Final Fantasy XII (Gabranth/Ffamran)
Jul. 28th, 2007 01:52 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: A Great Many Interesting Things
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sister_coyote
Rating: R
Word count: 1100
Warnings: Spoilery if you don't yet know who the characters in question are.
Summary: Ffamran knows this is not a good idea, and that is why he does it.
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Gabranth/Ffamran: Pulling rank - the armor comes off quickly once you know how it's done.
He tells himself he hates everything about being a Judge -- the duties, the banal intrigues, the confinement, real and symbolic both, within his armor -- but it is not quite true. The food is excellent. He had never eaten poorly, all his life, but his father had over the years lost interest in such mundanities as food, and as recently their household cook seems to have lost interest in taking special care of the feeding of a man who eats everything without praise or complaint. Too, fortified wine is readily available, and he fancies himself ready to explore the wide world of intoxicating beverages.
(In truth, he fancies himself ready to explore the wide world of a great many interesting things, things he has seen only on the stage and in his books, but he has not yet figured out how to attain those.)
He drinks when he comes off patrol, to forget the way he is trapped in this role, to daydream of the things he would rather be doing. There is something to the sweetness of the wine and the subtle burn of the brandy with which it is laced that makes him think of dens of iniquity, flamboyant clothing quite in contrast to the cold metal.
He is relaxed enough by his daydreaming to not stiffen when Gabranth -- who is not only a judge but a Magister -- sits down beside him, a glass of something in his own hand. They exchange pleasantries and then more pleasantries and slowly it penetrates his mind that Gabranth might -- just might -- be, in fact, flirting with him.
It is no strange thing to flirt back; it is a pastime he enjoys, both in reality and in his flights of fancy, although he has never thought to practice the art upon a Judge Magister. But this Magister is handsome and open of face; speaks quietly and well; does not laugh at his attempts. So though many times arose in their conversation when he could politely make his excuses, he does not. He lingers, until the hall is nearly empty and Gabranth says, "We could continue this in my chambers, if you like."
"Is this an order, sir?" Ffamran asks. His tongue is suddenly, inexplicably thick in his mouth, no longer light as it was when they were merely playing with the idea; and the fortified wine feels as though it has not so much settled in his stomach as evaporated up from his throat straight into his brain.
Gabranth hesitates, and then asks, "Would you like it to be?"
Ffamran doesn't say anything, unwilling for the moment to admit that he wants this -- even though he plays in his own mind at being a libertine, at being welcome to any desire. Not because Gabranth is a man, he has no problem there, but because Gabranth is a Magister. It is the embodiment of everything he does not want, and yet he finds that he does want it when it comes in this form, fair of face and half-amused. Which, really, is damnably inconvenient.
After a moment Gabranth says, "Follow me," and turns to stride down the hallway without looking back. After a few seconds that seem like much longer,Ffamran follows, the wine in his veins making him unsteady and the armor, still unfamiliar, making him more so.
Gabranth's quarters are as spacious as he would have expected from a Judge Magister, and yet spare: spartan in an elegant way that is nothing like what Ffamran would choose for himself. Ffamran fancies himself much too fond of creature comforts; he would have decorations, surely, perhaps a decanter of brandy on the side-table, sheets of some material more luxurious than the crisp cotton edge he can see where the coverlet is drawn back...
Gabranth stops his consideration with a kiss that is strong and uncompromising.
There are many pieces to Ffamran's armor, and yet Gabranth seems to know the secret: they do not all need to be unfastened individually. He can unfasten the chestplate from the shoulder-pieces and ease it off, and then remove shoulders and back all at once, without disassembling them. There's a trick to it, a trick Ffamran doesn't know, even though it's his armor -- and so he is stripped before he even realizes it, in the soft jerkin and cotton undershirt he wears to guard his skin from the edges of the metal.
Gabranth is still all armored, save his face, his fair head, his smile. Ffamran reaches for him and says, "I do not know -- "
"Be still," Gabranth says. "I will do it."
