laylah
in
springkink
Final Fantasy XII (Ashe/Basch/Vossler)
Title: Third Watch
Author: Laylah
Rating: R for m/m/f
Word count: ~1400
Summary: He will not be parted from her side, even if someone else stands watch against danger; the risk is doubly great here, halfway across the Sandsea, far from any crystal and deep in the desert.
"I will stand first watch," Basch offers, as the viera banks their fire and the children lay out bedrolls for themselves.
Vossler looks up sharply, ready to protest, but Ashe says, "Thank you, captain," before he can do so.
So he has won back her trust this quickly. Vossler swallows his own unease as best he can. "Wake me for the second, then," he says instead. He looks up, scanning the bright watch of stars above them. "When the archer's bow touches the horizon."
He watches Basch look up, and study the stars -- the slim crescent of the moon hanging now below the tail of the serpent -- and then nod. "I will," he says. His voice is still rough, still worn; it bothers Vossler, that he cannot remember whether it was always so.
"Majesty?" Vossler says, as Basch climbs onto the boulder in whose lee they have made their camp.
Ashe nods, and they spread their bedrolls on the far side of the fire. He will not be parted from her side, even if someone else stands watch against danger; the risk is doubly great here, halfway across the Sandsea, far from any crystal and deep in the desert. The Urutan-Yensa seem to be cold-blooded, inactive at night, but there are plenty of other threats, in their camp and outside it.
"Vossler," Ashe whispers. "Be not so tense. We have wished for aid, and now we have it." She takes his hand, holds it clasped in hers as she closes her eyes.
"I will try to have faith," Vossler says. This arrangement need not last long, after all. He stretches out, between Ashe and the dark beyond their firelight, and tries to relax enough to rest.
He must sleep, for he wakes to Basch's hand on his shoulder. His hand is already curling around Nightmare's hilt by the time he remembers where he is, by the time he realizes that his other arm is trapped, pillowing Ashe's head as she curls close against him.
"It has been quiet," Basch murmurs. "Would you have me wake one of the others, so you do not disturb her?"
Ashe stirs, makes a tiny whimpering sound in her throat as though she is near waking. "No," Vossler whispers. He will not sleep again, with the way she moves; better to simply remove temptation than to lie awake fruitlessly by her side. "I will take my watch."
He sits up, easing free of the tangle of Ashe's limbs, and she shifts again. "Cold," she says plaintively, clutching at his belt.
"It is my turn on watch," Vossler whispers. He strokes her hair back from her face, too aware of Basch's presence, of how this must seem. "Will you move closer to the fire?" It burns low, red coals that give little light to betray their presence, but it should still provide heat enough.
"I will stay here, your majesty," Basch offers, "if I might offer any comfort."
Vossler has to bite his tongue not to refuse on her behalf; he is blessed that Basch reads the situation as she does, comrades sharing warmth in the stark desert night, and not as Vossler's baser impulses would make it.
"Stay, then," Ashe murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. Vossler doubts she has woken entirely; surely she would be more wary if she had. He rises, carefully, and Basch eases into the space he leaves, and -- Vossler has to turn away, cannot bring himself to watch her press closer.
He climbs up instead to the lookout, atop the boulder, and settles himself there. The sky here is brighter with stars than even the Westersand's, so far from any active settlement that nothing dulls their shine. The air is cold enough that at times Vossler thinks he can see his breath, like a tiny plume of Mist, precious moisture escaping into the dry air. Nothing stirs beyond their camp, though once, far in the distance, there is a high triumphant shriek, as of an urstrix bringing down prey. Nearer by, sometimes their party make some sound, shifting or sighing, and Vossler tries not to pay that too much attention. Too easily his mind circles back to the image of Ashe and Basch entangled, no matter how he trains his thoughts on the events he has set in motion, on the slow march of the moon and stars.
When the moon sets, Vossler climbs down from the boulder. He wakes the girl, Penelo, for the final watch; she is young, but determined, and she will take the responsibility more seriously than her friend.
He returns to Ashe's side, easing down beside her -- and stops. Both she and Basch are holding too still, not relaxed in sleep but taut with breath drawn and held. And when Vossler takes his next breath he can smell the musk of her --
"What have you done?" he hisses, reaching over her, seizing Basch's shirt in one hand. Certainly he would rather place his trust in her than in the pirates.
"Hush," Ashe whispers, turning to face him, to grab him with both hands, to silence him with her mouth against his. Vossler cannot move, cannot resist her, and when Basch takes hold of his wrist he lets his hand be prized free, his fingers nerveless as though he's been struck a blow to disarm him. Basch lays Vossler's hand on the swell of Ashe's hip, her skirt rucked up high enough that he touches bare flesh, and Vossler shudders. He has no right to this -- neither of them has any right to such familiarity -- but he has not the fortitude to resist, when she writhes between them and moans into his mouth.
