Ficlet: Advantage (Ashe/Basch, NC-17)
Home sick today with that sick-enough-to-not-work-not-sick-enough-to-be-miserable sort of sickness. So I did nothing but lounge around in my robe and daydream about Basch in chocolate sauce. Which is to say: I had a good day.
...which also resulted in porn. Basch, but no chocolate, and no plot. Just smut. Because I felt like it. ♥ May be a bit rough, due to aforesaid written-spur-of-the-moment-while-sick-for-purely-shallow-reasons.
Advantage
Once they are here, he is no longer hesitant.
FFXII, Ashe/Basch. 650 words.
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for smut.
Once they are here, stretched out on the inn's bed, his hands spread wide across her thighs and his tongue parting her folds, he is no longer hesitant. She twines her fingers through his hair and holds him there anyway, for the feel of the strands between her fingers, for the way it will make it easier for him to live with this tomorrow. And for all his trepidation before, he is skillful. Her breath catches in the back of her throat when his tongue strokes over her clit, and he lingers there, slow thoughtful lapping like a big feline, as the muscles in her legs draw up tight to bend her knees around him.
She has never been good at lying still. She rocks her hips against his mouth, props herself up on her elbow to watch him -- far more interesting than the unadorned boards of the room's ceiling. His hair bunches between her fingers. His eyes are closed, intent, his eyelashes -- the same fair color as his hair -- surprisingly delicate; none of the rest of him is delicate. Then his tongue rasps over her again, and she loses track of her thoughts and her head rolls back on her neck as she cries, "Oh, gods, Basch," and then, because she wants it and she knows he needs it, "more, just there -- don't stop."
"I -- we cannot," he had said, a little desperately, when she first suggested it. He sounded like a trapped animal, and looked a little like one, too -- his eyes startled in a way she had not expected, and yet that was not unappealing. "Princess -- "
"Because you do not want it," she asked, "or because you feel it inappropriate?"
He looked away, the lamplight slanting over the planes of his face, his cheekbone, his jaw. "Of course I want it," he said, low, "but I could not take advantage -- "
She felt a flare of annoyance. "You could hardly be said to be taking advantage when it is I who am suggesting this," she said. She touched his cheek. "Trust me that I know what I want."
She pulls him down against her by the hair and arches her hips, because she knows it makes it easier for him if she is the one in control, if there is no hint that it might be him, taking advantage of the princess with a lost kingdom and broken throne. And it is none of that: but she cannot stop being what she is, any more than he can stop being what he is. So they make do.
Her thumb brushes against his scar, and he makes a stifled noise against her flesh and closes his mouth around her and sucks, which drives all thought from her mind -- all thought but heat and wet and the sword-calluses of his hands on the tops of her thighs, which are shaking, which shake slick and his mouth moves and she comes apart, finally, her muscles uncoiling. She falls back shakily, as he rises up on his knees -- her hand still in his hair, sliding to the nape of his neck and pulling him down for a kiss, that she can taste herself on his mouth.
Her hand closes around him, and the look he gives her is surprised and conflicted, and she wonders whether he expected -- but she does not want to think of that now, or anything. "Do not argue," she says, in tones that brook no contradiction, and though he is many times larger than her she uses her shoulder to nudge him over onto his back. He goes without protest, watching her, eager and expectant and concerned. He does not argue, and she is gratified to see the flex of his thighs as he stretches his legs out and lets her keep control as she bends her head over him.
...which also resulted in porn. Basch, but no chocolate, and no plot. Just smut. Because I felt like it. ♥ May be a bit rough, due to aforesaid written-spur-of-the-moment-while-sick-for-purely-shallow-reasons.
Advantage
Once they are here, he is no longer hesitant.
FFXII, Ashe/Basch. 650 words.
NC-17/MA/Not Worksafe for smut.
Once they are here, stretched out on the inn's bed, his hands spread wide across her thighs and his tongue parting her folds, he is no longer hesitant. She twines her fingers through his hair and holds him there anyway, for the feel of the strands between her fingers, for the way it will make it easier for him to live with this tomorrow. And for all his trepidation before, he is skillful. Her breath catches in the back of her throat when his tongue strokes over her clit, and he lingers there, slow thoughtful lapping like a big feline, as the muscles in her legs draw up tight to bend her knees around him.
She has never been good at lying still. She rocks her hips against his mouth, props herself up on her elbow to watch him -- far more interesting than the unadorned boards of the room's ceiling. His hair bunches between her fingers. His eyes are closed, intent, his eyelashes -- the same fair color as his hair -- surprisingly delicate; none of the rest of him is delicate. Then his tongue rasps over her again, and she loses track of her thoughts and her head rolls back on her neck as she cries, "Oh, gods, Basch," and then, because she wants it and she knows he needs it, "more, just there -- don't stop."
"I -- we cannot," he had said, a little desperately, when she first suggested it. He sounded like a trapped animal, and looked a little like one, too -- his eyes startled in a way she had not expected, and yet that was not unappealing. "Princess -- "
"Because you do not want it," she asked, "or because you feel it inappropriate?"
He looked away, the lamplight slanting over the planes of his face, his cheekbone, his jaw. "Of course I want it," he said, low, "but I could not take advantage -- "
She felt a flare of annoyance. "You could hardly be said to be taking advantage when it is I who am suggesting this," she said. She touched his cheek. "Trust me that I know what I want."
She pulls him down against her by the hair and arches her hips, because she knows it makes it easier for him if she is the one in control, if there is no hint that it might be him, taking advantage of the princess with a lost kingdom and broken throne. And it is none of that: but she cannot stop being what she is, any more than he can stop being what he is. So they make do.
Her thumb brushes against his scar, and he makes a stifled noise against her flesh and closes his mouth around her and sucks, which drives all thought from her mind -- all thought but heat and wet and the sword-calluses of his hands on the tops of her thighs, which are shaking, which shake slick and his mouth moves and she comes apart, finally, her muscles uncoiling. She falls back shakily, as he rises up on his knees -- her hand still in his hair, sliding to the nape of his neck and pulling him down for a kiss, that she can taste herself on his mouth.
Her hand closes around him, and the look he gives her is surprised and conflicted, and she wonders whether he expected -- but she does not want to think of that now, or anything. "Do not argue," she says, in tones that brook no contradiction, and though he is many times larger than her she uses her shoulder to nudge him over onto his back. He goes without protest, watching her, eager and expectant and concerned. He does not argue, and she is gratified to see the flex of his thighs as he stretches his legs out and lets her keep control as she bends her head over him.