Final Fantasy XII (Basch/Vossler)
Title: Well Met
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Basch/Vossler
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,329
Warnings: Spoilers through the return to Rabanastre after the Barheim Passage.
Prompt: Rough - "I have risked too much."
Notes: Sorry this is kind of questionably on time.
A flash of steel, and Nightmare is at Basch’s neck, the edge of the blade hovering just above his collarbone. He works the muscles of his throat to speak, but movement is difficult when the slightest of tremors could result in the severance of his head from his body. Still, he cannot blame Vossler for reacting thus.
“I am no ghost,” he begins feebly.
“That is unfortunate.” Nightmare’s tip caresses the hollow of Basch’s throat. “Were you a ghost, you would be more easily dispatched.”
“I have traveled long to reach you, Vossler...”
“Do not address me as such,” Vossler responds, his voice sharp as his sword. He has turned grey beneath his tan, which lends his skin a sickly air. “There can be no familiarity between us.”
“Will you not hear what I have to say?” he asks. Basch runs his tongue over his lips, still cracked and tender from the storms of the Estersand. His parched throat begs for water.
“And why should I hear the words of a traitor? You would speak only lies. It was unwise of you to come here.”
“Stay your hand, Captain Azelas.” He coughs, trying to line his mouth with a coating of moisture. “For the sake of the years I spent at your side.”
“Would that they had never existed,” Vossler whispers, his face tight.
“Then why do you not kill me now?” Basch asks. It is a risk to speak thus -- Vossler’s hand tightens around Nightmare’s grip as though he steadies himself to perform the fatal stroke, but his arm remains still. “Why would I come to you if I were truly guilty of such deeds?”
“I know not the workings of your mind, Basch,” he says softly. “Nalbina proved that to me.”
The presence of Nightmare is all that keeps him from bowing his head at that. He is keenly aware of the ache in his feet now, how grains of sand have insinuated themselves into the cuts lining their soles. “It was not I who killed King Raminas.”
“Then who did?” Vossler demands. “Reks saw your sword adorned with his blood. Do you name him a liar?”
“I do not.” He glances at a crude wooden crate, its planks masked by a threadbare carpet -- the golden threads that should have outlined the emblem of Dalmasca have been pulled free, leaving sad black lines in their wake. “May I sit?”
“If you must.” Vossler sheathes Nightmare, replacing blade with fist as his right hook catches Basch on the jaw. The blow is not hard enough to shatter bone (thankfully, for he has neither Balthier nor Vaan to supply him with potions, and he has never had much aptitude for curative magicks), but it sends him staggering back into the crate. The rough edge collides with him sharply behind his knees; he buckles and sits down hard, still massaging the rising lump beneath his ear.
“I suppose I deserved that,” he says.
Vossler looks away. “It was dishonorable of me. You do not look as though you would stand such a blow as well as you once might have.”
Basch examines the bones protruding from his wrist. “Is it that noticeable?”
He feels the burn of Vossler’s gaze on his ribs, as though his companion were trying to penetrate his stolen armor with sight alone. “You have grown thin.”
“I suppose I have.”
There is silence. Vossler glances at Basch out of the corner of his eye, his lips pressed together. “You have a tale for me.”
“I wish it were a tale,” Basch says. “But it is true.”
“I would hear you tell it.”
Basch still fears to move his head in a nod, though he knows Nightmare is at Vossler’s side; he still feels the press of something sharp at his throat. “I have spoken of my brother to you in years past.”
“Noah.” Vossler nods once in curt acknowledgement. “You have.”
“He calls himself Gabranth now.” When Basch pictures his brother’s face, he no longer sees his own features reflected in his mind’s eye, a stubborn cast to Noah’s eyes and chin all that separates the two of them. Instead, the mirrored surface of a Judge Magister’s helm swims before his vision, with sharp horns designed to gore and tear and featureless slits where eyes and mouth should be. “When Landis fell, he went to Archadia and took that name. He rose to the rank of Judge. He was promoted to Magister after he took my place at Nalbina.”
Vossler exhales slowly.
“He elected to stay my death sentence. I remained at Nalbina.” And he will say no more of that. He has schooled himself not to.
“In the dungeons?”
“They converted one of the old well shafts into an oubliette. I was kept there.” For two years.
“That scar.” Vossler traces a diagonal line in the air before Basch’s forehead. “You -- ”
He does not wait for Vossler to finish. “Yes.” The sounds of Lowtown trickle through the room as though they have been filtered by a thick blanket. The cries of merchants advertising their meager wares, the shouts of children accompanied by the quick scamper of feet, the low melody of a lute whose strings have soured -- all seem barely more than half-forgotten whispers on the wind.
