Sharing [Final Fantasy XII, Basch/Balthier/Noah, M]
Title: Sharing
Author: sumthinlikhuman
Pairing: Basch/Balthier and Gabranth/Ffamran
Rating: M
Warnings: vague sex
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Basch x Balthier x Gabranth: love/hate) - To share and share alike
Summary: A brief comparison.
Notes: VERY, VERY LATE. Also, not very good with the prompt? Sorry about both.
702 OV
“You’re leaving then?”
Without the armor, Judge Gabranth is simply Noah, and the name has never felt right for his face, Ffamran has felt. He looks almost his age, maybe older, Ffamran thinks; thirty-two that year, and Ffamran can see it on his eyes, around his mouth, the hard edge of middle-age creeping up on him out of nowhere, trying to steal his youth from him.
Ffamran leers. “Are you trying to convince me to stay? You’re doing a poor job at it, Magister. I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder.”
“Is it-? That viera, it’s because of her, isn’t it? Breaking her out was reckless, and you enjoyed that recklessness-”
“Actually,” Ffamran interrupts, leer turned down into a pout as he moves through Noah’s apartments, collecting what things he’s strew about over the past year, while he’s been boarding about in the rooms, even when he wasn’t invited. Even when he was damn near thrown out, in Noah’s random, sporadic temper. “I’m leaving because this is no place for me.”
“And on the run is?” Noah hisses.
Earlier, Noah had fit his fingers into the notches of Ffamran’s spine, breathed his air, laid into him with body instead of words. The transition from one thing to the next is nothing. Ffamran stalls in his venture to collect his life from Noah’s grasp, turns to the Magister, and walks to him.
When he slides onto Noah’s lap, Noah’s hands cradle his hips, his backside, as though he is more a child than he is. Ffamran twines his arms around Noah’s neck, bends to apply their mouths together as gently and deeply as he can. Noah hums against the kiss as he always does-Ffamran always wonders where he acquired the habit, as few lovers as Noah has had-adjusts his hold to keep Ffamran close as though he’ll disappear in a wisp of smoke.
“Come with me,” Ffamran murmurs against Noah’s lips, not for the first time. He’s joked about it. He means it now. He pets his hands down Noah’s naked chest. “Come with me. This city, it is not place for someone like you, Noah.”
“I find it a perfect place,” Noah grumbles dispassionately, leaning away slightly. “A city built on gossip, holding a man built up on lies. It’s almost poetic.”
“You could be happy. Outside. You wouldn’t have to stay with Fran and I, Noah. We could drop you in a port-haven-Balfonheim or Nabradia or Dalmasca, setting out for Bur-Omisace-”
“I’ve lived enough of my life as a refugee and an outcast and a vagrant, Ffamran,” Noah whispers. “No more. Enough of that.” His hands shift up Ffamran’s back, up to cradle his shoulders instead. Ffamran slides in on Noah’s lap, their loins brushing intimately, and Noah sighs against Ffamran’s mouth. “Do not leave like this.”
“There’s no other way to leave,” Ffamran tells him.
“Let me have you?” Noah whispers, mouth trailing over the stubble growing on Ffamran’s cheeks to his throat. Ffamran’s amused chuckle becomes a moan when teeth brush his skin.
“You’re rather insatiable for an old man, aren’t you?”
“Hardly old,” Noah grumbles, then clamps down with sharp little teeth on the thick meat between Ffamran’s neck and shoulder. Ffamran arches, moans, shuts his eyes and clutches at Noah’s shoulders. “Shall I prove it?” He laves the bite with a kitten-rough tongue, hot and blinding. Ffamran ruts against him shamelessly.
“We’ve only just done it,” Ffamran says to the ceiling. Noah lowers a hand to rotate his hips inward, and Ffamran tosses his head back as he feels Noah slipping inside him.
“Are you saying you’ve lost your stamina for this? Your want of it?” It’s an awkward angle, but they’ve been in stranger ones than this, leaned back on the couch and curled around each other as they are.
“Never,” Ffamran whispers. He moves his clutching hands from shoulders to behind Noah’s neck, to running his fingers through Noah’s close-cropped hair and digging his nails against Noah’s scalp until he hisses and bites in reprimand.
Ffamran knows this is Noah’s way of saying goodbye to him-wonders if he’s said goodbye to someone else like this; a woman back home, or perhaps another man-but makes himself not think of it. They end up in the end again, sleepy and warm. And when Noah sleeps, breath steady and gentle, that is when Ffamran leaves the Magister’s apartments and never even thinks of looking back.
