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kinkfestTitle: Home
Author: anime_angel_ash
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Spoilers for Fran's backstory, and Balthier's if you squint.
Warnings: Dub-con, vague sexual descriptions
Word Count: 1169
Summary: There's something about the Esper that draws her ceaselessly back.
Prompt: June 18 - Final Fantasy XII, Fran/Mateus: bondage, cold water/ice play - Mateus was winter in the Wood, the chill of death amidst so much life. Better put, he was Balance itself.
A/N: I took a few liberties with the concept of 'balance' and what that would mean to Fran. Hopefully, it didn't end up being too obscure.
There were many things that Balthier didn't understand. That, of course, was not an insult in the slightest. Indeed, he probably had a greater understanding of the world around him than any other hume Fran had ever known, particularly the phenomenon currently at the forefront of her consideration. That, she knew for a fact; she had once or twice glimpsed his expression as he summoned Ultima (or, strangely enough, Famfrit), and the look of idyllic bewilderment that marred his flawless countenance was unmistakable.
However, therein lay the problem: it bewildered him. Unfortunately for Balthier, his many mothers had cast aside nature in the name of a more controlled, mechanized existence (not that Fran could blame them; she had quite willingly done the same not fifty years past). Hence, just as he and his people were deaf to the Green Word, they were all but numb to those things which lingered beyond their normal perception. For instance, if she spoke of more timely considerations, the whispers of the Espers they so often summoned went largely unheard. At most, as in the case of Balthier, humes merely felt a flicker of sensation at the very edges of their minds, and no more.
Meanwhile, Fran was not quite sure if she appreciated or disdained the fact that such was not the case with her.
She knew what was coming long before she took to bed. She had felt it early, after an arduous battle with a pack of Malboros, as she tore them apart at the stems and extracted their pungent fruits. A chill had run up her spine, condensed at a point, as if leisurely drawn across the bone by the pad of a finger. Thus, when the party chose to rest for the night, convening about a pitiful fire that was just able to beat back the darkness of her sisters’ forest, she wasn’t at all surprised when she felt a fierce chill overtake her.
A part of Fran suddenly longed to turn back the clock, to take this one Esper amongst their collection who had no qualms toying with a few “lesser” beings and offer him to another one of her comrades.
Then, the larger part of her. The part that made her rise from her place at the fire, bid her companions goodnight, and turn in early as their curious whispers followed her past the tent canvas (or, in the case of Vaan, near-shouts that were intended to be whispers). The part that welcomed what was to come.
---
Mateus’ laugh was, unsurprisingly, as cold as everything else about him. Fran shuddered at the sound of it, viscous arrogance laced, think and heavy, through his voice. Doubtlessly, the fact that she had so willingly submitted to his company did little to lessen his unwavering egotism. In that way, this was partially her fault. Still, Fran could not say she appreciated the way the Esper shifted out of the dream nothing around her, tracing a finger between her breasts to the tip of her chin, then tapping her on the nose.
Any other creature would have met its abrupt end for that. Even Balthier would have found himself with an excess of scars to attach untruths to, and a distinct lack of a partner. However, here, Fran merely shut her eyes and turned her head away, trying to keep her jaw from setting behind her lips.
Mateus laughed again—it wasn't just the cold that made Fran shiver to hear it—and wasted no more time. Forcing his fingers beneath the lip of the armor covering her sides, he rent it, shredding the metal like a dry leaf. She bent her head as he did it (the sound would be unpleasant enough to half-deaf hume ears), and kept it there as he cut through the armor covering her breasts and yanked it aside.
Instincts wouldn't allow her to become accustomed to his cold breath. Things that lived, things that had the ability to breathe, breathed hot; none were cold inside and out. This was not so, of course, for an ice Esper. She felt it at her neck, over her chest as he scrutinized her (a beast over prey, a pirate over loot, a—), and she pondered if that was why he kept their encounters to her dreamscape; Mateus could no doubt freeze a living heart, and most likely without intent.
