Final Fantasy XII (Balthier/Fran)

[icor.livejournal.com]

Title: Lantern
Author: icor
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Oral, Basch bashing.
Word count: 1,874
Notes: I have my laptop et internet back after a good ten days or so! For the prompt: Balthier/Fran: Voyeurism - someone else from the party watching them.

*

The heart of the Salikawood is like a lantern. Trees cut a course through the glade as a stream might, towering in the aftermath of the set sun like the bars of a cage, rusted with age. They are kohl black on the outside, and the moonlight will not allow Basch's eyes to trace shapes in the bark; between the rows of trees, orange light spills out with an iridescent hum from the gate crystal the plants wrap around.

And it is for this reason Basch is on guard, tonight: the foliage is too dense for any of them a set up camp near enough to the crystal to be truly safe. He has taken over from Vaan – who is now lost in a spell of sleep, no matter how much he protested that he could stand guard all night – and the hilt of the sword he carries is still warm from the boy's palm. Idly he swings and hacks at hanging vines as he marches out of time through the thick undergrowth, and hums to himself. He never had to deal with such terrain in Dalmasca.

Although Vaan assured him nothing was amiss, Basch makes the round for himself, anyway; Penelo is sleeping contently in one half of the tent, and Ashe – while certainly not content – is feigning sleep, eyes scrunched tight and knuckles white. He watches them both, for a moment, tent flaps pinned back in an attempt to best the humid night air. Balthier and Fran have set up camp on the opposite bank of the forest to “Ensure that nothing unsightly has the chance to accost our Princess,” and for a moment, Basch considers leaving them alone – something unspoken in the way of bonds between pirates makes him a little apprehensive – but, against his better judgment, and the fact that Fran could probably slay any fiend before he had a chance to fall into stance, Basch makes his way towards them.

If the night air wasn't so quiet, Basch would perhaps falter in his steps; as it is, he can hear nothing but the licks of flame, close enough to the makeshift campsite to light it dimly, but far enough so that it doesn't make the sticky summer night any hotter. Taking a step forward, and pushing a bush out of his way so that he can see clearly, Basch glances over at the tent, just to make sure tha—oh. Oh.

Basch bites his lip, and instinctively looks away. His fingers flex stiffly around the hilt of his sword, but this is not something he can fight.

This certainly isn't something he should have seen.

Recovering from his apparent moment of paralysis, Basch quickly steps to the side so that he is mostly hidden – not that they had noticed him, of course. Digging the sword into the ground, Basch takes a deep breath. How could they expect someone not to see them, like that? With palms splayed across the bark behind him he can feel all the patterns now, the knots and ravines of the tree, and so he tries to focus on what's beneath his fingers, not what he might have, probably did, definitely saw – he suddenly weakens and turns sharply, back to the camp.

Their tent is open for all of Ivalice to see (they must know, Basch reasons, they must know...) and under the symphony of crystal and fire light, Basch can see Fran laid back against a bundle of sleeping bags and – and so very naked. Like this, with the tent walls obscuring his view, he can see from her head to half way down her shins; and Balthier, hand rested against her knee and face atop that, is looking up at her – almost in a daze – a lopsided smile on his face, and murmuring something Basch can't quite make out. Fran props herself up on her elbows, and laughs softly – a softness that catches Basch off-guard. She is not so very fierce looking, stripped of her armour, stripped of everything but Balthier who has turned his words to action, and begins kissing inner her thighs, slowly, as if they don't have a kingdom to restore in the morning.

Closing her eyes, Fran's ears twitch, and for one heart-stopping moment, Basch thinks she's heard him.

Instead of leaving there and then, instead of doing the right thing, heady spores from strange, twisted trees do stranger things to his mind; Basch catches himself murmuring the first two syllables of vanish, and bites his tongue before he can finish the spell. With his skin malleable, almost monochromatic, he holds a hand to the moonlight, and slivers of dying light weave their way through his palm. Again, he considers turning, leaving like that, a ghostly shade, but with the first movement he makes a stick cracks under his boots. The sound echoes like a spiteful laugh; and a horrible fear grips him, as if he would be the one red-faced to be caught in such a situation.

This is as much for their privacy as his. He blinks once, twice, and the scene before him does not fade; with a final glance at Balthier and Fran – Balthier on Fran – Basch repeats the spell in full.

His tongue feels like lead. The rest of his body is stone, and Basch is not even visible to himself.