-----
704 OV
He knew, on sight, who Basch was, and understood before the words were spoke the full understanding of what had happened, leading to the subjugation of Dalmasca and the internment of the so-called Kingslayer. He had not been in service to the Empire any longer, when the plot had been brewed, but when he’d heard the news-on light wings through the streets of a village he could not longer remember the name of-of the fall of Dalmasca, it had stank of Vayne and Judge Magister Gabranth’s dogged loyalty to the man who had saved him from the war prison.
That, he knew-that knowledge of Basch and his relations and so forth-had lit the spark in him to take the older man to bed. As they’d traversed the half-dark of the mines, Fran had snuck him that knowing look of hers, whenever they paused for a break for Vaan to eat or for Basch to rest his wounded shoulders.
It took weeks-a month, almost-before Balthier formed in his mind his seduction. By then, it was too late.
Basch is not so dogged a pursuer as Noah had been, but Noah had had a previous taste, no matter how unwanted it had been at the time, to spur him on to greater bounty. Basch seeks Balthier out without previous knowledge of anything, without anything more than rumors of Balthier’s bedroom prowess from harlots on the street.
Balthier is, surprisingly, surprised when he returns to the tent they have for themselves in the Jahara lands to find Basch sitting on his cot, looking contemplative, half-dressed and looking more hale than he has since they left Dalmasca in the first. Shaven as he is, Balthier can see the lines of his brother there, barely marred by the scar that thankfully missed his eye. He wonders, watching Basch turn soft eyes on him, if Basch wore his hair long like that as a child, or if it is a construct of the war, to separate himself from who he had been in Landis.
Balthier removes his vest and shirt with his back to Basch, showing him the scars he has accrued in his two years as a pirate, and a few of the others accrued from being himself-whippings and slip-ups in weapons training as a boy. Basch’s fingers trace one, long and jagged, that would have rendered him paralyzed, if not for the man’s twin’s fast thinking.
He tells Basch that. Basch returns with nothing. The fingers do not stop their roaming, coming around to assess lean muscle under what remains of his childs’ fat.
When that is all, just the fingers for quite a long time, Balthier finally peers over his shoulder, and asks softly, “Are you going to have me or not, Captain? I haven’t all night.”
“Unless you’re planning a liaison with one of the warriors, I doubt anyone what I will have you at this juncture, Balthier.” With that voice, with that look on his face, the name seems foolish and wrong, out of place; Noah never knew that name. Balthier looks away, but reaches a hand back to tangle in Basch’s hair. If he does not look, he will not see the differences-but more than that, he will not see the similarities.
Basch’s mouth is hot and his whole self is needy. Balthier’s knees hurt a little, but neither question that Balthier does not wish or attempt to end up on his back. Basch’s hands are large and hot and powerful, curled over the ridge of Balthier’s hip, pressing himself in with a soft groan against the middle of Balthier’s back.
Balthier shuts his eyes and thinks of being his old self. He tries to remember if Noah ever had him like it-and the answer is that not Noah, but Gabranth, once, in a fit of temper in the Magister’s office when he was a Warden still and Ffamran had been an Aide to Magister Zecht, before they’d both made Judge. Except that Basch’s hands are warm and gentle, cradling rather than restraining, and there is nothing, nothing, the same.
And when all is said and done, Balthier lies on his stomach, sick with himself with a scrunched nose and annoyed grumbling into his pillow, Basch’s body heat against his legs. The cot shifts, and Balthier looks up, and there is Basch, leaning down to press their lips together gently.
“Did you do this with him?”
“Of course.” Basch smiles, as if to say, Of course, and Balthier sighs. “I let you have me, didn’t I? Why not him before you? You’re very much-”
“We haven’t been much alike since we were seventeen,” Basch promises. He touches Balthier’s brow with gentle, blunt fingers that are still a little slick with sweat and oil. “I, for instance, never had a tendency toward children.”
Balthier must chuckle, even if he can’t look Basch in the eye for fear of seeing Noah there. “I’m older than I look.”
“I think not.”
They rest then, no more words between them, and in the morning, Fran and he join Prince Larsa and the Princess for their party. He avoids the thought of Basch and his firm body like the plague. His heart is sick.
-----
706 OV
Within the army, Balthier thinks that the only thing that differentiates Noah from Basch is the voice. Balthier does not hear that, though. He smiles at the Judge Magister from afar on the parapet, prize bundled to his chest, and allows himself to fall. He has always been one for flashy retreats.
