Balthier was not as wise as Aerith in slipping away before things got out of hand, though he doubts it would have mattered; he's recognizable enough -- especially given how much he likes to show off at a gathering -- that they likely would have had his name anyway.
He's done solitary at other prisons, hard labor, you name it. He's not even that worried about being made to copulate. That's been getting easier for him, and hell, if he needs to find some drink to make it easier, fine. It was worth a genuinely good evening.
But when, already stripped of an outfit he'd very much like back thank you, someone slaps a collar around his neck and begins explaining their punishment, he feels the acidic taste of panic rising in his throat. His hands come up to pull at the stiff material, thicker and tighter than the collar he so enjoys with Aerith, pressing just a little too tight on his windpipe. Much as his fingers search, there is no clasp, no stitching to be pulled loose.
His eyes rove like a cornered animal, trying to keep his breathing steady as he looks around the other prisoners, trying to see if maybe, maybe there's someone he trusts to have power over him. Already inmates from the crowd are coming forward, claiming partners who have little ability to resist.
His throat tightens, trying to shrink to the back of the group. Maybe he can partner with another collared inmate, even the dynamic -- he doesn't want to give orders anymore than he wants to take them, but at least then there's motivation not to be cruel.
When Aerith's arms wrap around him, he's so far in his own panic that he winces, body going entirely rigid. But something in her voice penetrates the haze and he breathes out weakly, arms coming to clutch at her too tightly.
He still doesn't want to do this -- the guards were very clear only public displays would work -- but he could sob in relief at having Aerith be the one giving him orders.
Still -- "You don't have to put yourself up for them to see like this." He might be the one following orders, but she's still going to have to compromise herself.
The tension that keeps his limbs tight, and his form rigid when she hugs him against her is more than enough to fan the flames of her anger. She knows how unfair this place can be, has taken the brunt of it herself after something that wasn't technically her fault condemned her to deal with a misconduct, but seeing him like this feels somehow worse than the two days of solitary.
She keeps her arms around him, shaking her head when he tries to dismiss her aid. "We're going to stand like this, nobody can see anything." Surrounded by collared prisoners and those taking advantage of their predicament isn't the best place to do this, but if it means getting him out of here and to somewhere that at least feels safer, she's going to do everything she can to make sure that he's okay.
"We'll just use our hands, and block everything with my skirt." Not for the first time, Aerith's thankful for the return of her clothes. The longer skirt on her pink dress is far better suited for concealing them, and given the circumstances she needs that as much as he seems to.
She frees a hand to touch his cheek, guiding him to look at her.
"It's okay, Balthier, I'm here. Keep your eyes on me, and I'll keep mine on you, nothing else is happening but us." Is she reassuring him, or herself? It's hard to say exactly, but it's clear she means every word, determined to see him out of this.
His mind erupts in excuses and very detailed scenarios of how all of this could go wrong, but he does his best to take deep breaths and focus on her voice. The suggestion to just use hands finally gives him something concrete to focus on. Yes. He can do that. He can feel alright doing that to her, but he isn't sure how it will work with her skirt and --
She touches his face, and his eyes finally focus on her, her voice soothing but firm. It's like a tether pulling him back from wherever his mind has retreated to. He nods once before folding his forehead down to hers.
"Give me something else to call you," he pleads. "When this starts I don't want to -- there are rules, and I don't want to bring what we have into this." Or think about this the next time they are able to be together.
Working hard to heed her own advice Aerith keeps her eyes fixed on Balthier's face, focusing on him in the hopes that it really will serve to blot out what's going on around them.
Balthier bends to rest his forehead against hers and Aerith rises onto the balls of her feet, meeting that point of contact, her voice soft and just for him when she speaks.
"You can call me Aerith if you want to," the hand on his cheek brushes his skin gently, giving them both another point of focus that isn't everything else. "This isn't what we have, this is a friend helping another friend, it's not part of us."
How is she so infinitely kind? And calm. He doesn’t know much about her past, but whatever it is, it’s been hard; that’s the only way a person turns out strong as skysteel like this.
Her fingers brush his cheek and he lets his eyes close, own hand coming to clasp hers. “Thank you,” he breathes. It’s not nearly big enough for how grateful he is, but it’s something.
“I dont — I don’t want our names on this. Please. Call me your servant. And give me something you don’t want to be called again.”
Though it isn't something she would have thought of, had their positions been switched, Aerith thinks she understands why he doesn't want any attachment to what they have to do here to anything else that
"Okay, my servant, and you can call me Mistress?" She's been called that before back at the Palace after stumbling into a room with another woman, and she's heard it used before by other prisoners. It's not terrible, but it's not the term he's found for her, something that's come to be more personal, that she only wants to hear from him.
Shifting against him, Aerith looks down at their bodies and lifts her skirt, holding it against his chest so it hung like a curtain on either side. "Is this okay?"
He’s nodding to her suggestion, taking steadying breaths. “Yes.” And then she adds her skirt to it and he breathes out, settling down a hair.
“Alright. I have to — there’s are rules they gave me,” he says again. He takes one more deep breath and then, voice utterly flat, recites, “Mistress, please allow me to serve you, and if I am very good, reward me with my release.”
As he says it, something glows briefly on the collar, and he hisses as it feels briefly warm. He hasn’t said the second part, and it grows hotter until he adds, “Use me as you will. Nothing is out of limits. I am completely a your mercy. Your pleasure is all that matters.”
The heat lets off but there’s no hiding the dull flighty panic in his eyes. If it’s not clear why he was so uncomfortable, he suspects it is now.
Shifting, she manages to trap the top of her skirt between their bodies, freeing up both of her hands. The one on his cheek moves to his hair, cradling the back of his neck, gently guiding him to keep his forehead against hers, hoping that closeness will help them both stay focused. What Balthier has to say for the sake of this punishment isn't that far off from some of the things he's said to her in the past, in the heat of the moment, but this is awful, it's nothing like the game they play with one another.
