering the languid strokes on his prick. At least Vayne was allowing him some time to adjust, today, nibbling over the nape of his neck, a warm weight pressed against his back. He feels the folds of breeches against boots on the back of his thighs, and his fingers are white-knuckled over the marble.
Soon the agony ebbs enough for him to register the pleasure from Vayne's handling, and the Prince begins to move as his breathing evens. Soft grunts, as Vayne rocks into him: he knows the pace is deceptive, knows he'll be bleeding before the day ends, but Gabranth whimpers and pushes back. "Perfect even when playing the whore," Vayne murmurs hotly against his ear, and he shudders, with a groan. "Gods, you're so damned tight, this way... beautiful."
Gabranth supposes that's part of the reason why he's so subject to Vayne's will. Save where it could hurt him or his brother, Vayne never makes secret of anything, let alone what he wants, brutal and true-edged as a blade. And to want to be wanted was far too human a flaw. He moans, as the ache builds, and Vayne quickens his pace with a raw growl; the edge of the warming marble bites into his palms as his body meets each thrust. Soon the pain climbs higher than any pleasure from the act, even when Vayne finds his core, and Gabranth is breathing erratically behind clenched teeth, shivering as the sudden spike of pain within him and the added slick tells him he's been blooded. Fingers are bruising over his hips, rough over his prick, and he wonders why he's bucking back so helplessly into the savage rhythm when it hurts so damned much.
He cries out when Vayne grunts one final time and stills. The other man's completion stings, and Gabranth staggers when Vayne pulls away, sinking to his knees, hands before him, head lowered and panting, the white robe open and in folds about his feet. He can feel fluids seeping out between his thighs, but his next hitching breath is swallowed in a surprisingly gentle kiss, fingers closing over him and stroking. Vayne tongues down his chin to his neck, lapping over the life-vein, and his growl, "Come," is enough. Gabranth digs his fingers into the carpet and sucks in a breath as his body shudders.
Vayne wipes himself and his hand off on the robe, then dresses again and walks out of Gabranth's line of vision. Bottles, and the chink of glasses. Vayne returns, sits down beside him, and hands him a glass. Brandy. He drinks in a gulp, which makes his master sniff disapprovingly, but make no comment. "After you get cleaned up, you may leave."
"Yes, Lord Vayne."
Another kiss, this one languid, Vayne's tongue chasing the ghost of brandy in his throat, and Gabranth kisses him back with a low sound before he can control himself. To his surprise, Vayne doesn't pull back, but curls fingers around the base of his skull, pulling him closer. When they break, he's breathless, panting, and he knows this is what it is like, to fall in love with damnation.
-fin-
26. Final Fantasy XII, Vayne/Gabranth: Blood - in pursuit of perfection
[A/N: warning for dark fic. Vayne/Gabranth actually grew on me progressively as a pairing: I once decided to write a 'during the game' fic called Primary Feathers focusing on Vayne as a character (which ended up 17 chapters, bloody hell) and the pairing just... happened. O_o; I have to admit I enjoy writing it when I'm PMSing (like now). Some people told me they were surprised by Gabranth's relationship role: I blame Basch. ;o (only one twin brother gets to top! ;3) And yes, like previously said, I post from Aus: 1am!]
Choice
When the manservant leads him past Vayne's offices in the East Wing of the Solidor palace, Gabranth's heart begins to quicken. This is a rare occurrence that happens only on the off chance that he's done something quite wrong, or something commendable, and such instances are uncommon indeed, for they are both of them perfectionists. It's not often that he's in great error, and it's not often that Vayne finds nothing wrong with his work.
In his private chambers, Vayne is sunk deeply in a stuffed armchair, booted heels crossed over the low crystal table before it. He's dressed in an open, white shirt edged with gold brocade, deep cuffs swallowing surprisingly slender wrists. A black leather belt has been threaded through doeskin breeches. A glass of brandy, half-drained, is held delicately in one fine-boned hand; the other holds a manila folder of confidential reports. The manservant leaves them, and locks the door. Gabranth lets out a breath that he is glad is even.
"Lord Vayne."
"Gabranth." Vayne acknowledges his presence with a little wave of the brandy glass. The crystal is delicately faceted, and in the artificial light from the muted chandelier above them, burgundy chased orange-gold on the pale cream velvet of the armchair. "There's a robe for you in the bathing chambers at the back. Remove your armor and wash off that metal stink, then return to me."
"Yes, Lord Vayne." Gabranth analyses presentation, tone, and the report Vayne had been holding, trying futilely to discern what the Prince intended. He knows there is little point, if Vayne was in such a mood: the Prince was hard to read under so many layers of defenses, save when the man was with his little brother. And besides, t'was it not such difficult complexity the reason why Gabranth was so helplessly intrigued by his master?
