Final Fantasy XII, Fran à Balthier, voyeurism
He is slick, perspiring, and soft.
“It doesn’t work on command.”
He shifts, his thighs against the underside of hers where she straddles him. His fingers move on his prick, motion and object both relaxed; the set of his lips, the skin at the corners of his eyes, they speak of that relaxation as a lie.
“It seems it works for anything but command.” Fran lets the point of one finger rest on his tip. His hand pauses, knuckles against her palm, and his skin is warm.
“Let me stand." It sounds a demand. His amelioration is suspect: “If you truly want to watch, it’s easier that way.”
“I think not.”
The line between his brows is just a suggestion of annoyance that will mark itself on him as the years pass. Fran resists a smile. His position is not the problem –
“Then would you consider disrobing?” His fingers stretch his length, though flaccid; his eyes grow intent at his words. “If you wish to look, at least give me something to look at as well.”
“If that is your…” – she avoids the word ‘problem’; Hume youths are such sensitive creatures – “…concern, I can obtain a mirror.”
Annoyance shifts to something more quixotic.
“I know what I look like,” but he murmurs; his lack of tonal clarity sings a song of his uncertainty. She produces the mirror to make his decision for him, readily to hand at the side of the bunk for she knows him better than he knows himself. His brow lifts, wry; he says nothing of her forward planning, for his attention is captured by that seductive shine.
He shifts his legs against hers, impatient with her constraint. She lets him spread, props the mirror against her own crotch, the metal edge cold against her stomach. He shoulders upwards, resting on one elbow; his hand moves with more decisiveness. It is better this way, where his attention is on himself rather than her. She is free to watch him while he must feel as though he is unwatched, for it is so rare to see him unguarded. He sucks on his lower lip, he flushes, he lets the softness of his stomach curl in narrow folds. She likes the way his collarbones are stark against the skin of his shoulders, shifting as he strains; the flex of his bicep muscle under milk-pale skin; the tension through his gold-dusted forearm; the dance of long fingers on his stiffening prick, tips mostly and a long, slow stroke that stretches foreskin back and forth until the thickness that swells consumes that excess.
He arches, hips lifting; his stroke shortens, avoids the head now. His balls are still lax, but his thighs are tight below hers, trembling, and her breath escapes her, heavy – but an error on her part, for his attention wavers. His eyes flick from her to the mirror and back again, and the crease between his brows is worry now, that awareness of self with which he adorns himself, a mantle more ornate than even his usual garb. He closes his grip, palm to prick, fists his flesh, but he is losing it.
She curls her forefinger that her claw is to her own palm, and sucks on her knuckle. He watches, his lips open, but his words are as reluctant to come as the other.
He flinches when she sets her wet knuckle between his thighs, but his balls snap tight.
The back of her hand against that furred flesh, she quests until she finds between his cheeks, where sweat gathers; she pushes, tentative, that he gasps, lifts –
“Just – there, leave it—don’t—“
She holds then, feels the pulse against her knuckle but draws the meaning from his broken speech. She does not push.
He is flushed, panting, his hand is frantic, his cock is slick.
“Fran—the mirror--“
With her free hand she tilts it; his thighs fall wider, his knees bent and lifting, that he sees her hand—
His eyes roll when he comes, and his arse is unforgiving as she tries to ease into him; he swears without a sound, and lashes himself five times over.
After, he regards the mess across his chest and stomach with disdain. She sets aside the mirror to collect come from his cheekbone. He turns away when she would set her thumb to his lips.
Perhaps next time, she thinks. Youth is often stubborn about these things. No matter. Fran has time.
She hands him a towel before he wipes himself clean on her sheets.