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kinkfestTitle: Easing the Spring
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sumthinlikhuman
Rating: M
Warnings: yaoi, object insertion, gun kink, assumed dub-con
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Vossler/Balthier: Guns and gun-play (guns as fetish objects; gun-battles as flirting or foreplay; guns used for sexual penetration; games of Russian Roulette; see also Military fetishization)- Trapped or stranded together - Close proximity can drive one mad
Summary: “I want your sound. Not your words. Are we clear?” “As crystal.”
Notes: I got this prompt and immediately started to write. My first started and finished for Spring Kink—and a most auspicious start there never was!
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring.
– “Naming of Parts” by Henry Reed
The first time is unimportant, barbaric, immature. Vossler is thirty-eight—though, they say, he looked not a day over twenty—and the pirate is a child, coy and inviting and lost of his beautiful viera partner for a time. He sees him first in an alley in Lowtown, bantering and laughing with someone who, in Archades, would be called a vulgar, Vossler knows; someone who Vossler does not know the name of but knows services a certain demographic of the Lowtown citizens with drugs that are illegal in the streets. The child-pirate looks at him with eyes that glint with an ember from a pipe; he spares a grin that could slice through the hardest skin.
He sees him second in the bathhouse, nude and lounged, and that is where it happens. The child-pirate does not struggle, does not object—in fact grips Vossler’s shoulders and moans and opens to him like a desert flower after the rains.
That night, he returns to his wife and his daughter, loves upon them both in their own separate ways, and in a weeks time he is made a Captain of the Order of Knights.
The second time is completely ridiculous. Vossler is forty-two then—and feels every inch of it from guilt and two years hard work to save his country from her destitute fortune—and the pirate is no child, is lean and beautiful in the sand, and toting a gun as long as Vossler’s arm.
Another Yensa falls pray to the shot the pirate uses, and a Cockatrice to Vossler’s blade. The pirate is stronger than he remembers him being, harder looking, more weary. But Vossler knows that the pirate knows him, remembers him, and he pointedly makes no move to fall for the bait he can see waiting for him—the pirate flaunts and bends and twists and shoots that damnable gun, but Vossler will have none of it; he is a widower with a dead child, he will not suffer the machinations of someone such as the pirate.
“Such a long face, Captain. You nearly look your age.”
The Dalmascan child—he looks like the boy Basch defended for, the boy who condemned Basch; so much alike—is yards away, and with him his lithe young companion. Vossler pokes through the remains of the Cockatrice, already beginning to harden in the heat and be picked at by insects. He pulls a few feathers from the corpse; it is all he can stand to salvage. The pirate jingles with coin and jewelry.
“It disheartens me you won’t keep on with me, Captain. Your fellow keeps on with me quite well.”
“Very well, for him.” But Vossler doesn’t mean it. The pirate is a vice, a terrible thing that should be shunted aside as soon as possible. He cannot imagine pious, religious Basch succumbing to the wiles of hungry eyes and ruddy hair.
The sand sucks at their feet, drawing them down. Ahead of them, the children dance across the sand, and Vossler wonders if they actively remember a Dalmasca without Archadia invading and shadowing them; he cuts a glance to the pirate with the thought, and finds the pirate smiling at him too sweetly.
They continue on, the Princess and Basch and the viera pirate elsewhere in the desert, armed with their weapons and supplies and a single map Vossler can almost foresee Basch losing because he is often vacant like that. The pirate does not continue on his urges to engage Vossler in talk of idiot things, and Vossler is thankful; he kills in frustration and tries to ignore the snapping rapport of gunfire.
It is thus somehow they lose the children and the sandstorm finds them. Vossler spent a year in the Westersand and beyond, but the storm is unlike one he has ever seen, and the pirate’s hand is knowing on his bicep.
They find a nook in the face of a rock, a small cave beyond that which is barely large enough for either of them alone and crams them into each other together. Vossler hunkers as close to the wall as he can, listening to the whistle and scream of the wind; he can feel the pirate’s heat, can smell the musk on his skin—some oil he must use after he shaves, and a wreath of gunpowder burned to his flesh—and thinks he sees the glint of teeth and eyes and the metal of that damnable gun.
