laylah
in
springkink
Final Fantasy XII (Balthier/Basch)
Title: Contrary to Expectations
Author: Laylah
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2400
Summary: This is, Balthier thinks, going more easily than he might have expected -- not that he's complaining.
Basch, though many things, is not a morning person. At all. Balthier wonders, at times, how he managed to last so many years in the army -- which always seems to require rising by dawn, as though there would be some strategic disadvantage in being rested -- without changing his habits. Unless, perhaps, this is an aftereffect of those years in Nalbina, with nary a sunrise in sight.
Whatever the case, when they have the luxury of spending the night at an inn, instead of under the stars, Basch is typically the last to rise. The rest of them have taken it in turns to rouse him, save for Penelo, who usually has her hands full doing likewise for Vaan. Balthier has yet to inquire, but he would be surprised indeed if neither Fran nor Ashe has felt the same impulse he has, to slide between the captain's sheets and wake him with something rather more friendly than a hand on his shoulder. Sleep smooths away the worry that draws his face taut in wakefulness, and he sleeps bare-chested, which is a considerably more appealing sight now than it was those months ago in Barheim.
When Balthier has dressed and come downstairs to breakfast this morning, Fran and Ashe are there, but Basch is not. "My turn, is it?" he asks.
"Indeed," Fran says, and sips her tea, watching him. She's likely already guessed his intention; it seems that they can anticipate each other almost flawlessly by now.
"Are we leaving early this morning?" Balthier asks. He addresses the question more or less to the princess, since she seems the one more likely to be offended if her opinion is not considered.
"I'm afraid not," Ashe answers. "Our finances are not what they could be. Vaan said last night he'd seen something promising on the noticeboard, so I suspect he'll be meeting with the petitioner this morning before we're ready to go anywhere."
He's not likely to get a better opportunity, is he? "In that case, I may take my time getting the captain out of bed." He winks at Fran. "Don't come looking for us."
She only nods, not surprised at all, but Ashe's eyes widen. As Balthier ducks out of the dining room, he hears Ashe begin, "I thought that you...."
Well. Fran can certainly explain their arrangement without his assistance; it was her idea in the first place, after all. The ease of their companionship does not change the fact that both of them enjoy a variety of pleasures, and for pirates -- as opposed to, say, princesses -- there is little to prevent them seeking the opportunity to indulge.
The door to Basch's room unlatches smoothly, and Balthier lets himself in as quietly as he can. Basch is sound asleep, the sheets pushed down far enough to bare the arch of his hipbone, the muscle of his chest, the flat of his stomach. He doesn't stir when Balthier comes closer; Balthier wonders whether it's a matter of feeling safe here, or if their quest is simply exhausting him more than he's willing to admit.
Balthier shakes himself. This sentimentality ill suits him. He toes out of his shoes, unlaces his vest and his cuffs, and undresses. The morning air is cool against his skin, but he has little doubt that he will cease complaining of that before long.
When he lifts the sheet to slide underneath it, Basch stirs, making a low, sleep-rough noise as he rolls away from the cold air. For a moment the scars on his back, ragged and barbaric, give Balthier pause -- but suffering, he reminds himself, does not often make a man less well-disposed toward pleasure. He moves slowly but deliberately, pressing close -- as he learned the hard way with Fran -- without haste nor hesitation, so it will be clear that he is no kind of threat to a sleeper.
Basch makes another low coeurl rumble when Balthier presses against his back, and stretches, all the muscles in his body flexing taut at once. He reaches back with one hand, not quite rolling over, and brushes Balthier's hip.
"Good morning," Balthier says.
Basch rolls over the rest of the way, and blinks at him. "Balthier?"
"Expecting someone else?" Balthier asks. He hadn't expected a violent reaction, not truly -- anyone even reasonably observant could tell there was more than soldierly camaraderie between Basch and Vossler -- but it is still encouraging to feel no tension at all in Basch's body. Indeed, one of Basch's hands comes to rest on his hip, not as though to push him away, but rather heavy as though to keep him there.