"Softly," Basch whispers, his hand still resting atop Vossler's. "We are not alone."
Ashe nods. "Forgive me," she breathes, as though she could do anything that would need their forgiveness. She takes Vossler's hand and slides it down further, inward, until his palm rests against her stiff curls and his fingers are trapped in the soft heat between her thighs. Her folds are slick already, and he thinks of Basch touching her like this -- making her tremble like this -- and cannot tell whether desire or fury will overcome him first.
She fastens her mouth to his neck, above his collar, and bites down hard when he begins to stroke her. The noise she makes is muffled by his flesh, and the pain only serves to intensify the ache that already threatens to consume him. She keeps one hand tight around his wrist, but slides the other behind her, and Basch's face slackens with shock and pleasure. Vossler watches the way the muscle flexes in her arm, and pictures her hand wrapped around Basch's length and swallows the growl trapped in his throat.
"Let me," Basch whispers, reaching over Ashe to pull Vossler's clothes unbuckled and unlaced, to take hold of him with a hand whose calluses are scarcely beginning to re-form.
Ashe nods once, rocking between them, slippery against Vossler's fingers and lean, strong, unyielding even where her flesh is soft. "Yes," she breathes. Her breath is hot against Vossler's neck, and yet he shivers. "Touch him. Yes."
The noise Basch makes is too soft for Vossler to be certain, but he would swear it's laughter. "Gladly." And it feels good, warm and nearly rough enough, but it's a distraction, too, when what he wants is to please her, to feel her release, so he ignores it as best he can and focuses on her, on the tiny sounds she makes against his jaw, the way her thighs tremble at each tiny stroke --
The way, when she finds her release, her whole body trembles in its grip, pressed close against him, something he had never thought to know himself and had tried hard to stop wanting, and now this -- having her like this -- she has condemned him, he thinks, and tries to pull away, to get control of himself before he can become any more irrational in his desire for her.
Basch lets him go, but Ashe does not. "Stay," she says, and though her voice is low there is no mistaking the command. "Both of you," she adds, more softly. Pleading. "I would not see you deny yourselves."
His hand is wet with her. He aches with wanting. "You need rest," he tries.
Ashe reaches out, and her hand replaces Basch's, curling around him. "The sky is still dark. We have much of the third watch left."
Basch will not refuse her, Vossler thinks. He leans back into her touch. "I am yours," he whispers.
Author: Laylah
Rating: R for m/m/f
Word count: ~1400
Summary: He will not be parted from her side, even if someone else stands watch against danger; the risk is doubly great here, halfway across the Sandsea, far from any crystal and deep in the desert.
"I will stand first watch," Basch offers, as the viera banks their fire and the children lay out bedrolls for themselves.
Vossler looks up sharply, ready to protest, but Ashe says, "Thank you, captain," before he can do so.
So he has won back her trust this quickly. Vossler swallows his own unease as best he can. "Wake me for the second, then," he says instead. He looks up, scanning the bright watch of stars above them. "When the archer's bow touches the horizon."
He watches Basch look up, and study the stars -- the slim crescent of the moon hanging now below the tail of the serpent -- and then nod. "I will," he says. His voice is still rough, still worn; it bothers Vossler, that he cannot remember whether it was always so.
"Majesty?" Vossler says, as Basch climbs onto the boulder in whose lee they have made their camp.
Ashe nods, and they spread their bedrolls on the far side of the fire. He will not be parted from her side, even if someone else stands watch against danger; the risk is doubly great here, halfway across the Sandsea, far from any crystal and deep in the desert. The Urutan-Yensa seem to be cold-blooded, inactive at night, but there are plenty of other threats, in their camp and outside it.
"Vossler," Ashe whispers. "Be not so tense. We have wished for aid, and now we have it." She takes his hand, holds it clasped in hers as she closes her eyes.
"I will try to have faith," Vossler says. This arrangement need not last long, after all. He stretches out, between Ashe and the dark beyond their firelight, and tries to relax enough to rest.
He must sleep, for he wakes to Basch's hand on his shoulder. His hand is already curling around Nightmare's hilt by the time he remembers where he is, by the time he realizes that his other arm is trapped, pillowing Ashe's head as she curls close against him.
"It has been quiet," Basch murmurs. "Would you have me wake one of the others, so you do not disturb her?"
Ashe stirs, makes a tiny whimpering sound in her throat as though she is near waking. "No," Vossler whispers. He will not sleep again, with the way she moves; better to simply remove temptation than to lie awake fruitlessly by her side. "I will take my watch."
He sits up, easing free of the tangle of Ashe's limbs, and she shifts again. "Cold," she says plaintively, clutching at his belt.
