[fic] Consummation
And finally! After so much trouble, it came out. Still un-beta-ed. It could have been better, and i like the first part more. For galatea23, because we started from the same "Vossler proposing in order to bring heirs to Dalmasca" plotbunny, and that's what I have come with. I still have to understand why my English fics are coming out longer than my works in Italian. Sigh. Tomorrow I'll give a look at grammar, again. Until then...
Title: Consummation
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vossler/Ashe
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2504
Notes: for galatea23, in response to her delicious piece of dirty Vossler/Ashe p0rn ♥ XDD. Rough lemon.
Consummation
I need a man
His heart is stone
The deepest black
His heart is stone
His mother's bad
His heart is sick
The deepest black
(PJ Harvey - Maniac)
Festive cries resound from the nearer knot of huts under the night-blue Dalmascan sky - Lady Ashe recognises a wedding, because she knows the music, knows the sounds; lutes and crotaluma are all the same after all, be they shaped in wood or in gold.
Sweet, high-pitched notes dance through the chilly air to their distant tent, crowned with dark, thick smoke bringing the sharp smell of roasted meat and almonds, and Ashe hopes her moan can be high enough to cover the noise, to cover the smell, to cover the ache.
Vossler’s chest is half-visible from the light cotton shirt on his shoulders. The plates of his armour have left red stripes over the hard skin, and it’s there that Ashe dares to lick, tracing every line with the tip of her tongue through the fabric. Her grip on his shoulders is imperative, her delicate hands cutting through his flesh with her long nails, and his tongue gasps to reach hers and rub the wet inside of her mouth, sucking forcibly, breathlessly, and she almost fails to swallow, his taste sliding down her throat, almost suffocating, almost bitter, almost Rasler, but hers nevertheless.
She arches against him as his hot fingers trace raw, hungry caresses down her thigh, in search for the folds of her rigid skirt, slightly, provokingly lifted up now that she lies on the wool carpet of the tent.
“Oh, yes.”
*
“I don’t think this is the best place we could camp in.”
Vossler sighs - she’s right indeed, but desert nights are unbelievably cold - no wonder a princess, however used to travel, practice and live with warriors and fallen knights, knows nothing about its dangers.
“The weather will be icy soon. It’s nightfall already, my lady, and I daresay further delays will bring us nothing but a certain death.”
“I--”
“If it’s death you are not afraid of, I retain you should at least be frightened by the desert” he adds dryly, without mercy, nor disdain.
Ashe bites her bottom lip, holds it between her teeth for an instant, then releases it.
“So be it, then.”
A thin trace of saliva glisters, now, on the red surface of her mouth, and Vossler struggles to look away.
*
Had he known about the celebration, he would have said nothing, and obeyed her will to camp further inside the desert instead. Even so, they’re covered with sweat and dust, and their range of arms feels heavy on their worn out shoulders.
Singing girls with flowers among their golden curls pass unnoticed before his sight, their cheap, bright-coloured linen gowns swaying in the bitter wind. He rather throws a quick glance towards his liege, her delicate features caked with dirt, and he can see her knees are shaking with weariness, after an entire day of walking under the blazing sun, not allowing a single complain to slip past her drained lips.
Only her eyes seem to lit her face up, their clear, blue shade flickering with determination under the moonlight. She will collapse anytime soon, and he firmly grabs her elbow to avoid that, which leads the princess to exhale a sigh of grateful relief as she shifts all of her weight on his shoulder.
The villagers have just lit a bonfire, and Vossler curses under his breath as sparkles fly through the air, accompanied by loud cries of joyful salutation - people gather in circle and start dancing barefoot on the cold grains of desert sand.
Nobles know nothing about their people’s celebrations.
Vossler decides to ask for protection, knocking at the village chief’s door.
He won’t deny them a place to spend the night, not in the genuine excitement of the feast.
And after an unbearably long time, Vossler feels he can thank the gods for once at least.
“There’s a tent at our disposal on the borderline.”
It’s an order.
He nods.