"Not expecting anyone," Basch says. "But especially -- I thought you and Fran...?"
"Oh, very much," Balthier agrees. "But we're pirates, you see. Prone to taking opportunities where we find them." He slides closer to demonstrate, running a hand up Basch's side, pressing his lips to Basch's collarbone.
Basch laughs shortly, as though he can't get quite enough breath, and wraps his arms around Balthier, solid and strong. "Ruthless as your reputation," he says, which might be intended to sound insulting, but he follows it by tilting his head back to bare his throat, and Balthier can't find it in himself to be offended.
Instead he takes the invitation, licking, kissing Basch's bared throat; the skin there tastes sharp with salt, and stubble prickles against his tongue. When he dares a bite, Basch shudders against him, and breathes a faint moan. He does it again, harder, and Basch rocks into him, cock stiffening, holding on tight.
This is, Balthier thinks, going more easily than he might have expected -- not that he's complaining. He reaches down between them and takes hold of Basch's cock, finds it thick and hard. His mouth waters, and he thinks from the way Basch thrusts into his grip that if he wants anything in particular he'd best say so, and not delay.
"Let me suck your cock?" Balthier asks. It's the sort of question that has, generally speaking, only one answer, given with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Basch's enthusiasm, it seems, is abundant. "Yes," he breathes, "Fates, yes."
"It would take a very lucky man to be fated to something like this," Balthier observes as he slides down toward the foot of the bed, pushing the sheet back.
"You think highly of your skills," Basch says, propping himself up on one elbow so he can watch Balthier settle between his thighs.
"Perhaps it's that I think highly of your cock," Balthier answers, and wets his lips. He doesn't give Basch a chance to answer him, just leans down and takes Basch's cock in his mouth, sliding down on it as far as he can comfortably go. It's thick, stretching his mouth wide, and he savors the taste of salt and musk.
Basch stays quiet, like a soldier, like the boys that Balthier first tried this with with in out-of-the-way corners of the barracks before he ran away from the Akademy -- like someone who can't afford to be heard. It's a pity, because his voice has just the right sort of rawness to make Balthier want to hear him moaning, loudly and often.
As an experiment, Balthier lets his teeth drag ever so lightly up the shaft on his next stroke, and Basch can't entirely choke off a hoarse, needy sound. Good to know. That's the sort of thing that moves very quickly from just right to too much, but Balthier likes to think he has the skills to do it right.
He's careful not to overdo it, using his teeth only occasionally, just enough to make it a deliberate tease instead of a happy accident. Basch trembles under him, and almost thrusts, self-control nearly lost but not quite.
Which is fine, really; a little self-control left means time enough for other things, which suits Balthier -- and more to the point, Balthier's cock -- just fine. He sits up, looking for something they could use to ease the way, feeling somewhat silly for not bringing with him anything well-suited to the purpose.
"What are you looking for?" Basch asks.
Balthier smiles briefly. "Something slick," he says.
"There's a potion in my bag," Basch says. "It'll serve well enough."
"Planning to be that rough with me?" Balthier asks. The idea -- the degree of carelessness that's tolerable when using a potion for this -- makes something flutter in his stomach, something he can't quite name either excitement or dread.
Basch's eyes are challenging, hungry, but he shakes his head. "When you've done so well taking charge this far? Quite the opposite."
Some distant corner of Balthier's mind observes, calmly, that he has Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg, once the hero of Dalmasca's armies, spread out before him in bed, propositioning him for rough sex in which -- "You want me to take you?"
Basch shrugs. "We could trade if you'd rather," he says. "If you don't care for the role." There's a little hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as though he knows full well how unlikely it is for Balthier to protest as much.
"I'd have to be mad to turn it down," Balthier says. "It's only that you didn't look like you'd -- I mean, I'd expected --"
"You're thinking like an Archadian," Basch says. "You want to do it. I want you to do it. That should be all that matters."
Fran's said as much before, but somehow the idea that it would apply in a situation like this hadn't quite, to use a terribly apt turn of phrase, penetrated. "I'll get the potion," Balthier says.
