InsaneJournal

Ironman week 6 - Kink/cliche
Don't be fooled; these are last week's fics, which I realized I hadn't reposted here yet. This week is the last week, but I still have two more fics to post this weekend before I am done, done, done.

The thing about some of these is that they were written while my brain was foggy from my cold. I'm not sure what overall effect that had - at the very least, it seemed to act like writing fics while really tired in that it took a level of apprehensive "Can I pull this off? Does this make any sense?" off my cognitive processes, so they ended up somewhat more... adventurous. ^^

Overall not worksafe; see specific warnings on each fic.

I will be the one to hold you down, and kiss you so hard, I'll take your breath away
Final Fantasy XII, Basch/Vaan. 400 words. Not worksafe, breathplay.
Inhale

Vaan likes to hold his breath.

Not just holding it in to see how long he can, like he used to with the other kids at the river, of course. That would be stupid. What he likes is to control his breathing while he touches himself. He takes a shallow breath in, then lets it out slowly as he strokes, until the pleasure and the need for air spin together in his head. Then, when he can't continue without it, another short inhale, and again.

But he can never finish that way. He always has to take deep breaths, then move his hand faster so he can come before the rush of new oxygen is completely gone.

He shouldn't really have done it with the others around, though. He knows he's in trouble when one of his breaths hitch in his throat; if anyone's awake –

"Vaan?" It's Basch who rounds the corner and looks in on him. Vaan freezes, but it just makes it that much more obvious when his dick pulses in his hand at the way Basch's eyes darken.

He realizes he's still holding his breath, and after he lets it out he can't help panting.

"You –" Basch says, and then walks in – yes!—and kneels straddling Vaan's legs, huge bulk looming above him. Then he settles a broad hand over Vaan's mouth.

"You like this?" His voice drops low—god that's hot—and Vaan manages to nod slightly.

Basch increases the pressure over his mouth and nose, and Vaan takes the hint. He strokes himself again, because it's tons better like this, all the weight of Basch's body cutting off his breathing, Basch there close enough for Vaan to feel the heat coming off his skin, but utterly silent as he looks down.

A handful more seconds pass and Vaan's lungs begin to ache; this is the point in his pattern where he'd inhale. His hand's movement falters a bit as the dizziness increases. His vision dims slightly, and his lungs convulse without his consent, but he can't get any air past Basch's hand.

Dimly, Vaan notices Basch's other hand replacing his own on his dick, and even through everything else, that – he needs to gasp, but –

Basch removes his hand. Vaan gulps in air, and Basch strokes him firmly, and Vaan comes hard enough to bring the stars back to his vision.


these boots are made for walkin' and that's just what they'll do / one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you
Death Note, random mafia man->Mello. 300 words. Probably mild spoilers.
Some Kid

He'd been a little skeptical of the kid, of course. Everybody was to start. They'd bring someone in, like they'd brought him in, to meet the new boss, and they were all honored and shit, because they were being brought in because they were the best, and then the boss was some kid with a bad haircut and leather pants. The snap of chocolate and the crinkle of foil got on a guy's nerves after a few minutes, too, and Mello kept it up for hours on end. And then there was the way he smirked at you, like you were beneath him.

Sometimes people were physically beneath him, of course, like when he had them on the ground at gunpoint with a heavy boot on their neck, but that was the exception.

Thing was, they were really beneath Mello, all of them. It wasn't just the way that he always seemed to know exactly how everything would go down, and how that meant big and regular payoffs. It was that Mello didn't hesitate. If you challenged him, Mello pulled his gun in half a second. If you tried to call his bluff, Mello shot you. The word was beginning to get out that you damn well listened when Mello told you something.

After all that, though, it wasn't a bad job. Pretty cushy, really, especially the inner group, 'cause mostly they just spent time lounging around watching Mello think or talk or eat chocolate. Sometimes you got kicked around a bit when you said something stupid.

But well, Mello's boots were all shiny leather and buckles like he'd never walked in the dirt. That and the flex of his muscles under skintight pants weren't a bad thing to get an eyeful of, even if it meant you got bruised.


I didn't want to fuck you, but you're pretty when you're mine
Magna Carta, Rianna/Raul. 200 words. Not worksafe, bodyswap.
Until Recently

"Huh," says Raul, and hearing a different voice echoing in his ears as he spoke was almost as weird as the difference in the weight and balance of his body. "That's never happened before."

"I should hope not," Rianna says wryly. She runs her hand over what was, until recently, his chin, feeling the stubble there curiously.

Raul shifts experimentally. "Why do you have –" he breaks off when he realizes what he's noticing. He feels experimentally at the uncomfortable boning against his ribs, supporting what were, until recently, Rianna's breasts. "Ah."

"Not so much fun from that side, huh?" Rianna takes a few hesitant steps, hips moving awkwardly, and sets his sword aside against a fence.

"I don't know," Raul says lightly, "this could still be fun." He gives Rianna a lascivious glance without stopping to consider the implications.

Rianna's eyelids drop and her voice lowers, and is that how he looks when –

"You serious about that?"

He could say no. But he kind of likes the way Rianna prowls towards him in his body, and hey, it'd be something new.

"Always," he said, and then there are hands on his breasts and a half-hard cock against his thigh.


Luck, if you ever were a lady to begin with, Luck, be a lady tonight
Final Fantasy XII, Reddas/Balthier. 400 words.
On the Table

Balthier scowls when Reddas takes a seat across from him. "Is swindling spare change out of your underlings a habit of yours?"

Reddas looks amused. "I thought you'd be up to the challenge."

