Categories > Games > Final Fantasy XII
With Dignity
Vossler hates this man on principle, but that makes him no less of a relief. Vossler/Bergan hatesex and UST in the World War I AU.
?Blocked
He knows his name is Bergan. Rank, lieutenant. He's from the north of Germany, near the Danish border. He has a wife, a pretty young woman; her picture is somewhere, taken from his coat and never put back. He signed up for the officer corps on 2 August.
He knows those things aren't as important as having a German officer under him at all.
For a moment, though, it is all he can think about; he hates this man on principle, but that makes him no less of a relief, and his clipped German groans as he takes Vossler's thrusts are no less from a man aching for this in his own right.
He takes deep breaths at the thought. He should think of Ashelia back home, as would any man forced to such circumstances, and for a moment he does: pretty and thinking of /him/, while working quietly toward the war from the household in Paris. He imagines her here more easily, in officer's uniform and as beautiful as she ever is in women's finery, looking over maps of battles or even issuing commands to stand to, while his sergeant leads the men.
Most men would go on, pretend it was her here with him, her beauty and warmth wrapped around him, but he's never touched Ashelia -- Ashe, as she likes him to call her. They had only a short courtship that may or may not continue, when the war ends.
He would not use her in such need, nor would he ever treat her like this: not kisses but the touch of mouths filled with liquor, his cock rough without any luxury like oil, weight braced on one forearm to put the other on Bergan's neck, pressing him face down, so neither of them have to look.
Vossler looks anyway. Bergan is too large, his voice too low to ever take for a woman -- but from this angle he could almost look like Ronsenburg, wearing his hair long, his back and arms strong even through his uniform.
Even Basch -- Ronsenburg, Sergeant Ronsenburg -- has fallen, in these past months; rotating shifts between them mean more than once during rounds he's noticed Ronsenburg and a friend of his, a private who is likely too young to be here at all. He suspects Ronsenburg knows the fraternization rules well, but with his recent promotion he assumes Vossler to overlook it, like the officers do as the war goes on. Still, he'd think rank differential would hold more priority.
He doesn't think Ronsenburg holds shame in this sort of desire, simple and ugly and fulfilled accordingly. His mind wanders; perhaps he wouldn't mind relations with officers, either.
That is a thought he must stop, now of all times when he is taking a commissioned man. It should be enough. He leans down to bite the skin at the back of Bergan's neck, and pushes harder. Bergan groans, either from surprise or pain, which gets him no gentleness save for the cloth that Vossler grabs and presses into his mouth being the soft cotton of Bergan's nearby impostor Red Cross armband. "Quiet," he growls close to Bergan's ear, and still there are muffled noises. He knows well that Vossler doesn't want to talk.
Ronsenburg would follow the order -- he wouldn't need it, but he'd follow it. He'd be just as stoic under Vossler as he is over maps, or leading men to battle. Where Bergan wants to talk, he would accept a hand or even Vossler's mouth over his with no complaint; where Bergan reacts to every thrust of hips, he wouldn't ask for help, for a hand when he needs it. He would take his pleasure with dignity.
To Bergan's credit, he has some pride. He does not expect anything, which is for the better. Vossler's one concession is to lift Bergan's hips so he can touch himself, then look away. He has no desire to see Bergan like that.
Basch, though, Basch he would watch: stripped of his uniform, pale even with firelight highlighting the sweat, back and shoulder flexing. He'd let his head drop, but keep his neck turned, exposed to Vossler's mouth. Waiting for his officer, every muscle tense, trying and failing to choke back sounds, now -- he wouldn't have to wait long, not at all, Basch pleasing in a way that simple need shouldn't be --
He rocks into Bergan and stops, panting. He doesn't know if Bergan has finished yet, doesn't care, and pulls out, rebuttoning his trousers as quickly as gloves permit. He shakes his head. He will need to face Sergeant Ronsenburg later, and cannot with such an image lingering.