“How did you escape?”
“A sky pirate and his partner. Reks’s brother was with them. They found their way out of the dungeons and allowed me to travel at their side.” He fingers the rough growth of his beard. “They told me Lady Ashe took her life after her father’s death.”
Vossler casts his glance around the storeroom and leans in close, his hands braced on either side of Basch’s hips. “The Marquis Ondore lied,” he murmurs, his breath brushing the side of Basch’s tender cheek. “As he lied about your fate, I suppose. I have guarded her these past two years, but now...” He looks down.
“What happened?”
“Vayne has her,” he confesses. His arms tremble. “He keeps her captive with the fleet. And I dare not go to her aid for fear of what will become of the resistance in my absence,” he adds, a sour note edging his words. “I have risked too much already...”
“Vossler,” Basch breathes.
He brings his hand to the side of Basch’s face, his nails leaving crescent gauges in the skin behind Basch’s ear. “Gods,” he whispers.
Their kiss, when it comes, is tender only in that Basch is sure his lips have bruised from the pressure of Vossler’s teeth and tongue. Vossler breaks the kiss to taste the most visible of his scars, his mouth burning against the jagged line until Basch is sure the wound has been filled with fire. But one scar brought to searing heat is enough; he stops Vossler from loosening the buckles of his chestplate. “No,” he whispers, Vossler’s wrist clasped in his hand.
“Where -- ”
“Anywhere else,” he pants, his breath ragged. “But not -- ” He does not complete his thought, for Vossler’s fingers tear at his borrowed pants and curl around his cock, rasping against its length. His calluses tug roughly at Basch’s skin, but the friction aches in a way that sends shudders through the length of him and the quickness of it is right and the pain is bearable, considering...
“There,” he says, “ah -- ” Vossler has loosened his own trousers enough that Basch makes quick work of the rest; he is likely clumsy at this after so long, but Vossler’s hips seize and his breath catches and his grip on Basch becomes blindingly hot, hard and fast and oh.
The quiet is broken by the uneven sound of their breaths.
“I believe you,” Vossler says, straightening slowly. “Perhaps it is unwise of me to do so, but I do.”
Basch loses his breath again.
“You need better gear. And a good shave. We will have time to talk further after that.”
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Pairing: Basch/Vossler
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,329
Warnings: Spoilers through the return to Rabanastre after the Barheim Passage.
Prompt: Rough - "I have risked too much."
Notes: Sorry this is kind of questionably on time.
A flash of steel, and Nightmare is at Basch’s neck, the edge of the blade hovering just above his collarbone. He works the muscles of his throat to speak, but movement is difficult when the slightest of tremors could result in the severance of his head from his body. Still, he cannot blame Vossler for reacting thus.
“I am no ghost,” he begins feebly.
“That is unfortunate.” Nightmare’s tip caresses the hollow of Basch’s throat. “Were you a ghost, you would be more easily dispatched.”
“I have traveled long to reach you, Vossler...”
“Do not address me as such,” Vossler responds, his voice sharp as his sword. He has turned grey beneath his tan, which lends his skin a sickly air. “There can be no familiarity between us.”
“Will you not hear what I have to say?” he asks. Basch runs his tongue over his lips, still cracked and tender from the storms of the Estersand. His parched throat begs for water.
“And why should I hear the words of a traitor? You would speak only lies. It was unwise of you to come here.”
“Stay your hand, Captain Azelas.” He coughs, trying to line his mouth with a coating of moisture. “For the sake of the years I spent at your side.”
“Would that they had never existed,” Vossler whispers, his face tight.
“Then why do you not kill me now?” Basch asks. It is a risk to speak thus -- Vossler’s hand tightens around Nightmare’s grip as though he steadies himself to perform the fatal stroke, but his arm remains still. “Why would I come to you if I were truly guilty of such deeds?”
“I know not the workings of your mind, Basch,” he says softly. “Nalbina proved that to me.”
The presence of Nightmare is all that keeps him from bowing his head at that. He is keenly aware of the ache in his feet now, how grains of sand have insinuated themselves into the cuts lining their soles. “It was not I who killed King Raminas.”
“Then who did?” Vossler demands. “Reks saw your sword adorned with his blood. Do you name him a liar?”
“I do not.” He glances at a crude wooden crate, its planks masked by a threadbare carpet -- the golden threads that should have outlined the emblem of Dalmasca have been pulled free, leaving sad black lines in their wake. “May I sit?”