*
When she’s finally clean, Vossler is waiting for her in the corner, with two bowls in his hands to eat with her, and watches her curl in silence next to him, seeking a bit of his warmth. She doesn’t really care about the closeness - she has no time to justify her behaviour before a royal court of ghosts, and lets her eyes linger on Vossler, on his shirt making him similar to a civilian, his broad shoulders sharp in the candlelight. She thinks this is the most familiar shape she can associate Dalmasca with - not his late father’s form, nor desert sands, or the Galtean stateliness of her royal palace, or Rabanastre’s bazaars and white marble-paved streets, but the pattern of scars she feels under the cotton when she gets near. They seem her own inner wounds stabbed across his chest, and Ashe suppresses the instinct to let her finger descend across the sensitive remains of an ancient slash.
It seems to cut his sternum in two, and she imagines him pinned to the ground, fighting an enormous fiend with blood splashed on his iron breastplate, his flesh open, red and vulnerable, his muscles trembling in the spasm of defence, his lips exhaling his characteristic grunt as he shifts position and takes his advantage on the beast, blood cooling from the outlines of the wound, but the muscles of his back are wriggling, and a couple of hits are enough to finish it off, and her soldier falls exhausted on desert dust, the dark bloodstain spreading underneath, his skin sweat-slick, his natural smell tainted with blood and fatigue.
And then, she shivers, and hopes Vossler doesn’t notice.
Her teeth are chattering.
He’s shivering too, because the wind coming from the slits carries the smell of her flower-scented hair. It’s impossible not to breathe it in, and it’s easier now to see the curve of her hips under his eyelids, her knees parting, his lips brushing hers.
The soup is hot down his throat, and her lips are still quivering.
“Here” he mutters, wrapping a raw wool cover around her shoulders “Freezing to death is not the best choice to serve your country.”
“I’m afraid you must abide by the same conditions, since we are two, and the cover is only one.”
“I am not--”
“Do come” she utters, half a command, half a plea, as she offers part of the rough cloth for him to slide beneath it “A dead captain is as useless as a dead princess to our cause.”
There’s little to argue with that logic, and this kind of utilitarianism has her sweet smell in it, when he actually reaches her. His breath tickles her earlobe, and he can see so well the small stretch of skin joining her jaw, and watches his mouth kiss the delicious, apparent tension of it, then blinks. The image fades, her scent remains.
She gasps. He ignores.
“Speaking of which,” he starts, clearing his throat and trying to bestow some solemnity to his speech, since she inebriates him so much that desire seems a liquid pang spreading into his guts, and she’s so near that his breath caresses her like his hands would do on her shoulders “I retain our strike against the Imperials needs to be as much concrete as possible.”
He knows not which part of his mind is forming the right words.
“It’s difficult to refer to the matter as concrete, when we hold the equivalent of half a Giza village in men” she shrugs, and his mouth vibrates against her movement for a single moment, in a casual gesture, in a strange, bewildered parody of intimacy Vossler can bear no more.
“That should persuade us to proceed cautiously, which means we must play on your position, and feign a strength we can’t grasp yet.”
“Amusing,” she retorts, her voice cold, her flesh warm “I’ve always thought all this spread from the urge to actually restore a position Vayne now holds in my place.”
“Diplomacy can extend its tendrils everywhere, if we want it to.”
And he wants to. Oh, he wants.
“I can’t prove my own identity, as powerless as I am, let alone the lineage of my blood!”
It’s a hiss, and sounds quite breathless to his pounding ears.
Something inside him just surrenders, his large hand cupping her elbow.
“We still can… give steady foundations to your bloodline”
His breath catches in his throat when her eyes look straight into his.
Vossler’s finger is rough on the soft bare skin of her arm, but he has no permission from her yet, so it’s nothing more than an almost frightened touch hovering over the thin, blue embroidery of the veins on the inside of her wrist.
Ashe says nothing.
Vossler never dares to touch her, which explains why every gesture is loaded with such a tangible tension that her skin creeps - the feeling bites her nape and frantically falls like electricity down her spine.
His breath is hot and humid on her neck - a sensuous, physical pressure on her earlobe.
“Majesty.”
Vossler can smell the salt of her tension, there, in the joint between neck and shoulder, in the shadow of her hair - his breath vibrates there, and Ashe’s lips open up wordlessly, deaf to the happy chat of the village outside - to listen means to remember.
“Allow me.”
His tongue is thick and red and hungry, when eluding her teeth, so messy in its urgency that he licks her bottom lip and bites her chin - Ashe’s nose collides with his over and over again, breathing her own name in his muffled gasps.