Nodding resolutely Aerith does her best not to let concern overtake the gentle face she's trying to maintain for Balthier to keep them both calm and detached from their surroundings. Aerith tips her chin up, kissing him very gently as her free hand catches his, guiding him beneath her skirt to press against the crotch of her panties, before it lifts away to press against his hip, moving closer to his cock.
"Touch me, my servant," she begins quietly, carefully, tilting her hips towards his hand. "I want to get you nice and hard."
He’s so grateful for her keeping their faces together and the calming hand at the back of his head. The kiss is appreciated too, something they’ve used sparingly and only in kindness.
He doesn’t mean to, but he tenses as her hand guides his. All of this feels wrong. Neither of them has real choice and that makes him want to buck and flee. Even her touch on his body leaves him torn, comforted and repulsed all at once.
Her command comes, gentle and helpful, but something feels strange. His feelings don’t change but he finds himself palming her cloth-covered entrance with more directness. Perhaps it’s just easier to follow directions.
There’s no arousal though, nor for him. And he can’t think about that because he will panic. What happens if he can’t get off?
“Mistress, your gentleness is appreciated,” he does manage to murmur to her. “If I can make you feel good, I am happy to.” And that at least is true.
Though her body responds to the sudden motion of his hand against her panties, Aerith's mind is too fixed on Balthier and how uncomfortable he looks to do enjoy it beyond a very base, physical way, a brush against a sensitive spot. Still, she shifts towards his hand, her fingers combing through his hair while her other hand gently rubs over the outline of his cock.
This isn't at all like the morning nothing seemed to stop him from getting hard, she knows, but they have to do this, and she's determined to see it through.
"You're so good at touching your Mistress, don't stop," she murmurs, trying to sound encouraging, hoping the way she rocks her hips against his touch draws him further into this and away from everything else. "Move my panties to the side," Aerith adds in a whisper, her eyes on his. "Get me nice and wet for you."
Scions she's trying to make this easier on him and he's almost ashamed how hard it still is. But his guilt helps nothing, especially not how soft his cock still is. It helps that she's with him, that she's being so gentle, that there's a familiarity in her words that echoes a much better interaction.
Except they keep coming and something is wrong. She tells him to move her panties and it's like he's compelled, other hand coming to shove them aside, first hand still palming against her. It's not that he wouldn't do those things, but -- it's almost like he's going on autopilot to follow her words. His skin starts to prickle, that need to bolt rising in him.
When she says to make him met, he makes a sound of protest even as he feels his body reacting. His head tilts to find her lips, sucking hard against them before breaking to kiss her jaw and neck. His hand shifts from palming her to fingering her clit, the other tracing the line of her slit only to press in, pumping two fingers against her as he searches for shudders and moans. It isn't until he feels the first slick indication she's grown wet that he's able to get a hold of himself, pulling back with a gasp and the sting of moisture in his eyes, searching his face to see if she's hurt.
"I'm sorry -- I -- the commands are literal -- "
And he's helpless. He has absolutely no control over this situation.
There's a difference in the way he touches her, the direct, rough way his other hand comes down to push her panties to the side catches her by surprise, making her tense briefly before he brings his mouth over hers, kissing her while she feels his hands swiftly going through the motions of touching her.
It's not the delicate, reverent touch she's come to enjoy with Balthier, but she can feel her body responding anyway, hips rocking against his touch, adjusting her stance to spread her thighs wider for him, her breathing growing hard and ragged. One hand stays in his hair as she shivers against him, as the hand tracing over his cock presses a little more firmly, trying to encourage him.
He pulls back, giving her a moment to catch her breath, and she shakes her head at him, drawing him close to kiss his cheek. "It's okay, don't stop, we have to," she whispers, trying to be encouraging.
Frowning, she rests her forehead against his temple, kissing the side of his face as she searches her mind, feeling awful about what she thinks that could mean, but becoming sure it's got to be said anyway. "Literal? Then, get hard for me my servant." It feels wrong, and part of her wants to panic and scramble for another way to get him free of this situation, but she forces herself to stay there, her hips rocking against his hand, as her hand squeezes his cock gently. "Get hard for me servant, let me feel your beautiful cock."
It's fortunate one of their bodies will respond without their head in it, at least today. That doesn't make him feel particularly good and he knows it's going to rattle his sense that what she's interested in is him. He does his best to shove that away, knowing it's not fair, knowing she's likely pushing herself to get this done sooner and he should be grateful, but all he really feels is frustration and shame.
It does still help, though, that it's her, that her hand is in his hair and that she's being gentle. She spreads her legs for him, rocks against him. He knows any other situation would be so much worse.
And her small kiss, her forgiveness settles him down a little. Maybe this doesn't have to break anything between them.
She tells him not to stop, and he knows he can't pull his hand away, but at least he has a little more control, softening the touch and moving more slowly, paying more attention to what makes her sigh.
He gets another kiss and closes his eyes, trying to pretend they're somewhere else, that this is the genuine fun they have gotten up to before.
Get hard for me she whispers. It's a good solution, and honestly some part of him respects her cleverness, but there's nothing to soothe the bitter taste in his mouth as his cock immediately leaps in her hand, twitching and lengthening in the early stages of arousal. He feels the dull pangs of it, too, but honestly the closest thing he's felt to this was when that zombie spirit was inside of him manually forcing him up.
She repeats the order and his dick leaps again. He hisses at the strange feeling, but something about her soft order to let her feel him, the gentle reminder that she finds him beautiful, grounds him that she is not the thing that is unsafe. Not remotely.
He kisses her forehead, then moves to kiss her mouth -- properly. Gentle but firm. He doesn't entirely trust his words, but he trusts this between them.
"You take good care of me, Mistress," he whispers, the hand not compelled to stroke her coming to brush her face. There are moments he can see the arousal reach her expression, and genuine pangs of want answer back in him. He hates that this situation gets to touch that space between them, but he's not sorry to make her feel good, especially if he has some control over his actions.
He's fully hardened by now, so he slips a third finger in her, knowing she likes the girth of it. "Play with my sack," he says. That gets him started better, and hard or not, he isn't that sensitive. "Then with my tip. And when you're close, tell me to come for you. That should be fastest." It's so...surgical. There's almost nothing intimate about it.