His hands shake, just slightly, as he goes through Basch's possessions and digs out the slender blue glass of a potion phial. He has no reason to be nervous, he tells himself; he knows he can do this, even if he hadn't thought it likely he'd do it with Basch.
"How much preparation do you need?" he asks, as he climbs back onto the bed, kneels between Basch's legs.
"With that? Not much," Basch says. He raises his knees, curls one hand around his flushed, stiff cock. "Just enough to ease the friction."
"You do this often?" Balthier asks, as he opens the phial -- it yields easily enough, even if his hands still aren't entirely steady; the phial's intended to be used in the midst of battle, after all, so it can't afford to be complicated.
"Not recently," Basch says. He cants his hips as Balthier reaches between his legs with potion-slick fingers. "But I used to -- yes, ah, push. One of the few luxuries a soldier has, deeper, is a ready supply of potions."
Balthier swallows hard; Basch is tight around his fingers, meltingly hot. "You squandered military resources for this?" He can't say he'd manage any better, with temptation like this. "Shame on you."
"Even heroes are human," Basch says. He rocks his hips, and his head falls back. "Gods. What are you waiting for?"
"An invitation like that," Balthier says. He withdraws, pours a little more potion into his hand to slick his own cock, hands off the bottle so Basch can set it aside on the bedside table. The potion tingles on his skin. His mouth feels dry. Everything seems to be slowing down, like he's Hasted. Basch reaches for him. Balthier eases himself down, shifting his weight. Basch's hand guides his cock. He pushes.
They both make noise as he slides in, unable to contain the moans at that first push -- Basch is so tight, so hot, and the potion makes it just slick enough, makes Balthier feel alert, energized, dizzy with the intensity of the sensation.
"Move," Basch says, and Balthier realizes that he's just holding still right there. "Please."
"Of course," Balthier says, and it comes out breathless. "I'm sorry. Gods." He pulls back, thrusts, buries his face in the hollow of Basch's shoulder while he struggles for composure. He's no virgin. There's no excuse for him feeling so overwhelmed so quickly.
Basch's hand starts to move, stroking his cock in time with Balthier's thrusts, his knuckles brushing Balthier's stomach. They're going to have to do this again, Balthier thinks, because there's just no way this is going to last long enough to be really satisfying.
"Like that," Basch says. "Deep." His free hand splays across the small of Balthier's back, and he rocks his hips, demanding, so that it almost seems despite their positions that Balthier's the one being taken -- not that he can complain when it feels like this.
"There?" he asks, pushing harder, thrusting as deep as he can. "That's what you want?"
"Yes," Basch growls, "yes, yes," matching him stroke for stroke, taut and needy under him, driving him to thrust faster, harder -- and Balthier bites his lip, tries to wait, tries to hold out until Basch is satisfied, but he's not sure he can stand it -- and then just as his control deserts him, as he realizes it's too late to slow down and he's going to come now, Basch tightens around him and they both climax at the same time, shuddering hard.
He's gasping for breath afterward, shaky, and he might feel embarrassed save that he can see the frantic beat of Basch's pulse under his jaw. "Gods," Balthier manages at last. "I. I didn't think that really happened to people. It seems -- too well-coordinated, doesn't it?"
Basch laughs breathlessly, stroking Balthier's back in a slow, contented motion. "I hope you're not complaining," he says. His voice is a low, soothing rumble in his chest.
"Not in the slightest," Balthier says. He braces his weight on his hands and pulls out carefully, looking down at the sticky mess they've both become. "I'd intended to ask you down to breakfast after we were done, but I think now we might need to bathe, first."
"I should say so," Basch agrees. "We're not fit for company like this." He doesn't move to rise, though, only pulls Balthier close, holding him loosely. "In a few minutes, then, we'll go wash up."
Balthier nods. "Sounds fair."
He's not terribly surprised when, a few minutes later, he hears Basch's breathing settle into a sleeping rhythm. He closes his eyes, one arm over Basch's waist. Perhaps a bit more sleep would be all right, he decides. They have a long day ahead of them, after all. Only sensible to be well-rested for it.