“V-Vossler--” she moans, his hands tangled in her hair and his arms encircling her waist, keeping her so close that they almost choke into the kiss, sinking deep into each other’s mouth. She tugs at his shirt and sees the traces of the armour on his shoulders, but Vossler’s mouth closes on her collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to distract her fingers from his clothes and her thoughts from the outside, for he can hear wedding music slowly swelling into the night.
He knows she’s listening too - her eyes are livid blue, her lips domineering, her fists in the cotton, her pelvis against his, but she’s trembling like a little girl. Pushing against her, Vossler can almost feel her heart throbbing between her thighs, and grits his teeth because the hot bulge of his own desire is crushing there. He slips his knee between hers.
“A-ah!” she snaps, once she’s lying on the carpet, under the weight of Vossler’s hips - his hands are everywhere, his growls in her mouth, his caresses under the pink leather of her skirt.
Ashe licks the soreness away from the armour-marks he bears, her tongue lingering on the cotton, her nails painfully planted in his back.
She’s the one to jolt first, though, when he rolls over her in an exasperated move, and his large, ruined hand slides underneath the thin, wet cloth between her legs.
She arches back to meet his lips - the kiss is suffocating, and she moans his name on the tip of his tongue when his finger slips inside her.
Blushing, Ashe thrusts against its pressure, still not believing this is another thing a man could do while having sex with a woman - this is not what she barely got to learn in her royal bed.
Vossler seems to know, and bends over to kiss her, as if to cast a shadow on the sight.
As his tongue entwines with hers again, her sex wraps up around his finger, and his thrusts become demanding - Ashe can’t help but reckon this way pleasure is all hers, as though as Vossler is asking permission once more.
“M-my lady--” he mutters “Marry me.”
He forces himself deeper inside, the verge of her orgasm on his fingertips.
“Oh, yes” she lets out shakily, and releases herself into his hand - her heart throbs so violently in her ears that she’s glad she can’t hear nothing more of the ceremony.
A small spasm runs across her muscles as Vossler retreats his hand and runs it over her crumpled clothes. Her exposed skin flattens against his touch, now that she’s shimmering with sweat and come, sensitive to his caresses, more than she was before.
It’s way more than enough for Vossler to ache for her, savouring her again as he throws her clothes away and undoes belt and trousers.
Her sex is slick against the tip of his erection - he curls on her, his lips parting slightly for a moment, and Ashe forcibly grabs his hair when he holds her waist and her back curves under his grip.
“Lady Ashe, this is--”
This is.
Ashe bites his words, sucks his upper lip and tilts her head so that his tongue can easily swirl into her mouth.
The move makes him shift between her thighs, the wetness of the thin skin there eliciting the friction - she just reaches out to him even more, when his lips close around one of her nipples. His tongue is raw against the stiff softness of it, and she pushes against him as he kisses every inch of her naked skin, pressing exhaustedly on her.
She tugs at his shirt to strip him off and toss it away, her fingers finally digging into the bare strength of his muscles - she spreads her legs to wrap them around his waist, and the closeness is so intimate that it’s almost unbearable, a whirlwind of heat and memories in her head.
The villagers are wearing silver bracelets on their wrists, she can hear their bells, their sound of good wish, and remember it’s for her no longer.
Vossler slips inside of her, gasping with long-restrained need, and thrusts excruciatingly slow, her walls adhering against him - she sobs, struggles and quivers when he rocks her more, with massive strength. He knows she can follow as he shoves his sex deeper inside, her voice louder than the music and the feast, moaning breathlessly, hopelessly in his ear, swallowing the tension of his erection as it seems to hit the very bottom of her body - soft and warm and tight and slippery, entangling its hardness.
Her cry gets lost in his throat, and he pins her down to the ground with her wrists in her hands, her warmth creeping up to his orgasm - he realises she’s giving him the rhythm.
Surrender comes slow, with his mouth over hers - he drowns, and she’s no rock he can cling himself to.
He caracoles over her, and she doesn’t seem to notice - but Vossler’s ear is on her chest and knows her heart is buzzing like some restless insect.
The overexcited happiness of the music seems to falter like a broken heartbeat, and he meets her aware blue gaze, swollen with grief, veiled with lingering pleasure and ancestral weariness - something having nothing in common with sex, nor him, and Vossler remembers this is not his place.