The way his cock responds to her words fills her with guilt, the feeling twisting in her stomach, warring with the physical pleasure his hands worked to pull from her body, making the heat of her body flare and keeping her slick with desire even though she didn't want either of those things for either of them like this.
"You take good care of me too servant," she whispers in response, a quiet moan slipping past her lips as she tips her hips up, moving herself a little faster against his hand, trying to aid him and get them both out of this mess. The hand pressing against his cock moves to wrap around it, her eyes fluttering half-closed as the drive of his fingers makes her tilt her head back and gasp. It feels wrong to enjoy any of this, even if she knows she isn't, in any way but at the basest, physical level.
His instructions pull her thoughts towards a better time shared between them, when she ordered him to play with himself and wait for her. Aerith remembered the way Balthier touched himself - her growing desire making it hard to pay attention to anything else at the time - and she loosens her hold on his shaft to mimic the way she had seen him fondle the sensitive sack hanging below his cock. "Rub my clit a little faster," the hand in his hair tenses of its own accord, and she stops talking long enough to kiss him. "It will make me come."
Trading methods like this should be fun, telling him how to touch her always had been fun, but this is uncomfortable, tactical, born out of need rather than a desire to please the other.
Her hands alternate their touch, thumb circling the underside of his head before her hand moves lower to tease and brush against his balls, her shoulders tensing as she pants out a whimper.
That...helps. If he's at least providing her some level of service, it's...something. Enjoying him this captive would be concerning, but he doesn't want this experience to be miserable for her either. And the truth is, there's some part of him that reacts to her hips moving and those sounds of desire. There's some pride in getting her to gasp. He tries to cling to those pieces as they do this, and the way she listens to his requests. It's still them; this is still a person who cares so deeply for his comfort.
The command comes, and he has no choice but to rub her clit faster, tensing as he instinctively bucks against the magic controlling him. But he nods when she kisses him and adds the reasoning. It's the goal, after all.
Her hand is kind too, and while he can't quite call it pleasurable, but it's ... caring. Personal. And he needs that more right now. A few low hums escape him, and when she whimpers he finally feels something remotely like real arousal.
"I want to make you feel good again, some other time, not like this," he whispers. He knows his voice is strained, and it hurts to say it, but it soothes something too, promising himself that this isn't forever. "But whatever helps today, it's alright. Take it."
He bows his head to her again, kissing slowly against her neck as he keeps at her clit. She's getting close, and gods he just wants this to be over.
The burst of speed his thumb puts on as it rubs her clit is intense enough that her back arches of its own accord, the hand on his cock stilling as the sudden rush of feeling bowls her over, pushing her toward an edge she wasn't sure she was really going to be able to get to. Uttering another soft cry she can feel the way her body begins to tense, tightening around his fingers slowly as he thrusts them into her.
"Tell me how to help you," she whispers insistently, turning the question around on him. The hand wrapped around his length moves up, massaging the head of him a little more insistently, trying to urge him along as he did to her. "Do you like it when I make noise?" Everything is so tense and strange she can't be sure, and she doesn't especially feel like she should be acting like she's enjoying herself when she isn't exactly, but she'll let her resistance slide a little more if it helps him get there.
"Not like this," she agrees in a ragged whisper. Squeezing her eyes closed as she curves her palm over the head of his cock, stroking and teasing at it, Aerith turns her head to press her face against his shoulder, moaning softly, unable to stop herself.
"Don't stop, you're going to make me come," her voice tightens with every word, the hand on his cock growing more urgent as she guides him closer, pressing his shaft against her thigh. "Come for me servant,
"Yes," he says lowly. "Sounds, when you cling to me." It is helping, the way she's losing clarity, the way she's tightening around his hand and hugging into his shoulder. He doesn't want to say the last one, but the compulsion pulls it out. "When you compliment me." His face goes hot at that one, angry to bring it into this, but it's done, and he's trying to just focus on pushing forward. They're of the same mind that this is miserable, and that has to be enough.
Her voice starts to come tighter and he sighs out relief, even as her words force him to keep thumbing her clit and pumping her opening. He's even almost relaxed into her touch on his cock, the arousal settling in better, when her other order comes. Whatever small pleasure he got from her thigh against his shaft is lost in the stomach-churning sensation of a compulsion-forced finish, heat not built from release coiling and flashing through him before his cock begins shuddering, a hollow mimic of an orgasm emptying itself against her. He tries not to fight it, but every inch of him feels raw, his teeth gritting miserably as all he can do is shudder and keep touching her. He feels like a puppet, nothing more than an empty shell stuck doing others' bidding. It doesn't matter that he trusts this person; how long until someone less kind is at the helm?
He's in such a haze he doesn't quite process her tipping into orgasm, too, but all at once the pressure on his neck is thinner and his hands abruptly stop. His jagged breath comes sharply, and he grasps with the hand that wasn't in her to yank the collar off and throw it to the ground, other hand trying to leave her as painlessly as possible.
As soon as he's disentangled, he wraps around her, hugging her so hard it knocks her off balance. His face presses against hers, burying against her shoulder as heaving breaths wrack through him.
it's done it's done it's done
"Aerith," he whispers, cradling her head and squeezing her to him. The rawness in his voice is clear even to him, but he's got control of his touch back, and all he wants is to disappear.
She doesn't want to compliment him like this, it feels as wrong as the climax the steady rhythm of his hand continues to build inside her - clinging to him, however. As soon as he said it, the hand still resting on the back of his head soothingly smoothing through his hair moves, grasping at his shoulder before wrapping her arm around him, pulling him close with a strangled gasp.
The coil of tension tightening in her core snaps abruptly, there was no joy in the way her orgasm built to savor and want to prolong and relish. When she comes, it's nothing more than a release, an end, something she shudders through while she whimpers against his neck and squeezes her eyes closed, his cock twitching in her hand as he empties himself against her skin.
Shoving aside that familiar post-orgasmic ache that lingers between her thighs, Aerith's head starts to clear in time for Balthier to gather her up in his arms, hugging her to him as she throws her arms around him and does the same, pulling him in close, almost protectively, letting him hold onto her as long and as tightly as needed to.