The noise is uproarious. If the pirate speaks, neither hears. And perhaps that is why, when Vossler sees the pirate spinning his gun and toying with it in a manner that should not be sexual in the slightest, he can suffer his reaction: in the dark, in the noise of the storm, the pirate is nothing more than a man without a lick of Archadia in his blood.
He reacts not at all like he did when he was still a child. Vossler barely reacts when the gun digs into the flesh of his chest. He is much larger than the pirate, and he knows there is little fight to this, in all honesty. Still, the gun slides over his skin, and when he is close enough to press their necks together and work his fingers through the lacing on the leather vest, the gun is pressed precariously between leather armor, and there is that silky Archadian accent in his ear: “It’s been a while, Captain. Are you so certain of your welcome this time around?”
“If you had meant only to tease you could do damage with that weapon, pirate,” Vossler bites, and then he bites. The pirate arches against him, and the leather of his pants do nothing to hide arousal; Vossler presses back with a growl and takes the gun from the pirate, turning it on him.
The maneuvering within the cave is difficult, but they manage, and this is not quite so different from that first time, except now there is the threat: cold metal pressed to the pirate’s brow as if he needs the extra encouragement to be so aggressive toward Vossler’s arousal.
The pirate pulls away with a sucking pop, leans his lips up and in a brief, eerie glint of light through the storm, Vossler watches him run his tongue along the barrel of the gun. His hand shakes, and he hears the rattle of metal against teeth, the pirate’s objecting noise and then the shift of clothing.
“Have you any idea how to use that piece of equipment, Captain?”
“Stop talking, pirate. Don’t talk. Don’t ruin this.”
“There’s something to ruin?” The pirate lays his teeth and tongue against the barrel, takes it in his mouth, pulls off the barrel and applies his tongue against Vossler’s mouth. He tastes gunpowder and fire-flint ignition. “I’d thought this was only a simple conquest while we had time to spare. Like the last.”
The pirate makes a truly objecting noise when the butt of his gun finds his cheek. Vossler crawls between his legs, ruts against him, leans down with the gun digging between their bodies like something else entirely, and hisses, “Silence, or I make good use of the threat this weapon poses.”
“You’ve the Magick for it, Captain.”
“I want your sound,” Vossler corrects, and relishes a vague groan—he doesn’t care of what—as he slips a finger intimately against the pirate. “Not your words. Are we clear?”
“As crystal.”
Vossler digs in the barrel of the gun, urging him statement deeper into the skin and soul and mind, and the pirate does as he’s told: a brief noise leaves him, on the downbeat of his thundering pulse and held for a spare breath before he’s staring blindly beyond Vossler’s shoulder at the rock over their heads.
The roar and scream of the wind covers much of the pirate’s noise, but Vossler can feel them as he strips them, as the skin comes undressed to reveal sticky sweat and the smell of men in the tight space of the cave. He fumbles the gun, and that is how the pirate takes it back.
He watches the pirate remove the shells, set the gun reverently atop his own chest, and rifle through the pouches on his gun belt. He watches the pirate draw out a small vial, and he knows what that is because he’s seen others before him with it, because he knows it, and there is nothing to stop the growl from bubbling out of his chest.
He considers his options: filthy his hands, which he has never enjoyed; brutalize his way with only the slick; or—the shaft of the gun is without obstruction, unlike some he’s seen with key-knob sights and unusual markings or bangles.
Without preamble, he collects the vial, the gun, and manhandles the pirate to his stomach; there is a brief noise of protest, but little struggle and thankful silence from the pirate besides. The metal is warm under his hand, slides easily through his fingers with the slick guiding the way as he considers the potential before him; it is a sight better than it was even four years ago, muscle lightly defined at the top of the thighs, tendons taut, little sun-spots peaking out all over the skin.
The pirate growls and claws at the loose sand and swears breathlessly when Vossler brushes the muzzle against him, presses, waits. He watches the heave of the pirate’s ribs from behind, drags his nails down the tight, muscular line of the pirate’s back, presses in with more force but not much more gusto. The smoky-colored metal disappears into ruddy-pale skin.
“Damn you,” the pirate hisses on a breath. “Damn you, damn you, damn you—”
Vossler’s nails bite. “I believe I told you, pirate—?”
“Take it out,” the pirate whines, scrabbling at the sand. He arches back on the press though, keens a little, pants for breath, and though the sand must itch and sting, he ruts against it like a cheap whore; Vossler grins maliciously at his back.
