kinkfest | With Spite [FFXII: OGC, Fran/Ashe] (Reply)

Title: With Spite
Author:

ellnyx
Rating: PG
Prompt: JUNE 15 - Final Fantasy XII: OGC, Fran/Ashe: adrenaline-fuelled rough sex - look so good covered in the enemy's blood
Summary: Blood will always tell in the end.

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The upswing of Fran's blade fanned red across stone. That blade was Basch's, yesterday, the pair swapping weapons with a mutual desire to test each other's abilities. Ashe could not glance away from the edge of that battered metal, the gore lesser for that it belonged to a monster, not a man.

And of the men, (she thought, with spite), they were still at the camp and no doubt crouched over a map littered with Balthier's cramped red script, Vossler contradicting each word in level tones yet with a caprice more suited to a child; and of the children (she thought, with scorn), they would be huddled together in an effort to find warmth against the ancestral chill that Ashe will not let bend her spine.

Red swift-turned to black on Raithwall's stones, and Fran panted with all her front teeth bared, and at the sight of the warrior Ashe remembered her own bloody lineage. Only Fran rose to guard when Ashe stalked away in an ill-temper, without even man or child offering either of them more than a glance; Fran spoke no words of contradiction, no suggestion of a path of wisdom. When inevitability set upon them in the form of blood-hungry bats, Fran, taller and alert, ripped the flight and life alike from each fluttering scavenger.

In a time so long ago it seemed another life, Ashe knew many viera, her father's trusted advisors, those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with Vossler and Basch in council: small wonder those two men did not flinch when Fran assumed this responsibility of guarding the dynast's heir. It was that past knowledge of viera that told Ashe this: Fran's cold gaze came not from her race, but her type, a pirate's partner.

Fran regarded Ashe, the flicker of pulse still high and hard in her throat. She did not sheathe the sword. It still hung wet from her hand. Ashe quested but could find only calculation within Fran's gaze, a measuring quantification of a dynast's worth that far outstripped Balthier's stare, for of that latter at least he appraised even a queen with somewhat of the warmth every man felt for a woman—

Fran attended that dripping blade with the vambrace of her left wrist. Ashe knew that black fabric softer than leather, closer to suede, and small wonder Fran preferred her attacks based on distance with such little protection.

'You stare,' the viera said, without accusation.

'You shed blood on my behalf. Why?'

The smile was softer than Ashe expected, warm with a satisfaction unexpected. 'I shed blood as proof of my own whole hide.' The viera spun that blade from hand to hand with evident skill, as flashy as a sky pirate's song.

Within, Ashe felt something akin to the dying flutter of a downed bat. She could pretend it was calculation that moved her to claim Fran's lips with the chaste intent of a lord claiming his servant: Fran shed blood for her, and Ashe had ever measured the worth of a man by this act. Why not a woman? A woman at least lacked the underlying drive that placed all men in Ashe's service: Fran could only be motivated by belief in rightness. And did not viera, even those displaced, treasure land and blood bonds beyond all else?

But the taste of salt disrupted all coherent thought; Ashe parted her lips. Her motivation was suspect.

Ashe found her ancestor's stone rigid cold against her spine, and Fran's lips warm and violent, demanding; the viera bit even as fingers, claws, delved up under shirt and breast-binding to find soft flesh and squeeze, harder, both at once and enough to have Ashe cede a gasp to that demanding mouth (a taste, alien, like dusky smoke or perchance the over-smoked ham from dinner, invasive and overwhelming). A thigh forced twixt Ashe's own, that all her balance was lost against the crux of weight that drove and flexed (thick, Fran's thighs, more so that her exquisite proportion would indicate, near masculine with muscle); Ashe felt damp with an elongated keening that demanded, response, more than this chafing, as though the irritation that had driven her to flee the camp and the men that debated her path came down to this; she wanted Fran's mouth, warm wet and thrusting tongue, to worship her.

'Ah gods,' Ashe shuddered, fingers formless and seeking sanctuary of reason about Fran's unbowed spine, the dip and swell of flesh so familiar and slick, spattered, with the gore of engagement, 'tis for my treasure,' (Ashe wailed, to convince herself,) 'you shed blood for that, not a throne nor my self-worth, for plunder only, you want for naught but treasure!'

Fran laughed, rich and full and long, 'Ashelia, I am a sky pirate, not merely the partner of one; where he seeks quantifiable goods think you not this,' a finger and thumb turned against a too-hard nipple, that Ashe cried out, in assent, 'enough treasure for my liking? Side quests, a gentleman of our mutual acquaintance would say, are often the most significant value-adding component of each venture.' The fingers turned to cruelty, the voice to a hiss in an ear eager for anything. 'Whatever pleasure you gain from the sight of me bejeweled in the blood of your enemies, oh Dynast Queen, know that I do not fight your battle.'

'For lust!' Ashelia shrieked when she wanted to growl, her hips unable to cease their quest for satiation (Fran did growl, to press firmer, closer, lips pressed to a sweating forehead with a fringe of ash an irritation between). 'I am the rightful Queen! I have ever put my faith in viera to know the importance of rightful place!'

'But I am a pirate,' Fran repeated, with at last a look in her eyes, a shadow, a suggestion of disturbance (could the balance of power shift, Ashe wondered, yet did not want the hands that held her to loose their grip). 'A pirate, no viera, and if you would want this, you must treat with me as a pirate. With treasure, with acquaintance, for ancient lineage holds no value to me.'

With that Fran disengaged, to leave Ashe grimed with more blood than her past guardians would permit. She could but glance down at the marks on her flesh, the bloodied handprints, and know her shame would be brightly evident on their return to camp.

'Vossler was right,' Ashe called, the viera's broad shoulders slack with arrogance, 'you and Balthier, pirates and the lowest of thieves to loot a broken kingdom's grave.'

'Yet I do not loot from you,' Fran retorted, calm even in revocation, 'but merely propose: unlike Vossler, I will not remake your decisions for you, nor will I demand your acquiescence. You kissed me first, Ashelia; consider your motivations, not mine.'

And to that Ashe could not respond, left burning with a remembrance of the light-furred cheek that had rasped against her own, the rousing desire that had come so momentarily, and departed again with swift shamelessness, as the disrespectful always would.

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