"It's over," she whispers against his temple, closing her eyes tightly as the sound of her name in that tone of voice cracks at her resolve like no other aspect of this ordeal quite could. "Balthier, it's okay, I'm here." Her train of thought is derailed unceremoniously as she feels something hit her back, his clothing falling to the ground after colliding with her, leaving her turning to glare at the now retreating guard who must have thrown them over after the collar released its hold.
Reluctantly letting go, Aerith turns, blocking Balthier's body with hers while she stoops briefly to gather up his clothes. "Come on," she says, trying not to look as irate as she felt as she hands them over. "Get dressed, I'm taking you back to my house," her voice is soft but she doesn't sound like she'll be talked out of that offer. "I don't want you to back to the prison tonight."
Ignoring the splotch of wetness on her dress from his release, Aerith turned, holding her skirt out like a big curtain, trying to give him privacy while he got dressed.
Maybe he should be wary of how much having her here is comforting him, but right now all he can do is cling to that bit of light. Her clinging back against him feels a hundred times better than anything else that's transpired today, and the emotion in her voice hurts, but it makes him feel like he matters, like this wasn't okay, and he can't think too hard about that or he knows the pressure in the bridge of his nose will give way to liquid on his face.
Something hits against her and he tugs at her protectively, meaning to move her, but she steps away. It takes him a moment to realize she has his clothes. Her orders no longer have any compulsion to them, but he finds himself following them just the same. There's something...easy...in not having to think, in trusting that she has his best interest at heart. And if he thinks--
He roughly pulls on his pants and shirt, stepping into his shoes and carrying the rest. He'll want to wash them thoroughly, but he wants to have every inch of skin he can covered until they're alone. The offer to have him somewhere outside the prison tonight is deeply appreciated, but his voice feels gone, so when he's done, he touches the back of her hand gently, nodding at her, before hesitantly slipping his hand against hers, loose enough she can pull away. He feels -- dazed. Like there's cotton in his ears and everything is a little too bright.
Wherever she wants to lead, he'll follow. He's too raw to even question giving her that power over him.
The touch to her hand pulls her out of her private seething, glaring at anyone and everyone who looks in their direction while Balthier gets dressed. She knows she can't block all of him, but she'll deter anyone she can from staring too long in her own way.
Tonight might be a little worse than solitary. While that had been longer, and absolutely unfair and disgusting, at least she only had to worry about herself. Aerith had needed to hold herself together under terrible circumstances before, and while no part of her liked it, and everything she wasn't letting surface now would come out in some way or another later, she knew how to do it. But, Balthier had also been put through this particularly nasty wringer and it's harder to keep the way her heart breaks for him stuffed down.
When she looks back at him, that anger is gone from her expression, replaced by a gentle, somewhat sad smile. Instead of taking his hand Aerith steps closer to Balthier, wrapping her arm around his back instead, staying close enough to be leaned against if he needed help keeping himself from falling apart.
"I don't live far away, we'll be there really soon." She wants to ask if he's alright, wants to apologize for putting him through that, even if she knows tonight she'd been the lesser of two evils, but Aerith doesn't know if he can hear it right now, nor is she sure she can bring herself say it right now. It all feels too fresh.
Instead, she walks, leading him away from that field and towards the big prisoner houses, beating the familiar path back to the new place she's going to try to make a home out of for as long as she's stuck here. The house is rundown, and maybe even a little creepy from the outside, but there are signs of improvement already, someone's been clearing out the overgrowth and there's light coming in from one of the front windows. Spotting it, Aerith puts on a little bit of speed, eager to have her front door between them and the rest of the prison.
Some distant part of Balthier's mind is starting to tell him he shouldn't be reacting this strongly; he's been in his share of terrible situations. This was quick and relatively painless. It's over. This shouldn't be lingering. But there's a tremor in his hands and the sense of panic he'd pushed away while they were trying to finish is seeping back in.
It's not like him to be unaware of where he is or leave himself open to possible danger, nor is it like him to lean on someone else. When Aerith slips her arm around him, though, his mind goes somewhere else, and it's not until she shifts to open the door that he realizes he's lost ... ten minutes? Fifteen?
That hasn't happened since he was--
He forces himself to focus on Aerith, the way her touch feels, the details of where they are. Her house. Right. She had mentioned. They pass inside, and he glances at her, wincing at the tightness on her face. This hurt her too, and he retreated to leave her to deal with it.
"Thank you," he croaks, straightening from her support but letting his hand stay loosely around her back. He doesn't know if it's to reassure her or himself. It's hard to hold onto his thoughts, like he's somewhere else looking in. He presses the fingers of his other hand to either side of his nose, eyes closed tight. "I'm sorry. I'll be back to myself shortly. I -- can I bathe?"
Get the memory of that place off of him, calm his head down. Maybe if he says he'll feel better he will. He doesn't want to be like this, not here, not around her.
His silence weighed on her, but once they were inside and he felt empowered to speak up again, what he had to say made her feel a little bit worse somehow.
Both hands rest on his shoulder as she shakes her head gently. "You don't have to rush yourself, or apologize. You can stay here until you feel better." She hates this, hates the way she feels and the way she's sure he must feel too.
"We'll both take baths. You can go first." As much as she wants to stay close to him and take care of him, assuming they'd bathe together feels wrong after everything they'd been through. The come now drying on her thigh isn't the most pleasant feeling thing, but she's happy to wait while he takes the time he needs as eager as she is to wash the last remnants of this night away.
"Come on, the bathroom and my room are the only finished parts of this place," she steps away, taking his hand again to lead him to the end of a short hallway, pushing open the door to the bathroom.
Aerith crosses the room to turn the faucet on and let the tub fill, looking back at Balthier with a weary smile. "It's all yours."
Fran sometimes tells him something similar, but it's easier for him to hear it from her; she isn't Hume. She doesn't have the expectations some part of him thinks all Humes do. But he sees his words have somehow made this worse, and that wasn't his intent.