--
Gabranth keeps the shower just cold enough to be bearable, leaning against the tiles and taking shallow breaths. The anticipation is affecting his control, and he has to suppress any visible interest. Eagerness only feeds Vayne's considerable streak of cruelty, he knows that, but Gods, it is difficult. The expensive citrus soap enwraps him in his master's scent, and he has to bite his lip hard, careful not to break the skin. Vayne does not appreciate the sight of any marks on his knight not inflicted by his own hand.
He's not sure why Vayne affects him so, or when it had begun: he knows it's to do with the man's beauty, the flint under the velvet, his presence of aristocratic dignity and power. He's seen Vayne walk into a room of jaded, suspicious dignitaries and control it, step up before a crowd of hostile people and string them all up into his puppets. And for Gabranth, brought up a knight, in service, there had been no chance, with a leader who commanded this much charisma.
He takes another low breath, and turns off the water. Gabranth is shivering by the time he finishes toweling off, and is thankful that the cold stifles the treacherous want. The plain white robe reaches only to his knees, and the wide sleeves swallow arms marked by old scars earned from war's experience.
--
Vayne is still reading the file when he returns, but the brandy has been drained, the glass set beside crossed boots. "Sit," the man commands, indicating the foot of the armchair, and Gabranth does so, gritting his teeth as his prick twitched.
One elegant hand presses his skull down inexorably until his cheek rests against a thigh, then begins to stroke his short-cropped hair, damp from the shower. Gabranth takes a breath. It's an old form of dominance that he's used to, enough that he feels no particular humiliation, only the sensuous pleasure of fingers rubbing over his scalp. He fights the urge to purr. Eagerness isn't appreciated.
"I'm surprised," Vayne says finally, still petting, though he closes the folder and looks down at his knight. "I did expect that the Senate had some control over Metron, but I didn't think you could find any evidence of it."
Metron was a large public company, supposedly independent, that controlled the manufacture of Archadia's cab system, as well as a large part of the manufacture of Archadia's airships, and possessed a large contract with the military. Vayne had pointed Gabranth in its direction months ago, and Gabranth had to admit it was really a lucky break that his bureau had come across a leak.
"I suspected it would likely not be too complex a link," Gabranth says, keeping his voice steady, devoid of the sudden hope he felt. "Otherwise it would likely have come under my attention more quickly."
"However," Vayne adds lazily, "Your report is too incomplete for me to take any issue of it up with my father. The shareholder link that you traced through two subsidiary companies is good, but you've no evidence of which member of the Senate might be in charge, or when it began, or how many shares in particular."
"Ah." Gabranth feels disappointed. He had thought... but then, he supposed he did know the report was too incomplete to Vayne's liking. "I thought it momentous news enough that you would wish to know, Lord Vayne, while I conduct further investigations."
"The Senate has several ears in the walls, Gabranth," Vayne says reproachfully. "Without enough to act on, if they were to get wind of this report, they sweep off their tracks, and we will have gained nothing."
"I apologize, Lord Vayne," Gabranth lowers his eyes. So it would be punishment. "I will make any arrangements you wish."
"Still," and Vayne's thumb strokes down, over sideburns to the curve of his sensitive neck, "I suppose you should be rewarded for having found any sort of evidence at all. My father and I may not be able to excise their control, but perhaps we can guard against it." The thumb rubs carefully back up, to his lips, and he parts them hopefully, but the finger continues merely to trace his lower lip.
"I've made recommendations." Thank Gods his voice is still steady.
"As I've read. Some are puerile, one is fairly good, which I'll refine." Vayne drops the folder over the side, and smirks. "I'll give you a choice, Gabranth. I'll reward you the way you like it, but I won't let you find release. Or I'll take you the way you deserve it, but I'll permit you completion."
Gabranth's cheeks burn as he considers this. Fingers are carding through his hair again, ample distraction, and his body's given up any attempt to control his arousal, at the velvety way Vayne offers the choice. To be taken slowly and thoroughly on his master's bed, but left to ache (and he knows his hand wouldn't be sufficient by far, afterwards, even if permitted so much), or to be taken roughly like a whore against the desk, the wall, sore for the week after, but allowed relief.
He's been given both forms of treatment before. In the first, Gabranth remembers begging Vayne afterwards until his voice was hoarse, involuntarily rubbing himself against the silk sheets, the ache in his balls unbearable, sobbing when Vayne merely laughed and toyed with his prick, tied fast at the base by the ribbon that had bound the offending report. You can take this off when you've reached your chambers. Gods, that had been torturous, worse than the pain from the second choice: at least he was familiar with physical agony.
"The second, sir." Gabranth whispers, lowering his eyes, and for one brief moment of self-pity wishes he had followed his brother, forgotten in the next, as a thumb traces the edge of his ear. Vayne hums then, deep in his throat, and takes his boots off the table, planting feet on either side of Gabranth's hips. He slides deeper down into his chair, and smirks as Gabranth, knowing what this entailed, nervously licked his lips.
"Put that mouth to work then. It's likely all the slick you'll get."