Author: Laylah
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2400
Summary: This is, Balthier thinks, going more easily than he might have expected -- not that he's complaining.
Basch, though many things, is not a morning person. At all. Balthier wonders, at times, how he managed to last so many years in the army -- which always seems to require rising by dawn, as though there would be some strategic disadvantage in being rested -- without changing his habits. Unless, perhaps, this is an aftereffect of those years in Nalbina, with nary a sunrise in sight.
Whatever the case, when they have the luxury of spending the night at an inn, instead of under the stars, Basch is typically the last to rise. The rest of them have taken it in turns to rouse him, save for Penelo, who usually has her hands full doing likewise for Vaan. Balthier has yet to inquire, but he would be surprised indeed if neither Fran nor Ashe has felt the same impulse he has, to slide between the captain's sheets and wake him with something rather more friendly than a hand on his shoulder. Sleep smooths away the worry that draws his face taut in wakefulness, and he sleeps bare-chested, which is a considerably more appealing sight now than it was those months ago in Barheim.
When Balthier has dressed and come downstairs to breakfast this morning, Fran and Ashe are there, but Basch is not. "My turn, is it?" he asks.
"Indeed," Fran says, and sips her tea, watching him. She's likely already guessed his intention; it seems that they can anticipate each other almost flawlessly by now.
"Are we leaving early this morning?" Balthier asks. He addresses the question more or less to the princess, since she seems the one more likely to be offended if her opinion is not considered.
"I'm afraid not," Ashe answers. "Our finances are not what they could be. Vaan said last night he'd seen something promising on the noticeboard, so I suspect he'll be meeting with the petitioner this morning before we're ready to go anywhere."
He's not likely to get a better opportunity, is he? "In that case, I may take my time getting the captain out of bed." He winks at Fran. "Don't come looking for us."
She only nods, not surprised at all, but Ashe's eyes widen. As Balthier ducks out of the dining room, he hears Ashe begin, "I thought that you...."
Well. Fran can certainly explain their arrangement without his assistance; it was her idea in the first place, after all. The ease of their companionship does not change the fact that both of them enjoy a variety of pleasures, and for pirates -- as opposed to, say, princesses -- there is little to prevent them seeking the opportunity to indulge.
The door to Basch's room unlatches smoothly, and Balthier lets himself in as quietly as he can. Basch is sound asleep, the sheets pushed down far enough to bare the arch of his hipbone, the muscle of his chest, the flat of his stomach. He doesn't stir when Balthier comes closer; Balthier wonders whether it's a matter of feeling safe here, or if their quest is simply exhausting him more than he's willing to admit.
Balthier shakes himself. This sentimentality ill suits him. He toes out of his shoes, unlaces his vest and his cuffs, and undresses. The morning air is cool against his skin, but he has little doubt that he will cease complaining of that before long.
When he lifts the sheet to slide underneath it, Basch stirs, making a low, sleep-rough noise as he rolls away from the cold air. For a moment the scars on his back, ragged and barbaric, give Balthier pause -- but suffering, he reminds himself, does not often make a man less well-disposed toward pleasure. He moves slowly but deliberately, pressing close -- as he learned the hard way with Fran -- without haste nor hesitation, so it will be clear that he is no kind of threat to a sleeper.
Basch makes another low coeurl rumble when Balthier presses against his back, and stretches, all the muscles in his body flexing taut at once. He reaches back with one hand, not quite rolling over, and brushes Balthier's hip.
"Good morning," Balthier says.
Basch rolls over the rest of the way, and blinks at him. "Balthier?"
"Expecting someone else?" Balthier asks. He hadn't expected a violent reaction, not truly -- anyone even reasonably observant could tell there was more than soldierly camaraderie between Basch and Vossler -- but it is still encouraging to feel no tension at all in Basch's body. Indeed, one of Basch's hands comes to rest on his hip, not as though to push him away, but rather heavy as though to keep him there.
"Not expecting anyone," Basch says. "But especially -- I thought you and Fran...?"