“Honest?”
“Take it out, damn you—oh, hellfires, take it out.”
Vossler, his finger on the trigger of the gun, brushes a knuckle where the skin is tight. The pirate gasps, twitching, and Vossler feels his grin turn leering and predatory.
The pirate shakes as Vossler turns him on his back. It has been years since he’s serviced another, and on any other occasion he thinks he wouldn’t. But the pirate looks fragile now, face flushed and eyes swimming and mouth parted to try and catch his breath. When his back touches the sand, the gun jostles inside him, and he cries out, arching, driving the gun against him in a way that makes a few tears trickle down his blushing cheeks and his mouth part with soundless cries.
Vossler holds him down with an arm over his belly, runs a finger teasingly over the swollen arousal and breaths hot, humid wind over the head. The pirate squirms, noises whining and deep in his throat. After a time of the teasing, Vossler relents, opens his mouth to the musky smell and flavor, and takes the arousal into his mouth.
The pirate quivers—his stomach, his thighs, his hands when they touch the edge of Vossler’s beard then disappear. Vossler thinks he may like this side of the pirate, broken and shaking, hiccoughing sound over the blaze of a sandstorm. He fondles the heavy sack beneath his chin, dares a finger back to the tight skin and the barrel of the gun, and is nearly thrown off from the strength of thrust the pirate gives.
“Damn you,” comes the breath again, almost lost in the winds. Vossler pulls off and knows the sight he must make—he’s seen it on other’s faces: wanton and pink-lipped and gasping for breath. The pirate looks at him a second, then takes his arousal in hand. “Oh, damn you, Captain.”
Vossler slaps the hand away, sprawls against the pirate’s side. The pirate bucks as the gun drives against his insides, and Vossler leers at him, bringing his hand down.
He barely stops when the hand touches his wrist, and jerks pointedly when the fingers tighten around the joint. The pirate screeches, gasping for breath, arousal throbbing once against his hip. Vossler laughs against the pirate’s throat, drives the barrel back in, then slowly withdraws it.
He mimics the act they both want, however deeply buried it might be, and the pirate’s breath goes jagged and rushed, and Vossler knows, he knows, but he does not care.
The pirate is finished with an arch-back cry. Vossler removes the gun, stares at the body-warmed metal, then turns it on the pirate, cocking a brow.
The pirate, still panting for breath, brushes a hand over Vossler’s arousal and whispers against his skin so he can feel rather than hear, “I believe my weapon has served its intended purpose, Captain. I’m happy to oblige without the threat.”
“Call it assurance,” Vossler growls. Outside, the wind has begun to die. The pirate opens his mouth and makes quick work of everything.
When his breath is caught, he stares at the bit of spittle on the pirate’s lip and swipes at it with his thumb. The pirate grabs his wrist before he can move, sucks his thumb into his mouth and swallows as deeply as he had a moment earlier. Vossler smothers the urge to lean in and share in the taste of himself on another lips—something, with every other partner he’s taken, he’s done, even his own wife. Instead, he pulls his thumb away from sharp little teeth, grabs his clothing and armor, and dresses again in the tight space without a word breathed between them.
When he crawls out of the cave, the dunes have shifted but the refineries are constant. He loiters in wait for the pirate, and when the lithe young man clambers his way, somehow gracefully, out of the cave, he has his mouth open to reprimand him when the pirate beats him to the gate.
“You’re not the first, Captain, even if you wish somehow that you were.” The gun goes safely into its holster, and they begin the trek through the changed dunes.
Author:
sumthinlikhumanRating: M
Warnings: yaoi, object insertion, gun kink, assumed dub-con
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Vossler/Balthier: Guns and gun-play (guns as fetish objects; gun-battles as flirting or foreplay; guns used for sexual penetration; games of Russian Roulette; see also Military fetishization)- Trapped or stranded together - Close proximity can drive one mad
Summary: “I want your sound. Not your words. Are we clear?” “As crystal.”
Notes: I got this prompt and immediately started to write. My first started and finished for Spring Kink—and a most auspicious start there never was!
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring.
