sheffiesharpe (sheffiesharpe) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2007-09-25 21:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | a: sheffiesharpe, f: final fantasy xii, p: balthier/reddas, september 25 |
"By Any Definition," FFXII (Balthier/Reddas)
Title: By Any Definition
Author: sheffiesharpe
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Balthier/Reddas
Rating: R
Length: 1000 words
Spoilers: Identity spoilers (mid- to late-game)
A/N: Prompt: Partially clothed sex—“The balcony provides quite a view of the port.”
“Remind me, again, how I ended up in this position.” Reddas can’t quite cover all of the laughter with exasperation. Balthier remembers that tone—when they both had different names.
“You underestimated my complete dedication, my utter prowess, and my impeccable sense of timing with regard to all of my endeavors.” Balthier stretches his arms, molds himself closer against Reddas’s back, and he grips the balcony railing on either side of the pirate king’s hands. He is taller, now, than his former mentor, though still less broad.
Reddas grins—though he does not turn his head, and Balthier does not tilt to look, the soft white of his beard lifts slightly. “You were a piss-poor judge. Entirely lacking in dedication for the last year.”
“That was not one of my endeavors. You were a piss-poor disciplinarian, too.” Balthier would like to get his former supervisor’s vest off, to see exactly how much muscle he has bent in front of him, but to do this with Reddas’s gaudy pink shorts around his thighs adds too much to the glorious indignity of it all. “Were either of us good at it, we’d not be having such an—” Balthier leans into him, presses him to the rail, and he’s wanted this longer than he knows. “—an advantageous discussion.”
Reddas’s laughter thrums under his skin. “Is that what this is?” The ripple in his spine, though, certainly feels advantageous.
“You could say no.” Balthier speaks as though he were pointing out the buildings below them—shipping office, the technics shop, the Whitecap and Pretty Colleen’s—or explaining the way to the chocobo hostler’s. “Of course, I’d be forced to tell all and sundry that the first honest pirate king can’t keep a bet. But you could say no.” Balthier rubs his thumbs over the backs of Reddas’s hands. They are both more brown than they had been, but the contrast is the same.
Reddas sighs, the long-suffering exhale of the one who is invited to one more glass of wine, just one last bite of pastry. “There must ever be honor among thieves.” He lifts his face skyward, and the brush of his ear against Balthier’s cheek is no accident. “Do your worst.” He makes as if to step away from the banister.
“Ah, but the balcony provides such a lovely view of the port.” Balthier keeps his hands anchored and trusts to Judge Magister Zecht’s old appreciation of audacity to keep him where he is. Certainly Balthier would not object to doing this in Reddas’s gigantic bed—the sheer possibilities of space there—but here Reddas’s Gwynedd rocks at her moorings so prettily below them, and sails white and cliché-black dot the sea at various distances. The Gwynedd is a fetching ship, exactly the thing Balthier would want if he ever had a yen for water, and it had been nice to play captain for a day. Some ink, some vellum, and a bit of sealing wax, and he and Fran had swung her out to sea, not a word of protest from anyone. At least, no protest until they brought the ship back, and Reddas was waiting on the dock.
“Would be a shame to waste such a picturesque setting.” Balthier nudges Reddas’s chin, so the Gwynedd’s white and red sails are centered in his vision, lets his fingers drift down the taut cord of his neck, settle on his shoulder.
Reddas shakes his head by fractions, rolls his shoulder, but rests more fully against the railing. “I want the copy you made of my seal.” There is another puff of laughter Reddas cannot quite contain. “I could use a spare.” His left hand reaches back, gropes for Balthier’s pouch, is evaded easily. He slides his hand up Balthier’s thigh instead. “Forging bastard.”
“Long live the Ninth.” Balthier’s mouth twists as his hip does; only here, only with Reddas, can that be funny, because they both know how quickly they would cut short that Bureau, given the chance. It knows too much, and that will make their paths cross again, Balthier is sure of it, but this is not the time for that. He undoes the laces of Reddas’s shorts one-handed, not looking, and Reddas’s hand returns to his hip, but not searching this time, only holding.
“The tide will have gone out by the time you do anything. Won’t be any ships to look at. I’ll be bored.” Reddas props himself on the railing with his right elbow, cups his chin in his hand. But the angle of his jaw leaves it open to Balthier’s mouth, and the skin there is still spiced with the scent of his shaving lather.
“Shall I contact Fran? Ask her to take your girl out for another spin, so you can watch us steal her again?” Fran had taken to the ship immediately, and she was still aboard, for all that he knew. Once the ruse had been discovered and Reddas’s crew placated, Elza had taken Fran below-decks to look at the rudder mechanisms—no crude lever system those—and the cannon hold—of course Reddas’s ship still had cannon: the best technomancy could produce. Balthier rubs his palm across the open fabric and the flesh between that makes his hand stutter before it reaches the other side. He strokes, pushes the material down until it catches on the splay of Reddas’s thighs.
“The bet’s been tendered already. Doing it again will not yield the same results.” Reddas leans over more, looks at the street below, pushes into Balthier’s hand.
“Alas.” There hadn’t been any specific terms to their bet, made two years ago. The rogue Magister had merely said to the fledgling sky pirate that the day the boy was canny enough to thieve from the former head of the Ninth was the day Balthier—Reddas had used the new name from the first, and Balthier returned the favor—could have him any way he wanted him. Balthier opens his own trousers, presses close, and Reddas slips a bottle from Balthier’s right-hand pouch—he remembers that—and puts it in Balthier’s palm without looking. As Balthier slicks his fingers, they both look out over Balfonheim Port, at her weather-beaten storehouses and sand-brick taverns, at the burly porters on the quay, the shorebirds’ dip and cry, the glint of jewel and gold in the sun from earrings and sashes and blades, the blue fire of water, the white jags of cloud, the brown and pale of skin both below and where their left hands are joined on the rail. Quite a view indeed, by any definition that matters.