They listen to the bride pacing outside her paternal house.
The silence between them is almost eerie now.
To lisachanoando: I love you, too ♥ thank you for the help XD.
Title: Consummation
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Vossler/Ashe
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2504
Notes: for galatea23, in response to her delicious piece of dirty Vossler/Ashe p0rn ♥ XDD. Rough lemon.
Consummation
I need a man
His heart is stone
The deepest black
His heart is stone
His mother's bad
His heart is sick
The deepest black
(PJ Harvey - Maniac)
Festive cries resound from the nearer knot of huts under the night-blue Dalmascan sky - Lady Ashe recognises a wedding, because she knows the music, knows the sounds; lutes and crotaluma are all the same after all, be they shaped in wood or in gold.
Sweet, high-pitched notes dance through the chilly air to their distant tent, crowned with dark, thick smoke bringing the sharp smell of roasted meat and almonds, and Ashe hopes her moan can be high enough to cover the noise, to cover the smell, to cover the ache.
Vossler’s chest is half-visible from the light cotton shirt on his shoulders. The plates of his armour have left red stripes over the hard skin, and it’s there that Ashe dares to lick, tracing every line with the tip of her tongue through the fabric. Her grip on his shoulders is imperative, her delicate hands cutting through his flesh with her long nails, and his tongue gasps to reach hers and rub the wet inside of her mouth, sucking forcibly, breathlessly, and she almost fails to swallow, his taste sliding down her throat, almost suffocating, almost bitter, almost Rasler, but hers nevertheless.
She arches against him as his hot fingers trace raw, hungry caresses down her thigh, in search for the folds of her rigid skirt, slightly, provokingly lifted up now that she lies on the wool carpet of the tent.
“Oh, yes.”
*
“I don’t think this is the best place we could camp in.”
Vossler sighs - she’s right indeed, but desert nights are unbelievably cold - no wonder a princess, however used to travel, practice and live with warriors and fallen knights, knows nothing about its dangers.
“The weather will be icy soon. It’s nightfall already, my lady, and I daresay further delays will bring us nothing but a certain death.”
“I--”
“If it’s death you are not afraid of, I retain you should at least be frightened by the desert” he adds dryly, without mercy, nor disdain.
Ashe bites her bottom lip, holds it between her teeth for an instant, then releases it.
“So be it, then.”
A thin trace of saliva glisters, now, on the red surface of her mouth, and Vossler struggles to look away.
*
Had he known about the celebration, he would have said nothing, and obeyed her will to camp further inside the desert instead. Even so, they’re covered with sweat and dust, and their range of arms feels heavy on their worn out shoulders.
Singing girls with flowers among their golden curls pass unnoticed before his sight, their cheap, bright-coloured linen gowns swaying in the bitter wind. He rather throws a quick glance towards his liege, her delicate features caked with dirt, and he can see her knees are shaking with weariness, after an entire day of walking under the blazing sun, not allowing a single complain to slip past her drained lips.
Only her eyes seem to lit her face up, their clear, blue shade flickering with determination under the moonlight. She will collapse anytime soon, and he firmly grabs her elbow to avoid that, which leads the princess to exhale a sigh of grateful relief as she shifts all of her weight on his shoulder.
The villagers have just lit a bonfire, and Vossler curses under his breath as sparkles fly through the air, accompanied by loud cries of joyful salutation - people gather in circle and start dancing barefoot on the cold grains of desert sand.
Nobles know nothing about their people’s celebrations.
Vossler decides to ask for protection, knocking at the village chief’s door.
He won’t deny them a place to spend the night, not in the genuine excitement of the feast.
And after an unbearably long time, Vossler feels he can thank the gods for once at least.
“There’s a tent at our disposal on the borderline.”
It’s an order.
He nods.
*
When she’s finally clean, Vossler is waiting for her in the corner, with two bowls in his hands to eat with her, and watches her curl in silence next to him, seeking a bit of his warmth. She doesn’t really care about the closeness - she has no time to justify her behaviour before a royal court of ghosts, and lets her eyes linger on Vossler, on his shirt making him similar to a civilian, his broad shoulders sharp in the candlelight. She thinks this is the most familiar shape she can associate Dalmasca with - not his late father’s form, nor desert sands, or the Galtean stateliness of her royal palace, or Rabanastre’s bazaars and white marble-paved streets, but the pattern of scars she feels under the cotton when she gets near. They seem her own inner wounds stabbed across his chest, and Ashe suppresses the instinct to let her finger descend across the sensitive remains of an ancient slash.