– “Naming of Parts” by Henry Reed
The first time is unimportant, barbaric, immature. Vossler is thirty-eight—though, they say, he looked not a day over twenty—and the pirate is a child, coy and inviting and lost of his beautiful viera partner for a time. He sees him first in an alley in Lowtown, bantering and laughing with someone who, in Archades, would be called a vulgar, Vossler knows; someone who Vossler does not know the name of but knows services a certain demographic of the Lowtown citizens with drugs that are illegal in the streets. The child-pirate looks at him with eyes that glint with an ember from a pipe; he spares a grin that could slice through the hardest skin.
He sees him second in the bathhouse, nude and lounged, and that is where it happens. The child-pirate does not struggle, does not object—in fact grips Vossler’s shoulders and moans and opens to him like a desert flower after the rains.
That night, he returns to his wife and his daughter, loves upon them both in their own separate ways, and in a weeks time he is made a Captain of the Order of Knights.
The second time is completely ridiculous. Vossler is forty-two then—and feels every inch of it from guilt and two years hard work to save his country from her destitute fortune—and the pirate is no child, is lean and beautiful in the sand, and toting a gun as long as Vossler’s arm.
Another Yensa falls pray to the shot the pirate uses, and a Cockatrice to Vossler’s blade. The pirate is stronger than he remembers him being, harder looking, more weary. But Vossler knows that the pirate knows him, remembers him, and he pointedly makes no move to fall for the bait he can see waiting for him—the pirate flaunts and bends and twists and shoots that damnable gun, but Vossler will have none of it; he is a widower with a dead child, he will not suffer the machinations of someone such as the pirate.
“Such a long face, Captain. You nearly look your age.”
The Dalmascan child—he looks like the boy Basch defended for, the boy who condemned Basch; so much alike—is yards away, and with him his lithe young companion. Vossler pokes through the remains of the Cockatrice, already beginning to harden in the heat and be picked at by insects. He pulls a few feathers from the corpse; it is all he can stand to salvage. The pirate jingles with coin and jewelry.
“It disheartens me you won’t keep on with me, Captain. Your fellow keeps on with me quite well.”
“Very well, for him.” But Vossler doesn’t mean it. The pirate is a vice, a terrible thing that should be shunted aside as soon as possible. He cannot imagine pious, religious Basch succumbing to the wiles of hungry eyes and ruddy hair.
The sand sucks at their feet, drawing them down. Ahead of them, the children dance across the sand, and Vossler wonders if they actively remember a Dalmasca without Archadia invading and shadowing them; he cuts a glance to the pirate with the thought, and finds the pirate smiling at him too sweetly.
They continue on, the Princess and Basch and the viera pirate elsewhere in the desert, armed with their weapons and supplies and a single map Vossler can almost foresee Basch losing because he is often vacant like that. The pirate does not continue on his urges to engage Vossler in talk of idiot things, and Vossler is thankful; he kills in frustration and tries to ignore the snapping rapport of gunfire.
It is thus somehow they lose the children and the sandstorm finds them. Vossler spent a year in the Westersand and beyond, but the storm is unlike one he has ever seen, and the pirate’s hand is knowing on his bicep.
They find a nook in the face of a rock, a small cave beyond that which is barely large enough for either of them alone and crams them into each other together. Vossler hunkers as close to the wall as he can, listening to the whistle and scream of the wind; he can feel the pirate’s heat, can smell the musk on his skin—some oil he must use after he shaves, and a wreath of gunpowder burned to his flesh—and thinks he sees the glint of teeth and eyes and the metal of that damnable gun.
The noise is uproarious. If the pirate speaks, neither hears. And perhaps that is why, when Vossler sees the pirate spinning his gun and toying with it in a manner that should not be sexual in the slightest, he can suffer his reaction: in the dark, in the noise of the storm, the pirate is nothing more than a man without a lick of Archadia in his blood.
He reacts not at all like he did when he was still a child. Vossler barely reacts when the gun digs into the flesh of his chest. He is much larger than the pirate, and he knows there is little fight to this, in all honesty. Still, the gun slides over his skin, and when he is close enough to press their necks together and work his fingers through the lacing on the leather vest, the gun is pressed precariously between leather armor, and there is that silky Archadian accent in his ear: “It’s been a while, Captain. Are you so certain of your welcome this time around?”
“If you had meant only to tease you could do damage with that weapon, pirate,” Vossler bites, and then he bites. The pirate arches against him, and the leather of his pants do nothing to hide arousal; Vossler presses back with a growl and takes the gun from the pirate, turning it on him.
