Final Fantasy XII, Balthier/Fran, spreader bars
There was but one element lacking from this fantasy.
Once aground for a week, the process of manufacturing a set of shackles took Balthier's mind from his undeniable intentions. As he approached craft with the same flair and detailing that had earned the Strahl its renown, his slightly imperfect welding was finished with a grind, a polish, and a thick strip of padded fur affixed to the inner circle.
Yet in the aftermath of his intense labour, Balthier set the spreader bar aside, along with the rest of his other unfulfilled aspirations, into the lockbox at the foot of his bunk. Fran was – worth more than how he would treat her. Unworthy of him to even think of Fran constrained, when of all the partners he had, she had a spirit that deserved liberation.
It also proved unworthy of him to think of Fran as anything but a pirate, for it was as a pirate that she picked the mechanism of his lockbox.
The sight shocked Balthier, Fran kneeling amidst the guts of his inner self. She cradled a leather gag as though she toyed with a puzzle. The expression in her eyes was unreadable, but her lips were moist, her ears quivering.
Balthier considered his options then, desires that always proved conflicted between convention and response, want and need, an outward life that must be maintained and the longing that ever went unspoken.
He could pretend bravado, at least.
'That one's not for you, I could hardly want to silence the six words I can coax from you per week.' Balthier lowered himself beside Fran. His unease flared to distress. He could not sight the spreader bar.
'Balthier.' Fran touched his arm, her fingers chill. As he met her eyes, she lowered hers. He followed.
Fran knelt awkwardly, her ankles far apart.
Balthier could not condone how desperate his breath suddenly sounded.
'You will have to help me rise.' Fran's palm was clammy, but she met his eyes, she took his hand. 'I cannot, on my own.'
And so Balthier helped her rise, an image of courteous gentleman and wilting flower that struck him as painfully incongruous. Fran wrapped her fingers about the low doorframe, knowing without need for another word. She licked her lips, yet kept her eyes upon him.
He began on her corsetry. It gave Balthier undue satisfaction to liberate Fran from all constraint but his own.
At the junction of Fran's thighs, where nothing could hide, trace wetness caught the light.
How long had Fran waited for his return? The blade of his hand tested between buttocks and folds to find both textured so wetly he suspected the answer was long. Balthier could not let himself think further than this, Fran's incapacity to deny him leisurely exploration, his own unwillingness to broach her trust.
And she did trust him to have allowed herself to be limited so. She had affixed locks to her manacles without even assurance he still possessed the key.
Balthier wanted to moan, but thought the sound would be incongruent with the depth of current activity. He knelt instead, only to kiss the bare places around Fran's hips. Above him Fran made small sounds, her hips moving cautiously against his fingers. Such was the unspoken need inherent that Balthier surrendered a finger, and another, fore and rear, back and forth, but always one, somewhere. He was unwilling to break this sole point of connection. The long muscles in Fran's legs quivered.
As Balthier brought his thumb to bear, a choked sound fought free of Fran's lips. A circlet of sudden wetness came to a point on Balthier's middle knuckle, to fall to the deck.
Balthier withdrew his hand. 'You'll wait,' he asked, he stated, 'you'll wait here, exactly like this, spread, until I come back.'
Fran agreed with her continued conformance. The lines of exposed underarms, hollowed collarbones and a heaving belly presented such an unexpected vulnerability on her form that Balthier felt desire threatening his own restraint.
'I will not ask how long,' Fran whispered.
It was outside his cabin that Balthier at last slumped as he had wished to, his chest heaving as though he had gone without breath for too long.
The novelty struck Balthier: everything he felt was for the first time wholly, utterly guiltless.