"It is my turn on watch," Vossler whispers. He strokes her hair back from her face, too aware of Basch's presence, of how this must seem. "Will you move closer to the fire?" It burns low, red coals that give little light to betray their presence, but it should still provide heat enough.
"I will stay here, your majesty," Basch offers, "if I might offer any comfort."
Vossler has to bite his tongue not to refuse on her behalf; he is blessed that Basch reads the situation as she does, comrades sharing warmth in the stark desert night, and not as Vossler's baser impulses would make it.
"Stay, then," Ashe murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. Vossler doubts she has woken entirely; surely she would be more wary if she had. He rises, carefully, and Basch eases into the space he leaves, and -- Vossler has to turn away, cannot bring himself to watch her press closer.
He climbs up instead to the lookout, atop the boulder, and settles himself there. The sky here is brighter with stars than even the Westersand's, so far from any active settlement that nothing dulls their shine. The air is cold enough that at times Vossler thinks he can see his breath, like a tiny plume of Mist, precious moisture escaping into the dry air. Nothing stirs beyond their camp, though once, far in the distance, there is a high triumphant shriek, as of an urstrix bringing down prey. Nearer by, sometimes their party make some sound, shifting or sighing, and Vossler tries not to pay that too much attention. Too easily his mind circles back to the image of Ashe and Basch entangled, no matter how he trains his thoughts on the events he has set in motion, on the slow march of the moon and stars.
When the moon sets, Vossler climbs down from the boulder. He wakes the girl, Penelo, for the final watch; she is young, but determined, and she will take the responsibility more seriously than her friend.
He returns to Ashe's side, easing down beside her -- and stops. Both she and Basch are holding too still, not relaxed in sleep but taut with breath drawn and held. And when Vossler takes his next breath he can smell the musk of her --
"What have you done?" he hisses, reaching over her, seizing Basch's shirt in one hand. Certainly he would rather place his trust in her than in the pirates.
"Hush," Ashe whispers, turning to face him, to grab him with both hands, to silence him with her mouth against his. Vossler cannot move, cannot resist her, and when Basch takes hold of his wrist he lets his hand be prized free, his fingers nerveless as though he's been struck a blow to disarm him. Basch lays Vossler's hand on the swell of Ashe's hip, her skirt rucked up high enough that he touches bare flesh, and Vossler shudders. He has no right to this -- neither of them has any right to such familiarity -- but he has not the fortitude to resist, when she writhes between them and moans into his mouth.
"Softly," Basch whispers, his hand still resting atop Vossler's. "We are not alone."
Ashe nods. "Forgive me," she breathes, as though she could do anything that would need their forgiveness. She takes Vossler's hand and slides it down further, inward, until his palm rests against her stiff curls and his fingers are trapped in the soft heat between her thighs. Her folds are slick already, and he thinks of Basch touching her like this -- making her tremble like this -- and cannot tell whether desire or fury will overcome him first.
She fastens her mouth to his neck, above his collar, and bites down hard when he begins to stroke her. The noise she makes is muffled by his flesh, and the pain only serves to intensify the ache that already threatens to consume him. She keeps one hand tight around his wrist, but slides the other behind her, and Basch's face slackens with shock and pleasure. Vossler watches the way the muscle flexes in her arm, and pictures her hand wrapped around Basch's length and swallows the growl trapped in his throat.
"Let me," Basch whispers, reaching over Ashe to pull Vossler's clothes unbuckled and unlaced, to take hold of him with a hand whose calluses are scarcely beginning to re-form.
Ashe nods once, rocking between them, slippery against Vossler's fingers and lean, strong, unyielding even where her flesh is soft. "Yes," she breathes. Her breath is hot against Vossler's neck, and yet he shivers. "Touch him. Yes."
The noise Basch makes is too soft for Vossler to be certain, but he would swear it's laughter. "Gladly." And it feels good, warm and nearly rough enough, but it's a distraction, too, when what he wants is to please her, to feel her release, so he ignores it as best he can and focuses on her, on the tiny sounds she makes against his jaw, the way her thighs tremble at each tiny stroke --
The way, when she finds her release, her whole body trembles in its grip, pressed close against him, something he had never thought to know himself and had tried hard to stop wanting, and now this -- having her like this -- she has condemned him, he thinks, and tries to pull away, to get control of himself before he can become any more irrational in his desire for her.
Basch lets him go, but Ashe does not. "Stay," she says, and though her voice is low there is no mistaking the command. "Both of you," she adds, more softly. Pleading. "I would not see you deny yourselves."
His hand is wet with her. He aches with wanting. "You need rest," he tries.
Ashe reaches out, and her hand replaces Basch's, curling around him. "The sky is still dark. We have much of the third watch left."
Basch will not refuse her, Vossler thinks. He leans back into her touch. "I am yours," he whispers.