Author: sumthinlikhuman
Pairing: Basch/Balthier and Gabranth/Ffamran
Rating: M
Warnings: vague sex
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Basch x Balthier x Gabranth: love/hate) - To share and share alike
Summary: A brief comparison.
Notes: VERY, VERY LATE. Also, not very good with the prompt? Sorry about both.
702 OV
“You’re leaving then?”
Without the armor, Judge Gabranth is simply Noah, and the name has never felt right for his face, Ffamran has felt. He looks almost his age, maybe older, Ffamran thinks; thirty-two that year, and Ffamran can see it on his eyes, around his mouth, the hard edge of middle-age creeping up on him out of nowhere, trying to steal his youth from him.
Ffamran leers. “Are you trying to convince me to stay? You’re doing a poor job at it, Magister. I’m afraid you’ll have to try harder.”
“Is it-? That viera, it’s because of her, isn’t it? Breaking her out was reckless, and you enjoyed that recklessness-”
“Actually,” Ffamran interrupts, leer turned down into a pout as he moves through Noah’s apartments, collecting what things he’s strew about over the past year, while he’s been boarding about in the rooms, even when he wasn’t invited. Even when he was damn near thrown out, in Noah’s random, sporadic temper. “I’m leaving because this is no place for me.”
“And on the run is?” Noah hisses.
Earlier, Noah had fit his fingers into the notches of Ffamran’s spine, breathed his air, laid into him with body instead of words. The transition from one thing to the next is nothing. Ffamran stalls in his venture to collect his life from Noah’s grasp, turns to the Magister, and walks to him.
When he slides onto Noah’s lap, Noah’s hands cradle his hips, his backside, as though he is more a child than he is. Ffamran twines his arms around Noah’s neck, bends to apply their mouths together as gently and deeply as he can. Noah hums against the kiss as he always does-Ffamran always wonders where he acquired the habit, as few lovers as Noah has had-adjusts his hold to keep Ffamran close as though he’ll disappear in a wisp of smoke.
“Come with me,” Ffamran murmurs against Noah’s lips, not for the first time. He’s joked about it. He means it now. He pets his hands down Noah’s naked chest. “Come with me. This city, it is not place for someone like you, Noah.”
“I find it a perfect place,” Noah grumbles dispassionately, leaning away slightly. “A city built on gossip, holding a man built up on lies. It’s almost poetic.”
“You could be happy. Outside. You wouldn’t have to stay with Fran and I, Noah. We could drop you in a port-haven-Balfonheim or Nabradia or Dalmasca, setting out for Bur-Omisace-”
“I’ve lived enough of my life as a refugee and an outcast and a vagrant, Ffamran,” Noah whispers. “No more. Enough of that.” His hands shift up Ffamran’s back, up to cradle his shoulders instead. Ffamran slides in on Noah’s lap, their loins brushing intimately, and Noah sighs against Ffamran’s mouth. “Do not leave like this.”
“There’s no other way to leave,” Ffamran tells him.
“Let me have you?” Noah whispers, mouth trailing over the stubble growing on Ffamran’s cheeks to his throat. Ffamran’s amused chuckle becomes a moan when teeth brush his skin.
“You’re rather insatiable for an old man, aren’t you?”
“Hardly old,” Noah grumbles, then clamps down with sharp little teeth on the thick meat between Ffamran’s neck and shoulder. Ffamran arches, moans, shuts his eyes and clutches at Noah’s shoulders. “Shall I prove it?” He laves the bite with a kitten-rough tongue, hot and blinding. Ffamran ruts against him shamelessly.
“We’ve only just done it,” Ffamran says to the ceiling. Noah lowers a hand to rotate his hips inward, and Ffamran tosses his head back as he feels Noah slipping inside him.
“Are you saying you’ve lost your stamina for this? Your want of it?” It’s an awkward angle, but they’ve been in stranger ones than this, leaned back on the couch and curled around each other as they are.
“Never,” Ffamran whispers. He moves his clutching hands from shoulders to behind Noah’s neck, to running his fingers through Noah’s close-cropped hair and digging his nails against Noah’s scalp until he hisses and bites in reprimand.
Ffamran knows this is Noah’s way of saying goodbye to him-wonders if he’s said goodbye to someone else like this; a woman back home, or perhaps another man-but makes himself not think of it. They end up in the end again, sleepy and warm. And when Noah sleeps, breath steady and gentle, that is when Ffamran leaves the Magister’s apartments and never even thinks of looking back.