It seems to cut his sternum in two, and she imagines him pinned to the ground, fighting an enormous fiend with blood splashed on his iron breastplate, his flesh open, red and vulnerable, his muscles trembling in the spasm of defence, his lips exhaling his characteristic grunt as he shifts position and takes his advantage on the beast, blood cooling from the outlines of the wound, but the muscles of his back are wriggling, and a couple of hits are enough to finish it off, and her soldier falls exhausted on desert dust, the dark bloodstain spreading underneath, his skin sweat-slick, his natural smell tainted with blood and fatigue.
And then, she shivers, and hopes Vossler doesn’t notice.
Her teeth are chattering.
He’s shivering too, because the wind coming from the slits carries the smell of her flower-scented hair. It’s impossible not to breathe it in, and it’s easier now to see the curve of her hips under his eyelids, her knees parting, his lips brushing hers.
The soup is hot down his throat, and her lips are still quivering.
“Here” he mutters, wrapping a raw wool cover around her shoulders “Freezing to death is not the best choice to serve your country.”
“I’m afraid you must abide by the same conditions, since we are two, and the cover is only one.”
“I am not--”
“Do come” she utters, half a command, half a plea, as she offers part of the rough cloth for him to slide beneath it “A dead captain is as useless as a dead princess to our cause.”
There’s little to argue with that logic, and this kind of utilitarianism has her sweet smell in it, when he actually reaches her. His breath tickles her earlobe, and he can see so well the small stretch of skin joining her jaw, and watches his mouth kiss the delicious, apparent tension of it, then blinks. The image fades, her scent remains.
She gasps. He ignores.
“Speaking of which,” he starts, clearing his throat and trying to bestow some solemnity to his speech, since she inebriates him so much that desire seems a liquid pang spreading into his guts, and she’s so near that his breath caresses her like his hands would do on her shoulders “I retain our strike against the Imperials needs to be as much concrete as possible.”
He knows not which part of his mind is forming the right words.
“It’s difficult to refer to the matter as concrete, when we hold the equivalent of half a Giza village in men” she shrugs, and his mouth vibrates against her movement for a single moment, in a casual gesture, in a strange, bewildered parody of intimacy Vossler can bear no more.
“That should persuade us to proceed cautiously, which means we must play on your position, and feign a strength we can’t grasp yet.”
“Amusing,” she retorts, her voice cold, her flesh warm “I’ve always thought all this spread from the urge to actually restore a position Vayne now holds in my place.”
“Diplomacy can extend its tendrils everywhere, if we want it to.”
And he wants to. Oh, he wants.
“I can’t prove my own identity, as powerless as I am, let alone the lineage of my blood!”
It’s a hiss, and sounds quite breathless to his pounding ears.
Something inside him just surrenders, his large hand cupping her elbow.
“We still can… give steady foundations to your bloodline”
His breath catches in his throat when her eyes look straight into his.
Vossler’s finger is rough on the soft bare skin of her arm, but he has no permission from her yet, so it’s nothing more than an almost frightened touch hovering over the thin, blue embroidery of the veins on the inside of her wrist.
Ashe says nothing.
Vossler never dares to touch her, which explains why every gesture is loaded with such a tangible tension that her skin creeps - the feeling bites her nape and frantically falls like electricity down her spine.
His breath is hot and humid on her neck - a sensuous, physical pressure on her earlobe.
“Majesty.”
Vossler can smell the salt of her tension, there, in the joint between neck and shoulder, in the shadow of her hair - his breath vibrates there, and Ashe’s lips open up wordlessly, deaf to the happy chat of the village outside - to listen means to remember.
“Allow me.”
His tongue is thick and red and hungry, when eluding her teeth, so messy in its urgency that he licks her bottom lip and bites her chin - Ashe’s nose collides with his over and over again, breathing her own name in his muffled gasps.