He feels like a child, the way she takes his face and speaks gently, the way she leads him, the way she draws the bath for him. He hates it. Not the support -- the support is...genuinely unbelievable. If he could crawl into the warm safe feeling she gives him and stay, he would. But that feels so selfish. As does enjoying her taking care of him. That isn't fair to her at all. There's nothing left in him, but he doesn't want to be this, dependent and useless.
Even as that guilt churns through him, she hands the bathroom over to him and without thinking he breathes out, "Stay." Gods, a few times having sex where he was encouraged to take and now he can't turn it off. "If you want to." What he wants to do is cover his face in his hands and disappear into the wall, but given that's not an option, he does the next best thing and starts to strip, obscuring his face for a moment so he can remotely get ahold of himself. He should say something else, clarify that he wants to not have the last way he touched her be that, that he doesn't want to be alone, but his exhausted brain can't figure out how to do that without sounding either demanding or pathetic.
There's a moment of discomfort at being naked in front of her again. Fuck this place; he's not letting it take this. He crosses back to her, taking her face gently in his hands and pressing a kiss to her hair, then tipping her chin so he can very gently kiss her lips.
Some of the tension leaves his body, his shoulder settling a hair. He's still himself. She's still here. He can still do right by her.
She knows it's selfish to feel as relieved as she does when Balthier asks her to stay, but having silently been preparing herself for a long stint of sitting in silence while he cleans up, it's a weight off hearing that he wants her to remain here with him.
"Of course I want to," she offers softly before averting her gaze while he undresses again. It's clear he wants to withdraw for this, and she turns her back to let him, pulling her jacket and her dress off as well, before leaving them in a heap on the floor.
"Let me wash your hair for you," Aerith says as she approaches the tub again, shutting the water off before gathering the meager collection of toiletries she's managed to accumulate since her arrival. Preparing to perch on the edge of the tub and wait for him, Balthier surprises her when he turns back, cradling her face before pressing a kiss first to the tip of her head, and then to her lips.
Her hands reach for him, resting on his sides, her thumb affectionately brushing over his skin. "I'm so happy you're here with me."
The readiness of Aerith's answer soothes some of his fear that he's taking too much of her time and energy. For a moment it rubber bands to feeling guilty that he didn't pick up on her wanting to stay. Some part of him realizes he's in a place where whatever he does, it feels like the wrong thing.
So when she offers to wash his hair he shakes his head. "You don't need to do anything more for me. Take care of yourself first." He doesn't give her time to answer him, crossing to kiss her, feeling more at ease with both of them stripped, with her hands gently stroking his sides. As his break from hers, he keeps his face close, noses touching.
I'm so happy you're here with me. It nearly breaks him, and he resigns himself that she's going to see him cry if he stays. "Me too," he whispers, and it's the truth, which is what he's promised himself to give her from the start. "I don't want to be any more of a burden," and yes, he feels his voice crack, that same pressure building in his face, "I just want to be near you. Hold you." And if she doesn't want that, he wants her to have the opportunity to say as much or excuse herself. He wouldn't be offended, not after how he had to touch her, and not with how much of a mess he is.
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He's done solitary at other prisons, hard labor, you name it. He's not even that worried about being made to copulate. That's been getting easier for him, and hell, if he needs to find some drink to make it easier, fine. It was worth a genuinely good evening.
But when, already stripped of an outfit he'd very much like back thank you, someone slaps a collar around his neck and begins explaining their punishment, he feels the acidic taste of panic rising in his throat. His hands come up to pull at the stiff material, thicker and tighter than the collar he so enjoys with Aerith, pressing just a little too tight on his windpipe. Much as his fingers search, there is no clasp, no stitching to be pulled loose.
His eyes rove like a cornered animal, trying to keep his breathing steady as he looks around the other prisoners, trying to see if maybe, maybe there's someone he trusts to have power over him. Already inmates from the crowd are coming forward, claiming partners who have little ability to resist.
His throat tightens, trying to shrink to the back of the group. Maybe he can partner with another collared inmate, even the dynamic -- he doesn't want to give orders anymore than he wants to take them, but at least then there's motivation not to be cruel.
When Aerith's arms wrap around him, he's so far in his own panic that he winces, body going entirely rigid. But something in her voice penetrates the haze and he breathes out weakly, arms coming to clutch at her too tightly.
He still doesn't want to do this -- the guards were very clear only public displays would work -- but he could sob in relief at having Aerith be the one giving him orders.
Still -- "You don't have to put yourself up for them to see like this." He might be the one following orders, but she's still going to have to compromise herself.
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She keeps her arms around him, shaking her head when he tries to dismiss her aid. "We're going to stand like this, nobody can see anything." Surrounded by collared prisoners and those taking advantage of their predicament isn't the best place to do this, but if it means getting him out of here and to somewhere that at least feels safer, she's going to do everything she can to make sure that he's okay.
"We'll just use our hands, and block everything with my skirt." Not for the first time, Aerith's thankful for the return of her clothes. The longer skirt on her pink dress is far better suited for concealing them, and given the circumstances she needs that as much as he seems to.
She frees a hand to touch his cheek, guiding him to look at her.
"It's okay, Balthier, I'm here. Keep your eyes on me, and I'll keep mine on you, nothing else is happening but us." Is she reassuring him, or herself? It's hard to say exactly, but it's clear she means every word, determined to see him out of this.
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She touches his face, and his eyes finally focus on her, her voice soothing but firm. It's like a tether pulling him back from wherever his mind has retreated to. He nods once before folding his forehead down to hers.
"Give me something else to call you," he pleads. "When this starts I don't want to -- there are rules, and I don't want to bring what we have into this." Or think about this the next time they are able to be together.
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Balthier bends to rest his forehead against hers and Aerith rises onto the balls of her feet, meeting that point of contact, her voice soft and just for him when she speaks.
"You can call me Aerith if you want to," the hand on his cheek brushes his skin gently, giving them both another point of focus that isn't everything else. "This isn't what we have, this is a friend helping another friend, it's not part of us."