Certainly, the bets at this table are hardly small, and Balthier's been doing well tonight. Still, there are men with a certain level of wealth who shouldn't descend to gambling with people who are likely to go bankrupt trying to beat them. Reddas is as certainly in the former category as Balthier is in the latter.

"Let's see about that, shall we?" Balthier finds himself saying anyway, and he offers Reddas the deck to deal.

He holds his own well for a few rounds. Then he finds himself staring at a hand full of sword cards as Reddas slides as pile of chits to the center of the table. It'll take everything Balthier's got to match it.

He matches it.

"Certain about that?" Reddas asks with a quirking grin. "Luck can be fickle with her affections, I'm sure you know."

"Quite sure, but thank you." Balthier says coolly.

"Hmm." Reddas says, and lifts his hand, under which there is another few thousand gil worth of chits. "Oh, but it seems you're a bit short."

"Damn you," Balthier growls. "You know that's all I've got."

"Come now, I'm sure you have something of equivalent value to offer."

"A clever gambler never bets more than what he brought, and that is what I've brought."

"I see at least one more thing you have here which is always good for a bet." Reddas grins widely.

Balthier's face hardens. "Fine, then it is on the table. But I'll have you know I'm worth far more than a few thousand gil. Show your cards, swindler."

Reddas turns his hand over. It's full of entirely mismatched cards – he has nothing. Balthier stares.

"What –"

"It was worth it, to see if the option was available." Reddas stands slightly and leans across the table. "And is it, still?" he asks, voice rumbling low.

Something prevents Balthier from snapping a negative immediately. Reddas is a bastard pirate with a ridiculous amount of power. But he doesn't exploit it, and that is probably what earns him respect.

"Perhaps," Balthier hedges eventually. Apparently that's enough, as Reddas hauls him across the table for a rough kiss.

"I'll have one of the dealers hold your winnings for later."


don't hesitate, I won't kiss and tell / no need to worry cause I'm a professional
Final Fantasy XII, Jules/Ffamran. 700 words. Not worksafe.
Flamboyant

"The boy looks too expensive for you, Jules!" Some man who thinks himself more clever than he is calls from across the plaza.

Ffamran breaks off speaking and, after a moment, his eyes widen and he backs away. Jules scowls. He'd hoped to get to break that particular aspect of Ffamran's new clothing to him himself.

The joker laughs at having apparently scared Jules's whore off.

"Oh, come now, Master Ffamran." Ignoring the man, Jules speaks softly so the fool can't hear. "A young man comes to the old city looking that flamboyant, he draws attention. If he doesn't immediately start up a street performance, it's clear to assume he's selling something else."

Ffamran frowns, which means that impression wasn't his goal, not that Jules had earnestly thought otherwise. Then he surprises Jules as his mouth twists into a smirk, and he moves back, settling a hand lightly on Jules's lower back like Jules is some woman Ffamran is romancing.

Ffamran drawls wryly, "Well then, let's work with that assumption, shall we?"

Jules just looks at him, eyebrows raised slightly. Eventually Ffamran shifts uncomfortably under his gaze.

"It would be safer than being recognized for who I truly am."

"Certain of that, are you?" He reaches to Ffamran in turn, but he is not as gentlemanly – instead he hooks his arm solidly around the boy's waist and pulls him in harshly. Ffamran stumbles against him, and Jules murmurs his next words against his neck. "Many are those that would take significant advantage of such a pretense."

Ffamran muscles tense, but he doesn't pull away. "And certainly you are one to know," he says instead, like it's an indictment.

Sheltered boy. Jules decides the truth will shock him more than anything else. "Indeed. It can be a fairly easy payment for a young man to make when gil is scarce." Ffamran gapes. "But you, now. You're dressed like a professional, which means a bit more than going to one's knees to settle a debt."

The boy still doesn't pull away. If there's one thing that has made Jules successful in his trade, it's knowing when it's worth it to press his luck, and this is definitely one of those times.

"Why," he runs a finger along Ffamran's lips, letting the tip slide slightly into his opened mouth, "I could put you to work right here. Get you to open up my pants and take my cock in your mouth. That way anyone who walked by would see you're nothing but a fancy whore."

Ffamran makes a little choked noise and tilts his face away, but he doesn't make a concerted effort to flee otherwise, and Jules keeps him close with sturdy pressure on his back.

"Or," Jules says, sliding that hand lower to a firm grip of Ffamran's ass even as he hooked his free hand in the front of his pants. "I could take you back to my room, where the sheets are no doubt dirtier and the walls thinner than anything you've seen in Central, and I could get you face down and fuck you dry."

Ffamran jerks, but it the movement just rucks up his shirt, and the knuckles of Jules's hand brush bare skin under his waistband.

"Psh. Ye always could talk anyone into anything, Jules," their commentator interrupts somewhat bitterly from across the way, before walking off.

Jules takes the hint and removes his hands, and Ffamran shifts back to stand a respectable distance away, flushed with embarrassment.

"Never let it be said that Jules cannot work with a cue," Jules says, as Ffamran straightens his shirt. "Now, where were we?"

Ffamran sputters. "I – you –"

"You were telling me a rather nice bit of high city gossip, as I recall. Let us continue, shall we?"

Then Jules notices that Ffamran's flush has not faded, and in fact seems to be creeping up his neck. "After that we should indeed retreat to my room. It would draw questions if we did nothing, after that."

He deliberately leaves open the possibility of it being simply for show, but by the brightness of Fframran's eyes as he nods, he might get something extra from this meeting yet.