“V-Vossler--” she moans, his hands tangled in her hair and his arms encircling her waist, keeping her so close that they almost choke into the kiss, sinking deep into each other’s mouth. She tugs at his shirt and sees the traces of the armour on his shoulders, but Vossler’s mouth closes on her collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, to distract her fingers from his clothes and her thoughts from the outside, for he can hear wedding music slowly swelling into the night.
He knows she’s listening too - her eyes are livid blue, her lips domineering, her fists in the cotton, her pelvis against his, but she’s trembling like a little girl. Pushing against her, Vossler can almost feel her heart throbbing between her thighs, and grits his teeth because the hot bulge of his own desire is crushing there. He slips his knee between hers.
“A-ah!” she snaps, once she’s lying on the carpet, under the weight of Vossler’s hips - his hands are everywhere, his growls in her mouth, his caresses under the pink leather of her skirt.
Ashe licks the soreness away from the armour-marks he bears, her tongue lingering on the cotton, her nails painfully planted in his back.
She’s the one to jolt first, though, when he rolls over her in an exasperated move, and his large, ruined hand slides underneath the thin, wet cloth between her legs.
She arches back to meet his lips - the kiss is suffocating, and she moans his name on the tip of his tongue when his finger slips inside her.
Blushing, Ashe thrusts against its pressure, still not believing this is another thing a man could do while having sex with a woman - this is not what she barely got to learn in her royal bed.
Vossler seems to know, and bends over to kiss her, as if to cast a shadow on the sight.
As his tongue entwines with hers again, her sex wraps up around his finger, and his thrusts become demanding - Ashe can’t help but reckon this way pleasure is all hers, as though as Vossler is asking permission once more.
“M-my lady--” he mutters “Marry me.”
He forces himself deeper inside, the verge of her orgasm on his fingertips.
“Oh, yes” she lets out shakily, and releases herself into his hand - her heart throbs so violently in her ears that she’s glad she can’t hear nothing more of the ceremony.
A small spasm runs across her muscles as Vossler retreats his hand and runs it over her crumpled clothes. Her exposed skin flattens against his touch, now that she’s shimmering with sweat and come, sensitive to his caresses, more than she was before.
It’s way more than enough for Vossler to ache for her, savouring her again as he throws her clothes away and undoes belt and trousers.
Her sex is slick against the tip of his erection - he curls on her, his lips parting slightly for a moment, and Ashe forcibly grabs his hair when he holds her waist and her back curves under his grip.
“Lady Ashe, this is--”
This is.
Ashe bites his words, sucks his upper lip and tilts her head so that his tongue can easily swirl into her mouth.
The move makes him shift between her thighs, the wetness of the thin skin there eliciting the friction - she just reaches out to him even more, when his lips close around one of her nipples. His tongue is raw against the stiff softness of it, and she pushes against him as he kisses every inch of her naked skin, pressing exhaustedly on her.
She tugs at his shirt to strip him off and toss it away, her fingers finally digging into the bare strength of his muscles - she spreads her legs to wrap them around his waist, and the closeness is so intimate that it’s almost unbearable, a whirlwind of heat and memories in her head.
The villagers are wearing silver bracelets on their wrists, she can hear their bells, their sound of good wish, and remember it’s for her no longer.
Vossler slips inside of her, gasping with long-restrained need, and thrusts excruciatingly slow, her walls adhering against him - she sobs, struggles and quivers when he rocks her more, with massive strength. He knows she can follow as he shoves his sex deeper inside, her voice louder than the music and the feast, moaning breathlessly, hopelessly in his ear, swallowing the tension of his erection as it seems to hit the very bottom of her body - soft and warm and tight and slippery, entangling its hardness.
Her cry gets lost in his throat, and he pins her down to the ground with her wrists in her hands, her warmth creeping up to his orgasm - he realises she’s giving him the rhythm.
Surrender comes slow, with his mouth over hers - he drowns, and she’s no rock he can cling himself to.
He caracoles over her, and she doesn’t seem to notice - but Vossler’s ear is on her chest and knows her heart is buzzing like some restless insect.
The overexcited happiness of the music seems to falter like a broken heartbeat, and he meets her aware blue gaze, swollen with grief, veiled with lingering pleasure and ancestral weariness - something having nothing in common with sex, nor him, and Vossler remembers this is not his place.
They listen to the bride pacing outside her paternal house.
The silence between them is almost eerie now.
To lisachanoando: I love you, too ♥ thank you for the help XD.