"Oh, very much," Balthier agrees. "But we're pirates, you see. Prone to taking opportunities where we find them." He slides closer to demonstrate, running a hand up Basch's side, pressing his lips to Basch's collarbone.
Basch laughs shortly, as though he can't get quite enough breath, and wraps his arms around Balthier, solid and strong. "Ruthless as your reputation," he says, which might be intended to sound insulting, but he follows it by tilting his head back to bare his throat, and Balthier can't find it in himself to be offended.
Instead he takes the invitation, licking, kissing Basch's bared throat; the skin there tastes sharp with salt, and stubble prickles against his tongue. When he dares a bite, Basch shudders against him, and breathes a faint moan. He does it again, harder, and Basch rocks into him, cock stiffening, holding on tight.
This is, Balthier thinks, going more easily than he might have expected -- not that he's complaining. He reaches down between them and takes hold of Basch's cock, finds it thick and hard. His mouth waters, and he thinks from the way Basch thrusts into his grip that if he wants anything in particular he'd best say so, and not delay.
"Let me suck your cock?" Balthier asks. It's the sort of question that has, generally speaking, only one answer, given with varying degrees of enthusiasm.
Basch's enthusiasm, it seems, is abundant. "Yes," he breathes, "Fates, yes."
"It would take a very lucky man to be fated to something like this," Balthier observes as he slides down toward the foot of the bed, pushing the sheet back.
"You think highly of your skills," Basch says, propping himself up on one elbow so he can watch Balthier settle between his thighs.
"Perhaps it's that I think highly of your cock," Balthier answers, and wets his lips. He doesn't give Basch a chance to answer him, just leans down and takes Basch's cock in his mouth, sliding down on it as far as he can comfortably go. It's thick, stretching his mouth wide, and he savors the taste of salt and musk.
Basch stays quiet, like a soldier, like the boys that Balthier first tried this with with in out-of-the-way corners of the barracks before he ran away from the Akademy -- like someone who can't afford to be heard. It's a pity, because his voice has just the right sort of rawness to make Balthier want to hear him moaning, loudly and often.
As an experiment, Balthier lets his teeth drag ever so lightly up the shaft on his next stroke, and Basch can't entirely choke off a hoarse, needy sound. Good to know. That's the sort of thing that moves very quickly from just right to too much, but Balthier likes to think he has the skills to do it right.
He's careful not to overdo it, using his teeth only occasionally, just enough to make it a deliberate tease instead of a happy accident. Basch trembles under him, and almost thrusts, self-control nearly lost but not quite.
Which is fine, really; a little self-control left means time enough for other things, which suits Balthier -- and more to the point, Balthier's cock -- just fine. He sits up, looking for something they could use to ease the way, feeling somewhat silly for not bringing with him anything well-suited to the purpose.
"What are you looking for?" Basch asks.
Balthier smiles briefly. "Something slick," he says.
"There's a potion in my bag," Basch says. "It'll serve well enough."
"Planning to be that rough with me?" Balthier asks. The idea -- the degree of carelessness that's tolerable when using a potion for this -- makes something flutter in his stomach, something he can't quite name either excitement or dread.
Basch's eyes are challenging, hungry, but he shakes his head. "When you've done so well taking charge this far? Quite the opposite."
Some distant corner of Balthier's mind observes, calmly, that he has Captain Basch fon Ronsenburg, once the hero of Dalmasca's armies, spread out before him in bed, propositioning him for rough sex in which -- "You want me to take you?"
Basch shrugs. "We could trade if you'd rather," he says. "If you don't care for the role." There's a little hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, as though he knows full well how unlikely it is for Balthier to protest as much.
"I'd have to be mad to turn it down," Balthier says. "It's only that you didn't look like you'd -- I mean, I'd expected --"
"You're thinking like an Archadian," Basch says. "You want to do it. I want you to do it. That should be all that matters."
Fran's said as much before, but somehow the idea that it would apply in a situation like this hadn't quite, to use a terribly apt turn of phrase, penetrated. "I'll get the potion," Balthier says.