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Her fingers brush his cheek and he lets his eyes close, own hand coming to clasp hers. “Thank you,” he breathes. It’s not nearly big enough for how grateful he is, but it’s something.
“I dont — I don’t want our names on this. Please. Call me your servant. And give me something you don’t want to be called again.”
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"Okay, my servant, and you can call me Mistress?" She's been called that before back at the Palace after stumbling into a room with another woman, and she's heard it used before by other prisoners. It's not terrible, but it's not the term he's found for her, something that's come to be more personal, that she only wants to hear from him.
Shifting against him, Aerith looks down at their bodies and lifts her skirt, holding it against his chest so it hung like a curtain on either side. "Is this okay?"
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“Alright. I have to — there’s are rules they gave me,” he says again. He takes one more deep breath and then, voice utterly flat, recites, “Mistress, please allow me to serve you, and if I am very good, reward me with my release.”
As he says it, something glows briefly on the collar, and he hisses as it feels briefly warm. He hasn’t said the second part, and it grows hotter until he adds, “Use me as you will. Nothing is out of limits. I am completely a your mercy. Your pleasure is all that matters.”
The heat lets off but there’s no hiding the dull flighty panic in his eyes. If it’s not clear why he was so uncomfortable, he suspects it is now.
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Nodding resolutely Aerith does her best not to let concern overtake the gentle face she's trying to maintain for Balthier to keep them both calm and detached from their surroundings. Aerith tips her chin up, kissing him very gently as her free hand catches his, guiding him beneath her skirt to press against the crotch of her panties, before it lifts away to press against his hip, moving closer to his cock.
"Touch me, my servant," she begins quietly, carefully, tilting her hips towards his hand. "I want to get you nice and hard."
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He doesn’t mean to, but he tenses as her hand guides his. All of this feels wrong. Neither of them has real choice and that makes him want to buck and flee. Even her touch on his body leaves him torn, comforted and repulsed all at once.
Her command comes, gentle and helpful, but something feels strange. His feelings don’t change but he finds himself palming her cloth-covered entrance with more directness. Perhaps it’s just easier to follow directions.
There’s no arousal though, nor for him. And he can’t think about that because he will panic. What happens if he can’t get off?
“Mistress, your gentleness is appreciated,” he does manage to murmur to her. “If I can make you feel good, I am happy to.” And that at least is true.
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This isn't at all like the morning nothing seemed to stop him from getting hard, she knows, but they have to do this, and she's determined to see it through.
"You're so good at touching your Mistress, don't stop," she murmurs, trying to sound encouraging, hoping the way she rocks her hips against his touch draws him further into this and away from everything else. "Move my panties to the side," Aerith adds in a whisper, her eyes on his. "Get me nice and wet for you."
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Except they keep coming and something is wrong. She tells him to move her panties and it's like he's compelled, other hand coming to shove them aside, first hand still palming against her. It's not that he wouldn't do those things, but -- it's almost like he's going on autopilot to follow her words. His skin starts to prickle, that need to bolt rising in him.
When she says to make him met, he makes a sound of protest even as he feels his body reacting. His head tilts to find her lips, sucking hard against them before breaking to kiss her jaw and neck. His hand shifts from palming her to fingering her clit, the other tracing the line of her slit only to press in, pumping two fingers against her as he searches for shudders and moans. It isn't until he feels the first slick indication she's grown wet that he's able to get a hold of himself, pulling back with a gasp and the sting of moisture in his eyes, searching his face to see if she's hurt.
"I'm sorry -- I -- the commands are literal -- "
And he's helpless. He has absolutely no control over this situation.
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It's not the delicate, reverent touch she's come to enjoy with Balthier, but she can feel her body responding anyway, hips rocking against his touch, adjusting her stance to spread her thighs wider for him, her breathing growing hard and ragged. One hand stays in his hair as she shivers against him, as the hand tracing over his cock presses a little more firmly, trying to encourage him.
He pulls back, giving her a moment to catch her breath, and she shakes her head at him, drawing him close to kiss his cheek. "It's okay, don't stop, we have to," she whispers, trying to be encouraging.
Frowning, she rests her forehead against his temple, kissing the side of his face as she searches her mind, feeling awful about what she thinks that could mean, but becoming sure it's got to be said anyway. "Literal? Then, get hard for me my servant." It feels wrong, and part of her wants to panic and scramble for another way to get him free of this situation, but she forces herself to stay there, her hips rocking against his hand, as her hand squeezes his cock gently. "Get hard for me servant, let me feel your beautiful cock."
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It does still help, though, that it's her, that her hand is in his hair and that she's being gentle. She spreads her legs for him, rocks against him. He knows any other situation would be so much worse.
And her small kiss, her forgiveness settles him down a little. Maybe this doesn't have to break anything between them.
She tells him not to stop, and he knows he can't pull his hand away, but at least he has a little more control, softening the touch and moving more slowly, paying more attention to what makes her sigh.
He gets another kiss and closes his eyes, trying to pretend they're somewhere else, that this is the genuine fun they have gotten up to before.
Get hard for me she whispers. It's a good solution, and honestly some part of him respects her cleverness, but there's nothing to soothe the bitter taste in his mouth as his cock immediately leaps in her hand, twitching and lengthening in the early stages of arousal. He feels the dull pangs of it, too, but honestly the closest thing he's felt to this was when that zombie spirit was inside of him manually forcing him up.
She repeats the order and his dick leaps again. He hisses at the strange feeling, but something about her soft order to let her feel him, the gentle reminder that she finds him beautiful, grounds him that she is not the thing that is unsafe. Not remotely.
He kisses her forehead, then moves to kiss her mouth -- properly. Gentle but firm. He doesn't entirely trust his words, but he trusts this between them.
"You take good care of me, Mistress," he whispers, the hand not compelled to stroke her coming to brush her face. There are moments he can see the arousal reach her expression, and genuine pangs of want answer back in him. He hates that this situation gets to touch that space between them, but he's not sorry to make her feel good, especially if he has some control over his actions.
