FFXII, Vayne/Ashe

[mithrigil.livejournal.com]

Title: An Extension of Goodwill
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII

Characters: Vayne and Ashe

Author/Artist: mithrigil
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: AU, dubious consent.
Word count: 1000

Note: This ( http://mithrigil.livejournal.com/254954.html?thread=1564138#t1564138 ) will aid in context. Short version, the prologue happened but not the prelude – it’s 705 o.V., Dalmsaca has not been conquered…and Vayne and Ashe have just been married.

 

An Extension of Goodwill

Mithrigil Galtirglin

 

            “What, is it somehow beneath you to remove anyone’s clothing?”

 

            He already has her pinned, has her skirts up and her underclothes down, and most importantly has the presence of mind to smile.

 

            But before he can chide her, before he can thread any more of her hair into his grasp, she goes on, and there are gaps of arousal in her rage. “You’re ashamed. As you should be.”

 

            “And now either way you win this paltry wager with yourself,” he drawls, palms up at the back of her neck so her throat, too, is bared. “I acquiesce and am vulnerable to you; I decline and, in your eyes, admit to some dissatisfaction with myself.” She seethes as he lowers his lips to her collar, where the clasps of her wedding dress are still done high. “So console yourself on this victory, Ashelia, and I shall have mine.”

 

            He only unlaces, with the one hand afforded him by their position. She has him pinned as well, in her way, his fist ensorcelled between her hair and the bed, but she is at the mercy of all his torso, his medals and mail of state and her abundant skirts, crushed mountainous between them like the borders of their respective lands. That thought starts it, for Vayne—the air on his prick is still cool, not yet begun to stir, save for the glimpses of contention in her ash-grey eyes.

 

            His feet do not leave the floor, and he busses her inner thigh with his hip.

 

            “Don’t you dare patronize me,” she snarls up at him, teeth grit but chest heaving. The beads and jewels of her dress scrape martial on the scales of his armor. “You’ll—have this,” she admits, her voice growing higher, but her hands are free, and hold his shoulders of her own volition— “if you actually want it at all.” The taunt is punctuated with a distant clatter, and the feel of her half-stockinged knee between his legs, hard where he is not. “But don’t—”

 

            “Say that again, when a darkhair sits Dalmasca’s throne.” Wedging her legs further apart with his hips and hand, he settles his fingers shallow inside her. He suspects that if his barb had not halted her words, the touch would have done.

 

            The sound she makes in their stead is incredibly gratifying.

 

            It’s no moan, none of these are, as his fingers stroke sharp and the rest tighten in her hair—he feels more than hears them, in the pulse of her neck on his lips, right where her chin meets it, in the mail-diminished spearing of her nails into his shoulders. He tongues her throat and cannot help but smirk, her faint shivering passing through to him. He could grow used to this feeling, he thinks, and thrusts his fingers in knuckle-deep, and his prick stutters with her. Oh, yes. He could grow used to this.

 

            And she doesn’t curse him, which is a welcome surprise, protests nothing, and her heels have found his back, it seems, twined around him. Too sudden to be willful, he conjectures, and he bares his teeth near her chin—that, she protests. And loudly.

 

            He raises his face from her skin, then. She is flushed, her flesh as hoarse and raw as her voice now, the white of her dress tinged ivory with a faint sweat. Her eyes smolder and Vayne is not certain with what.

 

            He has not been this hard, perhaps ever.

 

            “My apologies,” he grants her, edging his fingers still higher in a spider’s-crawl and steadying his prick on the heel of his palm, poising it for her, concealed by her army of skirts. “I shall refrain from such displays in the future.”

 

            “If there is to be one,” she nearly spits up at him. The incongruity of her hips, her eyes, the nape of her neck, is something fascinating.

 

            His answer to that is a clean, interrupting thrust, slick ‘twixt the joints of his hand and into her.

 

            Of course she bucks up violently, yelps when she learns the hard way that he still holds her hair, clamps her knees against his sides and her hands on his shoulders. His armor clatters against itself, the way she rakes, and she’s biting her lip. Biting her lip.

 

            “What aren’t you saying?” he asks her low, his motion slow and deliberate while his hand still plies her shallow. She is glaring, the faint reflections of his mail and her beads like death in her eyes, and he pushes away each witty retort with a thrust, a stroke, a wrench of his hips against her. “If this is merely something you are enduring, do say so.”

 

            Perhaps she is trying to.

 

            But no retort comes, no slur, no demand. Her hands slide down his arms to his sides, and he barely marks it, so intent on the half-formed words and stifled gasps that detail his effect on her. He’s let go of her hair, he realizes, gone to her neck, her cheek, her breast where the beads and damask no longer completely confine it. And the rest of him still moves within her, his knees braced on the mattress’ edge and his heels firm on the carpet, the bedposts beating a quickening tattoo against the wall.

 

            “Gods damn you,” she finally heaves as she comes.

 

            It pleases him, though the sensation does not, the slick walls and the heartbeat in them too much a thing for the world of war—

 

            —when did her hands get down his trousers?, he wonders. She could hamstring him like this, her square-edged nails like iron behind his knees.

 

            He releases silently, and hopes that this mutual haze excuses his incredulity at the very thought.

           

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