By now – he looks again; cannot help himself – Balthier has pushed himself up onto his palms so he is suspended over Fran. Reaching down he wipes her lips, gently, with his thumb, before replacing it with his mouth; he kisses her hard, pushing her back against the floor, and all Basch can is stop himself wondering how warm she must be, how firm her hand must feel on the back of his neck.

He grunts, once, without realising it. His nails have dug crescents into his palms.

There is a horrible feeling tugging at his stomach, and he has felt it before when faced with their freedom; envy. Flying the skies with nothing to bind or break them is one thing, but this – this is something Basch has been without for far too long.

Balthier does not kiss her for long, but Fran does little in the way of objecting; the moment he breaks away, she tilts her head back so that he might have all of her neck. Even at such a distance, Basch can still make out the way Fran punctuates each bite Balthier makes with a soft, sharp ah noise, can still see the way her lips curve into a smile and then part, breathlessly, as he licks and kisses against her throat.

Basch curses himself, but curses the damn pirates more; he feels as if he's fallen right into their trap, whether they know it or not. When Balthier's lips tire of her neck and trace across her collarbone and between her breasts, and Fran arches her body ever-so-slightly towards him, Basch knows he's truly been captured.

Basch's throat is tight, and he suddenly realises he's been holding his breath for too long. They would not – surely they would not begrudge him for doing this, would not judge him for such an act. It has been so very long since he's felt warm flesh against his own, a mouth hot against his chest: if the sight is all he can savour for now, then so be it.

Fingers shaking, he undoes his trousers, clumsily takes a hold of himself, and, gods, it has been far too long.

When he fixes his eyes on them again, shifting himself so that his elbow doesn't rustle the loose leaves as he moves, Balthier seems to be doing something akin to teasing. He kisses her as if he knows exactly what to do, exactly how to make her react, but purposely avoids those spots. Kissing around her breasts Fran – impatient, but not irritated – urges him on with a single low moan, and then arches her body so high they press together, flat, as Balthier flicks his tongue across her nipple, works his tongue in teasing circles for as long as she – he, they – can bear, before taking her in his mouth and sucking.

Basch's own grip tightens, but he restrains himself, dares not let his pace increase. When Balthier's tongue moves lower to glide across her stomach he can almost hear Fran purring at the contact, tries to imagine how it would feel to have a man such as Balthier, silver tongue and all, running across his own taunt muscles. It is almost too much, he almost breaks – it is nigh-on impossible to restrain himself when Balthier moves lower still, head between her legs, mouth moving against her.

This time, he definitely does hear Fran whimper and then moan, and quickly he shuts his eyes. Together, the sounds and sights are too much. He moves like this for a moment, and can already feel his legs going weak, but is determined not to give in until Fran, at least, has come, until –

He hears Fran moan Balthier's name, and then something else inaudible – it is as close as she will ever come to begging – and his eyes are forced open. Her hands are grasping the back of his head desperately as she arches into his mouth – and Balthier has his hands on her hips now, trying to keep her still. He moves his deft tongue across her, and when she behests it, in her. And how much easier it would be, Basch thinks, if it was his long hair Fran was tangling her fingers through, if it was his tongue making her writhe thus, if it was her he could taste against his lips rather than his own sweat.

The thought, coupled with the way she arches back one final time, the climax coming over her in waves, sends him over the edge. He bites against the back of his wrist to keep himself silenced, to keep himself hidden, but quickly has to to press both palms against the trunk before him when his knees no longer want to support him.

He pants, trying to blink away the haze of shattered stars and bright, mismatched colours from behind his eyes. His fingernails dig into the soft bark, and, attempting to regain some dignity, he wipes his hands against the nearby leaves.

Looking up, feeling dizzy and sick and satisfied all at once, he glances at them one more time. The scene is relaxed, much more dignified than he must look – vaguely, he realises the colour is returning to him – as Fran lays back, a hazy smile across her lips. All the original hunger that reflected in his eyes is lost to tenderness as Balthier kisses her stomach, brushing his fingers across the side of her hip, allowing her time to catch her breath.

Pulling his sword from the earth he takes up his charge once more, and knows well enough not to interrupt them again.

Comments

[canis-m.livejournal.com]

Really lovely imagery here, and great attention to scene-setting.

heady spores from strange, twisted trees do stranger things to his mind

That's right, Basch, BLAME THE TREES.

[threewalls]

I like how Basch wants both of them, envies the feel of Balthier's mouth and Fran's taste.