He's fully hardened by now, so he slips a third finger in her, knowing she likes the girth of it. "Play with my sack," he says. That gets him started better, and hard or not, he isn't that sensitive. "Then with my tip. And when you're close, tell me to come for you. That should be fastest." It's so...surgical. There's almost nothing intimate about it.
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"You take good care of me too servant," she whispers in response, a quiet moan slipping past her lips as she tips her hips up, moving herself a little faster against his hand, trying to aid him and get them both out of this mess. The hand pressing against his cock moves to wrap around it, her eyes fluttering half-closed as the drive of his fingers makes her tilt her head back and gasp. It feels wrong to enjoy any of this, even if she knows she isn't, in any way but at the basest, physical level.
His instructions pull her thoughts towards a better time shared between them, when she ordered him to play with himself and wait for her. Aerith remembered the way Balthier touched himself - her growing desire making it hard to pay attention to anything else at the time - and she loosens her hold on his shaft to mimic the way she had seen him fondle the sensitive sack hanging below his cock. "Rub my clit a little faster," the hand in his hair tenses of its own accord, and she stops talking long enough to kiss him. "It will make me come."
Trading methods like this should be fun, telling him how to touch her always had been fun, but this is uncomfortable, tactical, born out of need rather than a desire to please the other.
Her hands alternate their touch, thumb circling the underside of his head before her hand moves lower to tease and brush against his balls, her shoulders tensing as she pants out a whimper.
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The command comes, and he has no choice but to rub her clit faster, tensing as he instinctively bucks against the magic controlling him. But he nods when she kisses him and adds the reasoning. It's the goal, after all.
Her hand is kind too, and while he can't quite call it pleasurable, but it's ... caring. Personal. And he needs that more right now. A few low hums escape him, and when she whimpers he finally feels something remotely like real arousal.
"I want to make you feel good again, some other time, not like this," he whispers. He knows his voice is strained, and it hurts to say it, but it soothes something too, promising himself that this isn't forever. "But whatever helps today, it's alright. Take it."
He bows his head to her again, kissing slowly against her neck as he keeps at her clit. She's getting close, and gods he just wants this to be over.
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"Tell me how to help you," she whispers insistently, turning the question around on him. The hand wrapped around his length moves up, massaging the head of him a little more insistently, trying to urge him along as he did to her. "Do you like it when I make noise?" Everything is so tense and strange she can't be sure, and she doesn't especially feel like she should be acting like she's enjoying herself when she isn't exactly, but she'll let her resistance slide a little more if it helps him get there.
"Not like this," she agrees in a ragged whisper. Squeezing her eyes closed as she curves her palm over the head of his cock, stroking and teasing at it, Aerith turns her head to press her face against his shoulder, moaning softly, unable to stop herself.
"Don't stop, you're going to make me come," her voice tightens with every word, the hand on his cock growing more urgent as she guides him closer, pressing his shaft against her thigh. "Come for me servant,
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Her voice starts to come tighter and he sighs out relief, even as her words force him to keep thumbing her clit and pumping her opening. He's even almost relaxed into her touch on his cock, the arousal settling in better, when her other order comes. Whatever small pleasure he got from her thigh against his shaft is lost in the stomach-churning sensation of a compulsion-forced finish, heat not built from release coiling and flashing through him before his cock begins shuddering, a hollow mimic of an orgasm emptying itself against her. He tries not to fight it, but every inch of him feels raw, his teeth gritting miserably as all he can do is shudder and keep touching her. He feels like a puppet, nothing more than an empty shell stuck doing others' bidding. It doesn't matter that he trusts this person; how long until someone less kind is at the helm?
He's in such a haze he doesn't quite process her tipping into orgasm, too, but all at once the pressure on his neck is thinner and his hands abruptly stop. His jagged breath comes sharply, and he grasps with the hand that wasn't in her to yank the collar off and throw it to the ground, other hand trying to leave her as painlessly as possible.
As soon as he's disentangled, he wraps around her, hugging her so hard it knocks her off balance. His face presses against hers, burying against her shoulder as heaving breaths wrack through him.
it's done it's done it's done
"Aerith," he whispers, cradling her head and squeezing her to him. The rawness in his voice is clear even to him, but he's got control of his touch back, and all he wants is to disappear.
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The coil of tension tightening in her core snaps abruptly, there was no joy in the way her orgasm built to savor and want to prolong and relish. When she comes, it's nothing more than a release, an end, something she shudders through while she whimpers against his neck and squeezes her eyes closed, his cock twitching in her hand as he empties himself against her skin.
Shoving aside that familiar post-orgasmic ache that lingers between her thighs, Aerith's head starts to clear in time for Balthier to gather her up in his arms, hugging her to him as she throws her arms around him and does the same, pulling him in close, almost protectively, letting him hold onto her as long and as tightly as needed to.
"It's over," she whispers against his temple, closing her eyes tightly as the sound of her name in that tone of voice cracks at her resolve like no other aspect of this ordeal quite could. "Balthier, it's okay, I'm here." Her train of thought is derailed unceremoniously as she feels something hit her back, his clothing falling to the ground after colliding with her, leaving her turning to glare at the now retreating guard who must have thrown them over after the collar released its hold.
Reluctantly letting go, Aerith turns, blocking Balthier's body with hers while she stoops briefly to gather up his clothes. "Come on," she says, trying not to look as irate as she felt as she hands them over. "Get dressed, I'm taking you back to my house," her voice is soft but she doesn't sound like she'll be talked out of that offer. "I don't want you to back to the prison tonight."
Ignoring the splotch of wetness on her dress from his release, Aerith turned, holding her skirt out like a big curtain, trying to give him privacy while he got dressed.
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Something hits against her and he tugs at her protectively, meaning to move her, but she steps away. It takes him a moment to realize she has his clothes. Her orders no longer have any compulsion to them, but he finds himself following them just the same. There's something...easy...in not having to think, in trusting that she has his best interest at heart. And if he thinks--
He roughly pulls on his pants and shirt, stepping into his shoes and carrying the rest. He'll want to wash them thoroughly, but he wants to have every inch of skin he can covered until they're alone. The offer to have him somewhere outside the prison tonight is deeply appreciated, but his voice feels gone, so when he's done, he touches the back of her hand gently, nodding at her, before hesitantly slipping his hand against hers, loose enough she can pull away. He feels -- dazed. Like there's cotton in his ears and everything is a little too bright.