"Show me how," Ffamran says, and mislikes the breathy tone to his voice, and Gabranth smiles, wry, soft, but takes his hand anyway -- still covered in the leather underglove that protects his fingers from the joints and pinching mail of his gauntlet -- and guides it to the hidden catches of his armor. His armor is even more complex -- and even more fine -- than Ffamran's own.
"Here," Gabranth says, softly, and Ffamran's fingers find the place to put pressure so that the armpiece comes free easily in his hand, almost as if it has come free just by him wishing it. "Now the other side." Ffamran does as he is told, baring leather and the smooth contours of a bicep, and he wishes desperately that he was experienced enough to not be awed by that (the smooth double-curve of muscle, the skin not quite smooth). He is not. He is awed; his mouth is dry; his eyes are wide.
Gabranth shows him the way of removing his chestplate -- revealing the smooth ridges of abdominal muscles that Ffamran, with his slenderer build, knows he will never match -- and then the pouldrons, the greaves, the boots. He is on his knees, then, which puts him in a perfect position for what comes next. Gabranth's hand in his hair is not ungentle, and yet it does not falter. It is no wonder this man has so readily risen to command.
Afterward, having both sated and been sated, Ffamran relaxes against the sheets. Gabranth's hand lingers on his belly, like the hand of a pleased master on his favorite hound. Ffamran knows he should resent it and cannot; surely he is suited for the life he secretly seeks, because he privileges this pleasure over the honor of dignity? "Rest as long as you like," Gabranth said. "There is a bath down two flights, if you wish to clean yourself later."
"Thank you," Ffamran says, despite himself, and drifts.
Author:
sister_coyoteRating: R
Word count: 1100
Warnings: Spoilery if you don't yet know who the characters in question are.
Summary: Ffamran knows this is not a good idea, and that is why he does it.
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Gabranth/Ffamran: Pulling rank - the armor comes off quickly once you know how it's done.
He tells himself he hates everything about being a Judge -- the duties, the banal intrigues, the confinement, real and symbolic both, within his armor -- but it is not quite true. The food is excellent. He had never eaten poorly, all his life, but his father had over the years lost interest in such mundanities as food, and as recently their household cook seems to have lost interest in taking special care of the feeding of a man who eats everything without praise or complaint. Too, fortified wine is readily available, and he fancies himself ready to explore the wide world of intoxicating beverages.
(In truth, he fancies himself ready to explore the wide world of a great many interesting things, things he has seen only on the stage and in his books, but he has not yet figured out how to attain those.)
He drinks when he comes off patrol, to forget the way he is trapped in this role, to daydream of the things he would rather be doing. There is something to the sweetness of the wine and the subtle burn of the brandy with which it is laced that makes him think of dens of iniquity, flamboyant clothing quite in contrast to the cold metal.
He is relaxed enough by his daydreaming to not stiffen when Gabranth -- who is not only a judge but a Magister -- sits down beside him, a glass of something in his own hand. They exchange pleasantries and then more pleasantries and slowly it penetrates his mind that Gabranth might -- just might -- be, in fact, flirting with him.
It is no strange thing to flirt back; it is a pastime he enjoys, both in reality and in his flights of fancy, although he has never thought to practice the art upon a Judge Magister. But this Magister is handsome and open of face; speaks quietly and well; does not laugh at his attempts. So though many times arose in their conversation when he could politely make his excuses, he does not. He lingers, until the hall is nearly empty and Gabranth says, "We could continue this in my chambers, if you like."
"Is this an order, sir?" Ffamran asks. His tongue is suddenly, inexplicably thick in his mouth, no longer light as it was when they were merely playing with the idea; and the fortified wine feels as though it has not so much settled in his stomach as evaporated up from his throat straight into his brain.
Gabranth hesitates, and then asks, "Would you like it to be?"