The maneuvering within the cave is difficult, but they manage, and this is not quite so different from that first time, except now there is the threat: cold metal pressed to the pirate’s brow as if he needs the extra encouragement to be so aggressive toward Vossler’s arousal.
The pirate pulls away with a sucking pop, leans his lips up and in a brief, eerie glint of light through the storm, Vossler watches him run his tongue along the barrel of the gun. His hand shakes, and he hears the rattle of metal against teeth, the pirate’s objecting noise and then the shift of clothing.
“Have you any idea how to use that piece of equipment, Captain?”
“Stop talking, pirate. Don’t talk. Don’t ruin this.”
“There’s something to ruin?” The pirate lays his teeth and tongue against the barrel, takes it in his mouth, pulls off the barrel and applies his tongue against Vossler’s mouth. He tastes gunpowder and fire-flint ignition. “I’d thought this was only a simple conquest while we had time to spare. Like the last.”
The pirate makes a truly objecting noise when the butt of his gun finds his cheek. Vossler crawls between his legs, ruts against him, leans down with the gun digging between their bodies like something else entirely, and hisses, “Silence, or I make good use of the threat this weapon poses.”
“You’ve the Magick for it, Captain.”
“I want your sound,” Vossler corrects, and relishes a vague groan—he doesn’t care of what—as he slips a finger intimately against the pirate. “Not your words. Are we clear?”
“As crystal.”
Vossler digs in the barrel of the gun, urging him statement deeper into the skin and soul and mind, and the pirate does as he’s told: a brief noise leaves him, on the downbeat of his thundering pulse and held for a spare breath before he’s staring blindly beyond Vossler’s shoulder at the rock over their heads.
The roar and scream of the wind covers much of the pirate’s noise, but Vossler can feel them as he strips them, as the skin comes undressed to reveal sticky sweat and the smell of men in the tight space of the cave. He fumbles the gun, and that is how the pirate takes it back.
He watches the pirate remove the shells, set the gun reverently atop his own chest, and rifle through the pouches on his gun belt. He watches the pirate draw out a small vial, and he knows what that is because he’s seen others before him with it, because he knows it, and there is nothing to stop the growl from bubbling out of his chest.
He considers his options: filthy his hands, which he has never enjoyed; brutalize his way with only the slick; or—the shaft of the gun is without obstruction, unlike some he’s seen with key-knob sights and unusual markings or bangles.
Without preamble, he collects the vial, the gun, and manhandles the pirate to his stomach; there is a brief noise of protest, but little struggle and thankful silence from the pirate besides. The metal is warm under his hand, slides easily through his fingers with the slick guiding the way as he considers the potential before him; it is a sight better than it was even four years ago, muscle lightly defined at the top of the thighs, tendons taut, little sun-spots peaking out all over the skin.
The pirate growls and claws at the loose sand and swears breathlessly when Vossler brushes the muzzle against him, presses, waits. He watches the heave of the pirate’s ribs from behind, drags his nails down the tight, muscular line of the pirate’s back, presses in with more force but not much more gusto. The smoky-colored metal disappears into ruddy-pale skin.
“Damn you,” the pirate hisses on a breath. “Damn you, damn you, damn you—”
Vossler’s nails bite. “I believe I told you, pirate—?”
“Take it out,” the pirate whines, scrabbling at the sand. He arches back on the press though, keens a little, pants for breath, and though the sand must itch and sting, he ruts against it like a cheap whore; Vossler grins maliciously at his back.
“Honest?”
“Take it out, damn you—oh, hellfires, take it out.”
Vossler, his finger on the trigger of the gun, brushes a knuckle where the skin is tight. The pirate gasps, twitching, and Vossler feels his grin turn leering and predatory.
The pirate shakes as Vossler turns him on his back. It has been years since he’s serviced another, and on any other occasion he thinks he wouldn’t. But the pirate looks fragile now, face flushed and eyes swimming and mouth parted to try and catch his breath. When his back touches the sand, the gun jostles inside him, and he cries out, arching, driving the gun against him in a way that makes a few tears trickle down his blushing cheeks and his mouth part with soundless cries.
Vossler holds him down with an arm over his belly, runs a finger teasingly over the swollen arousal and breaths hot, humid wind over the head. The pirate squirms, noises whining and deep in his throat. After a time of the teasing, Vossler relents, opens his mouth to the musky smell and flavor, and takes the arousal into his mouth.