-----
704 OV
He knew, on sight, who Basch was, and understood before the words were spoke the full understanding of what had happened, leading to the subjugation of Dalmasca and the internment of the so-called Kingslayer. He had not been in service to the Empire any longer, when the plot had been brewed, but when he’d heard the news-on light wings through the streets of a village he could not longer remember the name of-of the fall of Dalmasca, it had stank of Vayne and Judge Magister Gabranth’s dogged loyalty to the man who had saved him from the war prison.
That, he knew-that knowledge of Basch and his relations and so forth-had lit the spark in him to take the older man to bed. As they’d traversed the half-dark of the mines, Fran had snuck him that knowing look of hers, whenever they paused for a break for Vaan to eat or for Basch to rest his wounded shoulders.
It took weeks-a month, almost-before Balthier formed in his mind his seduction. By then, it was too late.
Basch is not so dogged a pursuer as Noah had been, but Noah had had a previous taste, no matter how unwanted it had been at the time, to spur him on to greater bounty. Basch seeks Balthier out without previous knowledge of anything, without anything more than rumors of Balthier’s bedroom prowess from harlots on the street.
Balthier is, surprisingly, surprised when he returns to the tent they have for themselves in the Jahara lands to find Basch sitting on his cot, looking contemplative, half-dressed and looking more hale than he has since they left Dalmasca in the first. Shaven as he is, Balthier can see the lines of his brother there, barely marred by the scar that thankfully missed his eye. He wonders, watching Basch turn soft eyes on him, if Basch wore his hair long like that as a child, or if it is a construct of the war, to separate himself from who he had been in Landis.
Balthier removes his vest and shirt with his back to Basch, showing him the scars he has accrued in his two years as a pirate, and a few of the others accrued from being himself-whippings and slip-ups in weapons training as a boy. Basch’s fingers trace one, long and jagged, that would have rendered him paralyzed, if not for the man’s twin’s fast thinking.
He tells Basch that. Basch returns with nothing. The fingers do not stop their roaming, coming around to assess lean muscle under what remains of his childs’ fat.
When that is all, just the fingers for quite a long time, Balthier finally peers over his shoulder, and asks softly, “Are you going to have me or not, Captain? I haven’t all night.”
“Unless you’re planning a liaison with one of the warriors, I doubt anyone what I will have you at this juncture, Balthier.” With that voice, with that look on his face, the name seems foolish and wrong, out of place; Noah never knew that name. Balthier looks away, but reaches a hand back to tangle in Basch’s hair. If he does not look, he will not see the differences-but more than that, he will not see the similarities.
Basch’s mouth is hot and his whole self is needy. Balthier’s knees hurt a little, but neither question that Balthier does not wish or attempt to end up on his back. Basch’s hands are large and hot and powerful, curled over the ridge of Balthier’s hip, pressing himself in with a soft groan against the middle of Balthier’s back.
Balthier shuts his eyes and thinks of being his old self. He tries to remember if Noah ever had him like it-and the answer is that not Noah, but Gabranth, once, in a fit of temper in the Magister’s office when he was a Warden still and Ffamran had been an Aide to Magister Zecht, before they’d both made Judge. Except that Basch’s hands are warm and gentle, cradling rather than restraining, and there is nothing, nothing, the same.
And when all is said and done, Balthier lies on his stomach, sick with himself with a scrunched nose and annoyed grumbling into his pillow, Basch’s body heat against his legs. The cot shifts, and Balthier looks up, and there is Basch, leaning down to press their lips together gently.
“Did you do this with him?”
“Of course.” Basch smiles, as if to say, Of course, and Balthier sighs. “I let you have me, didn’t I? Why not him before you? You’re very much-”
“We haven’t been much alike since we were seventeen,” Basch promises. He touches Balthier’s brow with gentle, blunt fingers that are still a little slick with sweat and oil. “I, for instance, never had a tendency toward children.”
Balthier must chuckle, even if he can’t look Basch in the eye for fear of seeing Noah there. “I’m older than I look.”
“I think not.”
They rest then, no more words between them, and in the morning, Fran and he join Prince Larsa and the Princess for their party. He avoids the thought of Basch and his firm body like the plague. His heart is sick.
-----
706 OV
Within the army, Balthier thinks that the only thing that differentiates Noah from Basch is the voice. Balthier does not hear that, though. He smiles at the Judge Magister from afar on the parapet, prize bundled to his chest, and allows himself to fall. He has always been one for flashy retreats.