He wasn't gentle, or patient. He clamped his hands onto her hips, claws digging in—painful even in a dreamworld—and smirked with a mouth she could feel rather than see. She expected claws in her soon, pulling and tearing, only numbed by the fact that she would wake without mark.
That, however, seemed to contain a certain lack of vulnerability—one could brace for the familiar. As Fran closed her eyes, prepared for the familiar pain-pleasure, she was engulfed by that bitter cold, pricking at every inch of her. Suddenly, her wrists flew above her head, her legs slammed together, and she was hit with such a blast of cold that even her pride could not stop the gasp of shock and pain that left her lips.
This was a cold that burned, that pulled at the flesh and froze the joints. This was a cold that a viera, lost without some defense, hated. Instinctively, she squirmed against the hold, only to feel that chuckle against her back, through her bones, and she knew where she was. Suddenly, she pitied the ice goddess for her eternal position here—it was better than pitying herself.
Clawed fingers found her easily, trapped as she was, traced tiny indentations into her skin (a beast marking its territory). His laugh was almost enough to shake the chill from her, mocking her weakness and her pain, and Fran cursed herself for letting the Esper see either. She refused, then, to scream when those claws slid between her locked thighs. Instead, she threw her head back, making her own cold of defiance and pride.
Mateus laughed again, gently taking her chin in his free hand (and that was even worse, even more infuriating than the claws) and touching her face like a lover. Suddenly, she could feel the chill wind of the Paramina Rift drifting through the forest, felt it prickling the fur of her ears as her youngest sisters giggled and whined over it. She felt the Golmore winter, the way her and her sisters' armor would freeze during patrol and they would suffer it with a collective grumble. She felt that which she had left so long ago, and she sighed, nearly in appreciation. Mateus' mocking chuckle and claws that drove inside her, made her wince but not cry out, no longer mattered. Nothing did; she was home.
When she woke, covered in a film of sweat and shivering still, Balthier was smiling suavely at her, thinking it was his face she saw in her dreams.
He didn't understand, not yet, so she let him believe it.
Author: anime_angel_ash
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Spoilers for Fran's backstory, and Balthier's if you squint.
Warnings: Dub-con, vague sexual descriptions
Word Count: 1169
Summary: There's something about the Esper that draws her ceaselessly back.
Prompt: June 18 - Final Fantasy XII, Fran/Mateus: bondage, cold water/ice play - Mateus was winter in the Wood, the chill of death amidst so much life. Better put, he was Balance itself.
A/N: I took a few liberties with the concept of 'balance' and what that would mean to Fran. Hopefully, it didn't end up being too obscure.
There were many things that Balthier didn't understand. That, of course, was not an insult in the slightest. Indeed, he probably had a greater understanding of the world around him than any other hume Fran had ever known, particularly the phenomenon currently at the forefront of her consideration. That, she knew for a fact; she had once or twice glimpsed his expression as he summoned Ultima (or, strangely enough, Famfrit), and the look of idyllic bewilderment that marred his flawless countenance was unmistakable.
However, therein lay the problem: it bewildered him. Unfortunately for Balthier, his many mothers had cast aside nature in the name of a more controlled, mechanized existence (not that Fran could blame them; she had quite willingly done the same not fifty years past). Hence, just as he and his people were deaf to the Green Word, they were all but numb to those things which lingered beyond their normal perception. For instance, if she spoke of more timely considerations, the whispers of the Espers they so often summoned went largely unheard. At most, as in the case of Balthier, humes merely felt a flicker of sensation at the very edges of their minds, and no more.
Meanwhile, Fran was not quite sure if she appreciated or disdained the fact that such was not the case with her.
She knew what was coming long before she took to bed. She had felt it early, after an arduous battle with a pack of Malboros, as she tore them apart at the stems and extracted their pungent fruits. A chill had run up her spine, condensed at a point, as if leisurely drawn across the bone by the pad of a finger. Thus, when the party chose to rest for the night, convening about a pitiful fire that was just able to beat back the darkness of her sisters’ forest, she wasn’t at all surprised when she felt a fierce chill overtake her.