His hands shake, just slightly, as he goes through Basch's possessions and digs out the slender blue glass of a potion phial. He has no reason to be nervous, he tells himself; he knows he can do this, even if he hadn't thought it likely he'd do it with Basch.
"How much preparation do you need?" he asks, as he climbs back onto the bed, kneels between Basch's legs.
"With that? Not much," Basch says. He raises his knees, curls one hand around his flushed, stiff cock. "Just enough to ease the friction."
"You do this often?" Balthier asks, as he opens the phial -- it yields easily enough, even if his hands still aren't entirely steady; the phial's intended to be used in the midst of battle, after all, so it can't afford to be complicated.
"Not recently," Basch says. He cants his hips as Balthier reaches between his legs with potion-slick fingers. "But I used to -- yes, ah, push. One of the few luxuries a soldier has, deeper, is a ready supply of potions."
Balthier swallows hard; Basch is tight around his fingers, meltingly hot. "You squandered military resources for this?" He can't say he'd manage any better, with temptation like this. "Shame on you."
"Even heroes are human," Basch says. He rocks his hips, and his head falls back. "Gods. What are you waiting for?"
"An invitation like that," Balthier says. He withdraws, pours a little more potion into his hand to slick his own cock, hands off the bottle so Basch can set it aside on the bedside table. The potion tingles on his skin. His mouth feels dry. Everything seems to be slowing down, like he's Hasted. Basch reaches for him. Balthier eases himself down, shifting his weight. Basch's hand guides his cock. He pushes.
They both make noise as he slides in, unable to contain the moans at that first push -- Basch is so tight, so hot, and the potion makes it just slick enough, makes Balthier feel alert, energized, dizzy with the intensity of the sensation.
"Move," Basch says, and Balthier realizes that he's just holding still right there. "Please."
"Of course," Balthier says, and it comes out breathless. "I'm sorry. Gods." He pulls back, thrusts, buries his face in the hollow of Basch's shoulder while he struggles for composure. He's no virgin. There's no excuse for him feeling so overwhelmed so quickly.
Basch's hand starts to move, stroking his cock in time with Balthier's thrusts, his knuckles brushing Balthier's stomach. They're going to have to do this again, Balthier thinks, because there's just no way this is going to last long enough to be really satisfying.
"Like that," Basch says. "Deep." His free hand splays across the small of Balthier's back, and he rocks his hips, demanding, so that it almost seems despite their positions that Balthier's the one being taken -- not that he can complain when it feels like this.
"There?" he asks, pushing harder, thrusting as deep as he can. "That's what you want?"
"Yes," Basch growls, "yes, yes," matching him stroke for stroke, taut and needy under him, driving him to thrust faster, harder -- and Balthier bites his lip, tries to wait, tries to hold out until Basch is satisfied, but he's not sure he can stand it -- and then just as his control deserts him, as he realizes it's too late to slow down and he's going to come now, Basch tightens around him and they both climax at the same time, shuddering hard.
He's gasping for breath afterward, shaky, and he might feel embarrassed save that he can see the frantic beat of Basch's pulse under his jaw. "Gods," Balthier manages at last. "I. I didn't think that really happened to people. It seems -- too well-coordinated, doesn't it?"
Basch laughs breathlessly, stroking Balthier's back in a slow, contented motion. "I hope you're not complaining," he says. His voice is a low, soothing rumble in his chest.
"Not in the slightest," Balthier says. He braces his weight on his hands and pulls out carefully, looking down at the sticky mess they've both become. "I'd intended to ask you down to breakfast after we were done, but I think now we might need to bathe, first."
"I should say so," Basch agrees. "We're not fit for company like this." He doesn't move to rise, though, only pulls Balthier close, holding him loosely. "In a few minutes, then, we'll go wash up."
Balthier nods. "Sounds fair."
He's not terribly surprised when, a few minutes later, he hears Basch's breathing settle into a sleeping rhythm. He closes his eyes, one arm over Basch's waist. Perhaps a bit more sleep would be all right, he decides. They have a long day ahead of them, after all. Only sensible to be well-rested for it.