Breeches unlaced, belt disposed to the side, Vayne's prick hardens quickly under his fingers and his tongue. When he laps the tip, there's a warning growl. "Don't tease, Gabranth. Get to it." He nods (and to his surprise, there's a little pride left in him after all: his lip curls) and swallows, fighting the gag reflex and swirling his tongue about as much as he's able. Vayne sighs, throaty and pleased, when he fits as much as he's able into his throat and begins to suck. Fingers pet over his hair, the shells of his ears, biceps, filled cheeks, then there's a buck that makes him choke, and a roughened, "That's enough. Brace yourself against the mantelpiece."
He pulls back, panting, and gets a little unsteadily to his feet. Gabranth hasn't noticed how hard he already is, and he can't help but let out a low sound of anticipation as he does as told. The white marble of the mantelpiece is cold under his fingers, and he stares down at the unlit fireplace. It's the spring, after all, edging into summer.
Then Vayne is standing beside him, tugging his chin into a rough, possessive kiss that he doesn't return ('tis not appreciated), free hand pinching at nipples, making him shudder, muting whimpers against his master's lips. He hates how needy he sounds, looks, but is unable to control it, but he knows he's done something right, at least, when Vayne pulls back and replaces lips with long fingers. Gabranth sucks, drawing his tongue over digits. At least there'll be some preparation then, though spit is not nearly ever enough.
He feels the burn already as the first finger pushes into him, and he gasps at the probing and the dry chuckle behind him. "Hurts?"
"You know as much, Lord Vayne," Gabranth speaks from between clenched teeth, as a second finger is added. The robe is hitched up over his hips by Vayne's free hand.
"You're insolent when punished," Vayne observes, but fingers navigate the knot in the belt of his robe and grasp him. He bucks, with another gasp, and Vayne chuckles again. "Careful, Gabranth. You know you need permission."
He bites down on his lip to stifle the automatic retort, then arches with a choked moan of agony as Vayne pushes into him. Gods, the pain was intense, searing, and he was taking low, shallow breaths when Vayne finally stopped, sunk in to the hilt, barely registering the languid strokes on his prick. At least Vayne was allowing him some time to adjust, today, nibbling over the nape of his neck, a warm weight pressed against his back. He feels the folds of breeches against boots on the back of his thighs, and his fingers are white-knuckled over the marble.
Soon the agony ebbs enough for him to register the pleasure from Vayne's handling, and the Prince begins to move as his breathing evens. Soft grunts, as Vayne rocks into him: he knows the pace is deceptive, knows he'll be bleeding before the day ends, but Gabranth whimpers and pushes back. "Perfect even when playing the whore," Vayne murmurs hotly against his ear, and he shudders, with a groan. "Gods, you're so damned tight, this way... beautiful."
Gabranth supposes that's part of the reason why he's so subject to Vayne's will. Save where it could hurt him or his brother, Vayne never makes secret of anything, let alone what he wants, brutal and true-edged as a blade. And to want to be wanted was far too human a flaw. He moans, as the ache builds, and Vayne quickens his pace with a raw growl; the edge of the warming marble bites into his palms as his body meets each thrust. Soon the pain climbs higher than any pleasure from the act, even when Vayne finds his core, and Gabranth is breathing erratically behind clenched teeth, shivering as the sudden spike of pain within him and the added slick tells him he's been blooded. Fingers are bruising over his hips, rough over his prick, and he wonders why he's bucking back so helplessly into the savage rhythm when it hurts so damned much.
He cries out when Vayne grunts one final time and stills. The other man's completion stings, and Gabranth staggers when Vayne pulls away, sinking to his knees, hands before him, head lowered and panting, the white robe open and in folds about his feet. He can feel fluids seeping out between his thighs, but his next hitching breath is swallowed in a surprisingly gentle kiss, fingers closing over him and stroking. Vayne tongues down his chin to his neck, lapping over the life-vein, and his growl, "Come," is enough. Gabranth digs his fingers into the carpet and sucks in a breath as his body shudders.
Vayne wipes himself and his hand off on the robe, then dresses again and walks out of Gabranth's line of vision. Bottles, and the chink of glasses. Vayne returns, sits down beside him, and hands him a glass. Brandy. He drinks in a gulp, which makes his master sniff disapprovingly, but make no comment. "After you get cleaned up, you may leave."
"Yes, Lord Vayne."
Another kiss, this one languid, Vayne's tongue chasing the ghost of brandy in his throat, and Gabranth kisses him back with a low sound before he can control himself. To his surprise, Vayne doesn't pull back, but curls fingers around the base of his skull, pulling him closer. When they break, he's breathless, panting, and he knows this is what it is like, to fall in love with damnation.
-fin-
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Date: 2007-07-19 02:28 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2007-07-19 03:09 am (UTC)ajdhksfggjklaf.
I love that kind of choice so much. <3
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Date: 2007-07-19 06:07 pm (UTC)Thank you so much.
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Date: 2007-07-25 06:38 am (UTC)e
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