“If you must.” Vossler sheathes Nightmare, replacing blade with fist as his right hook catches Basch on the jaw. The blow is not hard enough to shatter bone (thankfully, for he has neither Balthier nor Vaan to supply him with potions, and he has never had much aptitude for curative magicks), but it sends him staggering back into the crate. The rough edge collides with him sharply behind his knees; he buckles and sits down hard, still massaging the rising lump beneath his ear.
“I suppose I deserved that,” he says.
Vossler looks away. “It was dishonorable of me. You do not look as though you would stand such a blow as well as you once might have.”
Basch examines the bones protruding from his wrist. “Is it that noticeable?”
He feels the burn of Vossler’s gaze on his ribs, as though his companion were trying to penetrate his stolen armor with sight alone. “You have grown thin.”
“I suppose I have.”
There is silence. Vossler glances at Basch out of the corner of his eye, his lips pressed together. “You have a tale for me.”
“I wish it were a tale,” Basch says. “But it is true.”
“I would hear you tell it.”
Basch still fears to move his head in a nod, though he knows Nightmare is at Vossler’s side; he still feels the press of something sharp at his throat. “I have spoken of my brother to you in years past.”
“Noah.” Vossler nods once in curt acknowledgement. “You have.”
“He calls himself Gabranth now.” When Basch pictures his brother’s face, he no longer sees his own features reflected in his mind’s eye, a stubborn cast to Noah’s eyes and chin all that separates the two of them. Instead, the mirrored surface of a Judge Magister’s helm swims before his vision, with sharp horns designed to gore and tear and featureless slits where eyes and mouth should be. “When Landis fell, he went to Archadia and took that name. He rose to the rank of Judge. He was promoted to Magister after he took my place at Nalbina.”
Vossler exhales slowly.
“He elected to stay my death sentence. I remained at Nalbina.” And he will say no more of that. He has schooled himself not to.
“In the dungeons?”
“They converted one of the old well shafts into an oubliette. I was kept there.” For two years.
“That scar.” Vossler traces a diagonal line in the air before Basch’s forehead. “You -- ”
He does not wait for Vossler to finish. “Yes.” The sounds of Lowtown trickle through the room as though they have been filtered by a thick blanket. The cries of merchants advertising their meager wares, the shouts of children accompanied by the quick scamper of feet, the low melody of a lute whose strings have soured -- all seem barely more than half-forgotten whispers on the wind.
“How did you escape?”
“A sky pirate and his partner. Reks’s brother was with them. They found their way out of the dungeons and allowed me to travel at their side.” He fingers the rough growth of his beard. “They told me Lady Ashe took her life after her father’s death.”
Vossler casts his glance around the storeroom and leans in close, his hands braced on either side of Basch’s hips. “The Marquis Ondore lied,” he murmurs, his breath brushing the side of Basch’s tender cheek. “As he lied about your fate, I suppose. I have guarded her these past two years, but now...” He looks down.
“What happened?”
“Vayne has her,” he confesses. His arms tremble. “He keeps her captive with the fleet. And I dare not go to her aid for fear of what will become of the resistance in my absence,” he adds, a sour note edging his words. “I have risked too much already...”
“Vossler,” Basch breathes.
He brings his hand to the side of Basch’s face, his nails leaving crescent gauges in the skin behind Basch’s ear. “Gods,” he whispers.
Their kiss, when it comes, is tender only in that Basch is sure his lips have bruised from the pressure of Vossler’s teeth and tongue. Vossler breaks the kiss to taste the most visible of his scars, his mouth burning against the jagged line until Basch is sure the wound has been filled with fire. But one scar brought to searing heat is enough; he stops Vossler from loosening the buckles of his chestplate. “No,” he whispers, Vossler’s wrist clasped in his hand.
“Where -- ”
“Anywhere else,” he pants, his breath ragged. “But not -- ” He does not complete his thought, for Vossler’s fingers tear at his borrowed pants and curl around his cock, rasping against its length. His calluses tug roughly at Basch’s skin, but the friction aches in a way that sends shudders through the length of him and the quickness of it is right and the pain is bearable, considering...
“There,” he says, “ah -- ” Vossler has loosened his own trousers enough that Basch makes quick work of the rest; he is likely clumsy at this after so long, but Vossler’s hips seize and his breath catches and his grip on Basch becomes blindingly hot, hard and fast and oh.
The quiet is broken by the uneven sound of their breaths.
“I believe you,” Vossler says, straightening slowly. “Perhaps it is unwise of me to do so, but I do.”
Basch loses his breath again.
“You need better gear. And a good shave. We will have time to talk further after that.”