Wherever she wants to lead, he'll follow. He's too raw to even question giving her that power over him.
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Tonight might be a little worse than solitary. While that had been longer, and absolutely unfair and disgusting, at least she only had to worry about herself. Aerith had needed to hold herself together under terrible circumstances before, and while no part of her liked it, and everything she wasn't letting surface now would come out in some way or another later, she knew how to do it. But, Balthier had also been put through this particularly nasty wringer and it's harder to keep the way her heart breaks for him stuffed down.
When she looks back at him, that anger is gone from her expression, replaced by a gentle, somewhat sad smile. Instead of taking his hand Aerith steps closer to Balthier, wrapping her arm around his back instead, staying close enough to be leaned against if he needed help keeping himself from falling apart.
"I don't live far away, we'll be there really soon." She wants to ask if he's alright, wants to apologize for putting him through that, even if she knows tonight she'd been the lesser of two evils, but Aerith doesn't know if he can hear it right now, nor is she sure she can bring herself say it right now. It all feels too fresh.
Instead, she walks, leading him away from that field and towards the big prisoner houses, beating the familiar path back to the new place she's going to try to make a home out of for as long as she's stuck here. The house is rundown, and maybe even a little creepy from the outside, but there are signs of improvement already, someone's been clearing out the overgrowth and there's light coming in from one of the front windows. Spotting it, Aerith puts on a little bit of speed, eager to have her front door between them and the rest of the prison.
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It's not like him to be unaware of where he is or leave himself open to possible danger, nor is it like him to lean on someone else. When Aerith slips her arm around him, though, his mind goes somewhere else, and it's not until she shifts to open the door that he realizes he's lost ... ten minutes? Fifteen?
That hasn't happened since he was--
He forces himself to focus on Aerith, the way her touch feels, the details of where they are. Her house. Right. She had mentioned. They pass inside, and he glances at her, wincing at the tightness on her face. This hurt her too, and he retreated to leave her to deal with it.
"Thank you," he croaks, straightening from her support but letting his hand stay loosely around her back. He doesn't know if it's to reassure her or himself. It's hard to hold onto his thoughts, like he's somewhere else looking in. He presses the fingers of his other hand to either side of his nose, eyes closed tight. "I'm sorry. I'll be back to myself shortly. I -- can I bathe?"
Get the memory of that place off of him, calm his head down. Maybe if he says he'll feel better he will. He doesn't want to be like this, not here, not around her.
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Both hands rest on his shoulder as she shakes her head gently. "You don't have to rush yourself, or apologize. You can stay here until you feel better." She hates this, hates the way she feels and the way she's sure he must feel too.
"We'll both take baths. You can go first." As much as she wants to stay close to him and take care of him, assuming they'd bathe together feels wrong after everything they'd been through. The come now drying on her thigh isn't the most pleasant feeling thing, but she's happy to wait while he takes the time he needs as eager as she is to wash the last remnants of this night away.
"Come on, the bathroom and my room are the only finished parts of this place," she steps away, taking his hand again to lead him to the end of a short hallway, pushing open the door to the bathroom.
Aerith crosses the room to turn the faucet on and let the tub fill, looking back at Balthier with a weary smile. "It's all yours."
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He feels like a child, the way she takes his face and speaks gently, the way she leads him, the way she draws the bath for him. He hates it. Not the support -- the support is...genuinely unbelievable. If he could crawl into the warm safe feeling she gives him and stay, he would. But that feels so selfish. As does enjoying her taking care of him. That isn't fair to her at all. There's nothing left in him, but he doesn't want to be this, dependent and useless.
Even as that guilt churns through him, she hands the bathroom over to him and without thinking he breathes out, "Stay." Gods, a few times having sex where he was encouraged to take and now he can't turn it off. "If you want to." What he wants to do is cover his face in his hands and disappear into the wall, but given that's not an option, he does the next best thing and starts to strip, obscuring his face for a moment so he can remotely get ahold of himself. He should say something else, clarify that he wants to not have the last way he touched her be that, that he doesn't want to be alone, but his exhausted brain can't figure out how to do that without sounding either demanding or pathetic.
There's a moment of discomfort at being naked in front of her again. Fuck this place; he's not letting it take this. He crosses back to her, taking her face gently in his hands and pressing a kiss to her hair, then tipping her chin so he can very gently kiss her lips.
Some of the tension leaves his body, his shoulder settling a hair. He's still himself. She's still here. He can still do right by her.
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"Of course I want to," she offers softly before averting her gaze while he undresses again. It's clear he wants to withdraw for this, and she turns her back to let him, pulling her jacket and her dress off as well, before leaving them in a heap on the floor.
"Let me wash your hair for you," Aerith says as she approaches the tub again, shutting the water off before gathering the meager collection of toiletries she's managed to accumulate since her arrival. Preparing to perch on the edge of the tub and wait for him, Balthier surprises her when he turns back, cradling her face before pressing a kiss first to the tip of her head, and then to her lips.
Her hands reach for him, resting on his sides, her thumb affectionately brushing over his skin. "I'm so happy you're here with me."
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So when she offers to wash his hair he shakes his head. "You don't need to do anything more for me. Take care of yourself first." He doesn't give her time to answer him, crossing to kiss her, feeling more at ease with both of them stripped, with her hands gently stroking his sides. As his break from hers, he keeps his face close, noses touching.
I'm so happy you're here with me. It nearly breaks him, and he resigns himself that she's going to see him cry if he stays. "Me too," he whispers, and it's the truth, which is what he's promised himself to give her from the start. "I don't want to be any more of a burden," and yes, he feels his voice crack, that same pressure building in his face, "I just want to be near you. Hold you." And if she doesn't want that, he wants her to have the opportunity to say as much or excuse herself. He wouldn't be offended, not after how he had to touch her, and not with how much of a mess he is.
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