Title: Cruzada Author:sugared Fandom: Final Fantasy XII Pairing: Fran/Vossler Rating: R. Warnings: None in particular. Recipient:sheffiesharpe
My thanks to Sheffie for creating such a delightful sandbox, and for allowing me to nod to Tango thus.
Abrazo
It begins with a kiss.
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Eje
Fran blinks slowly, the mark of a predator. Her eyes catch light like those of a great cat’s, reflecting eerily in near darkness. It’s enough to spook even the hardiest of men.
Basch has said often in jest that she is far more like the panthers of her native Golmore than the sweet dreamhares found on the plains. But, Vossler reflects, Basch has never felt the stutter of her hands when lips or fingers touch the fur lining her ears. Nor has he seen those eerie eyes shut slow and stay closed, her lips welcoming the night air into her lungs.
Vossler counts himself lucky, to be permitted to touch her in this way, but he is no fool.
She is not tamed.
But he is becoming so.
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Sacada
Vossler is startled awake by the feel of cool desert air brushing his cheek. He is sure he closed the window—but the castle has been so busy of late, with preparations for Princess-no, Queen Ashe’s formal coronation that he has had little sleep, so perhaps. Perhaps, but unlikely. Years of war have conditioned him well. No, the window was closed, and he is sure it was closed. Then, how—
A noise, behind, and he should roll over, should be ready for the intruder, just in case—
The wind shifts, and he catches the scent of earth into his lungs. No, this is no simple intruder, this is—
He should roll, he should turn, should confront her, this sort of thing is not permitted in the palace, has never been, will never be, but who is he to scold her, who is he to think he can control a sky pirate, control Balthier’s partner (and he has never envied nor hated another so), control Fran, and if he turns to face her, he is sure she will vanish, in the same way the dew is already giving way to the morning sun, so he lies still.
Her warmth touches his back, and he shakes, though he is not chilled.
---
Rodillas
This is not where he is meant to be, but it is where he should be.
By the Gods, she is magnificent.
---
Parejas
Ashe indulges Vossler with the occasional smile. She does not, never will approve of Fran (or Balthier’s) vocation, but her General is at ease, and Fran joins him more often than she does not, so Ashe confesses to Basch that despite her initial misgivings about the sky pirate pair, all seems well enough now. Still, she tells him, she worries, for she would not see one of the men dearest to her brought down, and she fears that he would allow just such a thing, if it came from Fran.
Basch confides all this in Vossler.
Vossler denies every word of it.
But he hopes.
---
Mira
Their arms hold like foils; their feet spar choreographed, the open toe of her shoe sliding first up his calf and then touching the thin leather covering his own. She anticipates his lead in ways no one has ever done, and perhaps she hears the tension in his muscle, the uncoiling of each tendon, because she turns her body out to meet his chest again. (*)
Vossler wakes.
The sheets are sticky.
He gives them to the laundress, strangely ashamed, and even more strangely emboldened.
---
Golpes
Balthier is waiting for her, she explains patiently, and he is as willing to wait for anything as a child is willing to wait for a sweetmeat. She can--and she laughs, and Vossler can feel her amusement in his throat—she can, she says, very nearly hear him tapping his feet even from here.
He will, she is sure, throw a fit, and likely sulk. She touches Vossler’s face, rough stubble coming in, and he needs a shave and a bath, though she doesn’t seem to care. Her Balthier (hers—the possessive there itches) is not a patient child, and yes, she indulges him overmuch, but he will come ‘round, she is sure.
Besides, and Vossler’s spirits and ego lift, Balthier is not half so good a dancer as he.
---
Firulete
Fran smiles at the gift, indulgent. Vossler has no eye for such trinkets and is sadly aware of it. He nearly stumbles over himself to explain that if she has no desire for it, nor need, he will gladly return it, and she need not trouble herself that he be offended, nay, he ought worry the same himself, for such a gift as this is presumptuous, and he ought not have made it without first considering it with her, or taking Balthier’s counsel.
Bone. Bone and shell, and perhaps he ought not have, no, but he did think it might suit her, and although he is saddened when she says nothing and leaves…
He does note, when next he catches the two pirates tucked away cheerfully in Dalmasca’s treasury (and Balthier, so bold as to be sipping at some tea), a familiar flash of cream about Fran’s neck.
His heart lifts, and nothing can dash his hopes against the rocks, not even Basch’s jests and teasing, nor Ashe asking him what happened to give her General nanna eyes.
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Entregarme
This is not the way of things. The man leads the woman, and so it is done, has always been done, will always be done. Vossler takes Fran’s hand, and they are equals here, her heel touching his leg, drawing fire into his chest even as they spin, and his hands threaten to steal the very sky from her lungs.
But away, he cannot help but bend to her, cannot help but wait for her eyes, her damned, haunting, hunter’s eyes. On his knees, she commands him, and here he is no longer Basch’s shieldbrother, Ashe’s general, or any of a thousand other titles he has taken on or been given, or wished for. Before her, before Fran, the skin of her thigh warm beneath his hand, he is himself only, Vossler only, hers only, and he is content with this, happy with this, blessed by this.
She is not tame. She cannot be, never will be, must never be.