He sits back, unwound and heavy, and when he hears Bergan's unmuffled curses at his own hand he reaches for the remaining sips of this evening's cognac. If he is lucky, his tension will now be manageable for months more; since he isn't, this memory will be no less abused.
He knows those things aren't as important as having a German officer under him at all.
For a moment, though, it is all he can think about; he hates this man on principle, but that makes him no less of a relief, and his clipped German groans as he takes Vossler's thrusts are no less from a man aching for this in his own right.
He takes deep breaths at the thought. He should think of Ashelia back home, as would any man forced to such circumstances, and for a moment he does: pretty and thinking of /him/, while working quietly toward the war from the household in Paris. He imagines her here more easily, in officer's uniform and as beautiful as she ever is in women's finery, looking over maps of battles or even issuing commands to stand to, while his sergeant leads the men.
Most men would go on, pretend it was her here with him, her beauty and warmth wrapped around him, but he's never touched Ashelia -- Ashe, as she likes him to call her. They had only a short courtship that may or may not continue, when the war ends.
He would not use her in such need, nor would he ever treat her like this: not kisses but the touch of mouths filled with liquor, his cock rough without any luxury like oil, weight braced on one forearm to put the other on Bergan's neck, pressing him face down, so neither of them have to look.
Vossler looks anyway. Bergan is too large, his voice too low to ever take for a woman -- but from this angle he could almost look like Ronsenburg, wearing his hair long, his back and arms strong even through his uniform.
Even Basch -- Ronsenburg, Sergeant Ronsenburg -- has fallen, in these past months; rotating shifts between them mean more than once during rounds he's noticed Ronsenburg and a friend of his, a private who is likely too young to be here at all. He suspects Ronsenburg knows the fraternization rules well, but with his recent promotion he assumes Vossler to overlook it, like the officers do as the war goes on. Still, he'd think rank differential would hold more priority.
He doesn't think Ronsenburg holds shame in this sort of desire, simple and ugly and fulfilled accordingly. His mind wanders; perhaps he wouldn't mind relations with officers, either.
That is a thought he must stop, now of all times when he is taking a commissioned man. It should be enough. He leans down to bite the skin at the back of Bergan's neck, and pushes harder. Bergan groans, either from surprise or pain, which gets him no gentleness save for the cloth that Vossler grabs and presses into his mouth being the soft cotton of Bergan's nearby impostor Red Cross armband. "Quiet," he growls close to Bergan's ear, and still there are muffled noises. He knows well that Vossler doesn't want to talk.
Ronsenburg would follow the order -- he wouldn't need it, but he'd follow it. He'd be just as stoic under Vossler as he is over maps, or leading men to battle. Where Bergan wants to talk, he would accept a hand or even Vossler's mouth over his with no complaint; where Bergan reacts to every thrust of hips, he wouldn't ask for help, for a hand when he needs it. He would take his pleasure with dignity.
To Bergan's credit, he has some pride. He does not expect anything, which is for the better. Vossler's one concession is to lift Bergan's hips so he can touch himself, then look away. He has no desire to see Bergan like that.
Basch, though, Basch he would watch: stripped of his uniform, pale even with firelight highlighting the sweat, back and shoulder flexing. He'd let his head drop, but keep his neck turned, exposed to Vossler's mouth. Waiting for his officer, every muscle tense, trying and failing to choke back sounds, now -- he wouldn't have to wait long, not at all, Basch pleasing in a way that simple need shouldn't be --
He rocks into Bergan and stops, panting. He doesn't know if Bergan has finished yet, doesn't care, and pulls out, rebuttoning his trousers as quickly as gloves permit. He shakes his head. He will need to face Sergeant Ronsenburg later, and cannot with such an image lingering.
He sits back, unwound and heavy, and when he hears Bergan's unmuffled curses at his own hand he reaches for the remaining sips of this evening's cognac. If he is lucky, his tension will now be manageable for months more; since he isn't, this memory will be no less abused.
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