A part of Fran suddenly longed to turn back the clock, to take this one Esper amongst their collection who had no qualms toying with a few “lesser” beings and offer him to another one of her comrades.
Then, the larger part of her. The part that made her rise from her place at the fire, bid her companions goodnight, and turn in early as their curious whispers followed her past the tent canvas (or, in the case of Vaan, near-shouts that were intended to be whispers). The part that welcomed what was to come.
---
Mateus’ laugh was, unsurprisingly, as cold as everything else about him. Fran shuddered at the sound of it, viscous arrogance laced, think and heavy, through his voice. Doubtlessly, the fact that she had so willingly submitted to his company did little to lessen his unwavering egotism. In that way, this was partially her fault. Still, Fran could not say she appreciated the way the Esper shifted out of the dream nothing around her, tracing a finger between her breasts to the tip of her chin, then tapping her on the nose.
Any other creature would have met its abrupt end for that. Even Balthier would have found himself with an excess of scars to attach untruths to, and a distinct lack of a partner. However, here, Fran merely shut her eyes and turned her head away, trying to keep her jaw from setting behind her lips.
Mateus laughed again—it wasn't just the cold that made Fran shiver to hear it—and wasted no more time. Forcing his fingers beneath the lip of the armor covering her sides, he rent it, shredding the metal like a dry leaf. She bent her head as he did it (the sound would be unpleasant enough to half-deaf hume ears), and kept it there as he cut through the armor covering her breasts and yanked it aside.
Instincts wouldn't allow her to become accustomed to his cold breath. Things that lived, things that had the ability to breathe, breathed hot; none were cold inside and out. This was not so, of course, for an ice Esper. She felt it at her neck, over her chest as he scrutinized her (a beast over prey, a pirate over loot, a—), and she pondered if that was why he kept their encounters to her dreamscape; Mateus could no doubt freeze a living heart, and most likely without intent.
He wasn't gentle, or patient. He clamped his hands onto her hips, claws digging in—painful even in a dreamworld—and smirked with a mouth she could feel rather than see. She expected claws in her soon, pulling and tearing, only numbed by the fact that she would wake without mark.
That, however, seemed to contain a certain lack of vulnerability—one could brace for the familiar. As Fran closed her eyes, prepared for the familiar pain-pleasure, she was engulfed by that bitter cold, pricking at every inch of her. Suddenly, her wrists flew above her head, her legs slammed together, and she was hit with such a blast of cold that even her pride could not stop the gasp of shock and pain that left her lips.
This was a cold that burned, that pulled at the flesh and froze the joints. This was a cold that a viera, lost without some defense, hated. Instinctively, she squirmed against the hold, only to feel that chuckle against her back, through her bones, and she knew where she was. Suddenly, she pitied the ice goddess for her eternal position here—it was better than pitying herself.
Clawed fingers found her easily, trapped as she was, traced tiny indentations into her skin (a beast marking its territory). His laugh was almost enough to shake the chill from her, mocking her weakness and her pain, and Fran cursed herself for letting the Esper see either. She refused, then, to scream when those claws slid between her locked thighs. Instead, she threw her head back, making her own cold of defiance and pride.
Mateus laughed again, gently taking her chin in his free hand (and that was even worse, even more infuriating than the claws) and touching her face like a lover. Suddenly, she could feel the chill wind of the Paramina Rift drifting through the forest, felt it prickling the fur of her ears as her youngest sisters giggled and whined over it. She felt the Golmore winter, the way her and her sisters' armor would freeze during patrol and they would suffer it with a collective grumble. She felt that which she had left so long ago, and she sighed, nearly in appreciation. Mateus' mocking chuckle and claws that drove inside her, made her wince but not cry out, no longer mattered. Nothing did; she was home.
When she woke, covered in a film of sweat and shivering still, Balthier was smiling suavely at her, thinking it was his face she saw in her dreams.
He didn't understand, not yet, so she let him believe it.
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