coyote (sister_coyote) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2007-09-08 22:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | a: sister_coyote, f: final fantasy xii, p: larsa/vayne, september 08 |
"Chill on the Air," Final Fantasy XII (Vayne/Larsa)
Title: Chill on the Air
Author: Sister Coyote
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Vaguely shota/badtouch implications.
Word Count: 350
Prompt: Final Fantasy XII, Larsa/Vayne: unresolved sexual tension - velvet and fur
Summary: "At midwinter it is not uncommon even for one of your age to have something stronger to keep the cold night at bay. And you will not come to harm here, with me."
Vayne has spent the past four winters in the provinces, where it is warmer; he has forgotten the chill on the air in Archades at midwinter. So it is that, when he calls for his brother, he is wrapped tight in a blanket of velvet in the Solidor colors on one side, and dark lush fur on the other. Larsa comes, fair and dark as winter itself, more serious than Vayne remembers. He is not sure if he is pleased or displeased.
"Sit with me," he says; "I have not seen enough of you these past years."
Larsa comes to sit beside him, shyly. He is -- how old, eleven? Something like that. Vayne has sent him a gift for every year-change and regrets that he did not keep close track enough of those years to know his age exactly. Larsa comes to sit close to him, close but not touching. Vayne does not try to force him closer. He merely drapes the edge of the blanket around Larsa's shoulders and raises his hand to signal one of the servants.
"A cup of hot buttered rum for me," he says, "and one of warm cider for my brother. With perhaps a twist of brandy to take the chill off."
When the maidservant is safely gone, Larsa says, musingly, "Father does not permit me liquors yet. Only watered sweet wines."
Larsa's eyes are large, liquid; his skin is finer than ivory, his hair a dark curl against his throat. Vayne brushes it back with his fingertips; it is smoother than the fur, smooth as silk. "Do not be concerned," he says. "At midwinter it is not uncommon even for one of your age to have something stronger to keep the cold night at bay. And you will not come to harm here, with me."
"I am not afraid," Larsa says, and lays his head against the curved back of the couch. It takes only a hand on his shoulder to urge him closer, so that he leans against Vayne: warm, bird-boned, beautiful. He is like a small bird in the hand: delicate, but brilliant with the possibilities of flight.
"Good," says Vayne.