Ffamran doesn't say anything, unwilling for the moment to admit that he wants this -- even though he plays in his own mind at being a libertine, at being welcome to any desire. Not because Gabranth is a man, he has no problem there, but because Gabranth is a Magister. It is the embodiment of everything he does not want, and yet he finds that he does want it when it comes in this form, fair of face and half-amused. Which, really, is damnably inconvenient.
After a moment Gabranth says, "Follow me," and turns to stride down the hallway without looking back. After a few seconds that seem like much longer,Ffamran follows, the wine in his veins making him unsteady and the armor, still unfamiliar, making him more so.
Gabranth's quarters are as spacious as he would have expected from a Judge Magister, and yet spare: spartan in an elegant way that is nothing like what Ffamran would choose for himself. Ffamran fancies himself much too fond of creature comforts; he would have decorations, surely, perhaps a decanter of brandy on the side-table, sheets of some material more luxurious than the crisp cotton edge he can see where the coverlet is drawn back...
Gabranth stops his consideration with a kiss that is strong and uncompromising.
There are many pieces to Ffamran's armor, and yet Gabranth seems to know the secret: they do not all need to be unfastened individually. He can unfasten the chestplate from the shoulder-pieces and ease it off, and then remove shoulders and back all at once, without disassembling them. There's a trick to it, a trick Ffamran doesn't know, even though it's his armor -- and so he is stripped before he even realizes it, in the soft jerkin and cotton undershirt he wears to guard his skin from the edges of the metal.
Gabranth is still all armored, save his face, his fair head, his smile. Ffamran reaches for him and says, "I do not know -- "
"Be still," Gabranth says. "I will do it."
"Show me how," Ffamran says, and mislikes the breathy tone to his voice, and Gabranth smiles, wry, soft, but takes his hand anyway -- still covered in the leather underglove that protects his fingers from the joints and pinching mail of his gauntlet -- and guides it to the hidden catches of his armor. His armor is even more complex -- and even more fine -- than Ffamran's own.
"Here," Gabranth says, softly, and Ffamran's fingers find the place to put pressure so that the armpiece comes free easily in his hand, almost as if it has come free just by him wishing it. "Now the other side." Ffamran does as he is told, baring leather and the smooth contours of a bicep, and he wishes desperately that he was experienced enough to not be awed by that (the smooth double-curve of muscle, the skin not quite smooth). He is not. He is awed; his mouth is dry; his eyes are wide.
Gabranth shows him the way of removing his chestplate -- revealing the smooth ridges of abdominal muscles that Ffamran, with his slenderer build, knows he will never match -- and then the pouldrons, the greaves, the boots. He is on his knees, then, which puts him in a perfect position for what comes next. Gabranth's hand in his hair is not ungentle, and yet it does not falter. It is no wonder this man has so readily risen to command.
Afterward, having both sated and been sated, Ffamran relaxes against the sheets. Gabranth's hand lingers on his belly, like the hand of a pleased master on his favorite hound. Ffamran knows he should resent it and cannot; surely he is suited for the life he secretly seeks, because he privileges this pleasure over the honor of dignity? "Rest as long as you like," Gabranth said. "There is a bath down two flights, if you wish to clean yourself later."
"Thank you," Ffamran says, despite himself, and drifts.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-07-28 09:07 pm (UTC)one tense issue: He can unfastened the chestplate -- but quite lovely.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 12:07 am (UTC)and thank you!
no subject
Date: 2007-07-28 09:08 pm (UTC)Gabranth being both nice but just...not forceful, but just sure. It's neat.
Yay for him.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 12:07 am (UTC)er.
apparently. :D
Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2007-07-28 09:25 pm (UTC)Also, so very much love for Ffamran's flights of fancy--for being somewhat infatuated by things in their conceptual state.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 12:50 am (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-28 09:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-28 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 12:54 am (UTC)He really is -- not quite adult, but fully aware that he is not quite an adult, and longing for it.
no subject
Date: 2007-07-29 06:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-09-02 05:49 am (UTC)It is good to see a side of Balthier when he is not the self0assured swashbuckler!