The pirate quivers—his stomach, his thighs, his hands when they touch the edge of Vossler’s beard then disappear. Vossler thinks he may like this side of the pirate, broken and shaking, hiccoughing sound over the blaze of a sandstorm. He fondles the heavy sack beneath his chin, dares a finger back to the tight skin and the barrel of the gun, and is nearly thrown off from the strength of thrust the pirate gives.
“Damn you,” comes the breath again, almost lost in the winds. Vossler pulls off and knows the sight he must make—he’s seen it on other’s faces: wanton and pink-lipped and gasping for breath. The pirate looks at him a second, then takes his arousal in hand. “Oh, damn you, Captain.”
Vossler slaps the hand away, sprawls against the pirate’s side. The pirate bucks as the gun drives against his insides, and Vossler leers at him, bringing his hand down.
He barely stops when the hand touches his wrist, and jerks pointedly when the fingers tighten around the joint. The pirate screeches, gasping for breath, arousal throbbing once against his hip. Vossler laughs against the pirate’s throat, drives the barrel back in, then slowly withdraws it.
He mimics the act they both want, however deeply buried it might be, and the pirate’s breath goes jagged and rushed, and Vossler knows, he knows, but he does not care.
The pirate is finished with an arch-back cry. Vossler removes the gun, stares at the body-warmed metal, then turns it on the pirate, cocking a brow.
The pirate, still panting for breath, brushes a hand over Vossler’s arousal and whispers against his skin so he can feel rather than hear, “I believe my weapon has served its intended purpose, Captain. I’m happy to oblige without the threat.”
“Call it assurance,” Vossler growls. Outside, the wind has begun to die. The pirate opens his mouth and makes quick work of everything.
When his breath is caught, he stares at the bit of spittle on the pirate’s lip and swipes at it with his thumb. The pirate grabs his wrist before he can move, sucks his thumb into his mouth and swallows as deeply as he had a moment earlier. Vossler smothers the urge to lean in and share in the taste of himself on another lips—something, with every other partner he’s taken, he’s done, even his own wife. Instead, he pulls his thumb away from sharp little teeth, grabs his clothing and armor, and dresses again in the tight space without a word breathed between them.
When he crawls out of the cave, the dunes have shifted but the refineries are constant. He loiters in wait for the pirate, and when the lithe young man clambers his way, somehow gracefully, out of the cave, he has his mouth open to reprimand him when the pirate beats him to the gate.
“You’re not the first, Captain, even if you wish somehow that you were.” The gun goes safely into its holster, and they begin the trek through the changed dunes.
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no subject
Date: 2008-06-01 10:42 pm (UTC)Awesome work. ♥
no subject
Date: 2008-06-02 02:05 am (UTC)And it's very well written, very in character. I just loved it.
no subject
Date: 2008-06-02 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-02 09:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-02 09:54 am (UTC)I LOVE YOU.
Truly, I did not think anyone would take the prompt. I know just how hard it is to get the tone and feel of FFXII fics right. Even harder with this sort of kink. Gunsex is not usually widely written of. I believe I scared everyone away with my shriek when I realised that someone actually picked it up. And I had been wondering just how in the world would that person bring the story round so as to make the characters engage in it. And you know what? YOU TOTALLY BLEW ALL MY EXPECTATIONS OUT OF THE WATER.
The quote at the beginning? A lovely allusion. The second one reads it, you're already prepared for something pretty fantastic.
And then the story. The way it flows... I loved the fact that Vossler had seen flashes of a young Balthier from time to time. And then we see the both of them again in the future; Vossler a little bit older, a little bit colder and Balthier, no longer quite the child he was before.
I also loved the transition from the wide sweep of the open desert, to the cloistered intimate spaces of the rock cave, then back out again into the shifting dunes.
The scene in the cave itself. Well. No words for that. Turned me to mush.
And the ending. Sort of...wistful. Somewhat bitter in a way. Can't really find the right word.
But to sum everything up: This is a wonderful, sexy, orgasm-inducing literary piece of a fic. =)
no subject
Date: 2008-06-03 07:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-01 04:33 am (UTC)The dialogue.
The descriptions.
The kink.
OH THE KINK.
Uh.
I just sort of died inside.
If there is an incredible way to die inside.
♥