Ties

Ties

It was a well-known fact, thanks to a certain fellow sky pirate’s joking comments, that Fran absolutely could not abide being tied up. Not that she hadn’t tried it, of course. Aside from the obvious situations like the one that prompted said comment, even Balthier was occasionally surprised at the sheer variety and number of things she had managed to venture into in fifty years amongst Humes, and innumerable time prior. But within that time, she had found very few cases in which the thought of being restrained ranked any higher than somewhat tolerable. Her partner, however, that was another story.

There was something aesthetically pleasing about seeing the so-called ‘leading man’ trussed up in whatever had been available at the moment – ropes, vines, creative uses of his typical long-sleeved shirts, bits and pieces of her own typical armor, for decoration -- wearing a frown that nicely complimented the slight smile gracing her own lips. Fran suspected few would guess she had this sort of an artistic streak.

“Well then, if you’re finished decorating me like a birthday cake,” Balthier prompted, his voice holding more than a slight hint of irritation. On more than one occasion, he had noted that his pride prevented him from being so enthralled by being dressed in little more than a few pieces of rope. Her only response for a moment was a mischievous smile. Despite whatever complaints he had, and despite the ferocity with which he would deny it were he asked, she knew it was largely for show. Though she was sure it was due more to the teasing caresses she was sure to give him as she perfected her handiwork, the state of his anatomy at present suggested that he couldn’t find himself entirely displeased. Beside that, she knew, and was sure he did as well, that he could easily wriggle free of some of his binds if he chose to try. Of course, she had made certain that for a few it would not be so simple.

“Patience,” she whispered delicately, lightly brushing a hand over his cheek, knowing fully well that she was invoking a quality neither of them possessed in large quantities. It was a shared trait that made this sort of game between them work; no matter how much she teased and taunted, it would only be so long before she gave in. In the meantime, she could enjoy the frustrated and pleading looks that crossed his face as she showered him with fleeting, tantalizing touches, and the mixed expressions of pain, enjoyment, and anticipation as every once in a while those touches incorporated claws. She was never rough, nor was she apologetic; she knew, and again he would deny, that it was not only she who enjoyed seeing occasional thin lines of red appear where she had made a mark across his otherwise perfect skin. She would heal him afterward.

“Fran,” he gasped her name as she brushed a hand between his legs, lifting an arm to pull her closer and remembering his restraints; he instead settled for scraping his fingers across the hard floor of the Strahl’s corridor where he sat. Fran responded by bringing her lips to his nipple, playing against it with her tongue, listening to the gasps and quiet moans as she trailed kisses across his chest, down his belly, finally pausing a moment to look up and catch the encouraging, pleading look in his eyes before surrounding his hardness with her mouth. She smiled against him, hearing his moan and tasting a hint of his arousal. She had detected a slight twitch in his almost imperceptible body language that made her grin; this was not something she often did, and she had surprised him. Lightly, and in the same way she had earlier produced caresses, she played over his length with her tongue, careful not to push him too close to the edge. She was far from done with him.

A further smile found its way to her lips at the sound he made when she pulled away, like a child who had just been told he couldn’t have his dessert until he finished dinner. She brought a hand up to stroke his cheek, kissing his lips and allowing him the faint taste of himself on her tongue. The action seemed to appease him, somewhat.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked playfully, not missing the vague double entendre hiding in the words. For all that Balthier prided himself on wordplay, Fran’s occasional attempts at it were often far more subtle, and tended to come at times when her partner’s mental capability was somewhat lacking; she did it mostly to see if he would notice.

“I’ll let you guess,” was his ambiguous reply. Whether or not he had noticed her little test, he had managed to successfully deflect it. In any case, the answer to her question was more than obvious, though she saw no point in making the poor man wait any longer. After removing what little was left of her garments (and she couldn’t help but notice with some satisfaction the look of wonder that still crossed Balthier’s features whenever he saw her completely disrobed), she shifted to take his full length, wet with his desire and her saliva, into her.

From there, she lost her careful lightness, her torturous level of control, and gave herself over to her desire and his, feeling the rhythm of his hardness pressing into her again and again, his tongue where it had managed to find her breast. Despite his limited range of motion, Balthier made every attempt and largely succeeded in matching her rhythm. She would not be able to say how long they continued on like that. For that moment, however long it lasted, there was no time, no thought, nothing except bodies and motion and moans that echoed through the Strahl’s corridors. There was nothing but a plethora of sensations that grew and grew until they overflowed as she and he, as seemed to be a common occurrence with them, both came at once. Her whole body relaxing, she flopped against him, not bothering yet to move off of him at all.

When she summoned the muscular control to move again, she quickly untied his trappings, letting them drop to the floor. At this point, all she wished was to spend a long while wrapped in his arms, enjoying his presence, basking in the afterglow.

“Have I ever told you you’re amazing?” he murmured, flexing his arms lightly before pulling her tight against him.

“Yes,” she replied simply. The fact that he continued to say so was only another piece of evidence that he didn’t find her methods offputting.

“How many others have seen that side of you?” he wondered aloud. She responded with a blank look. He had asked before; she never answered him. Somehow, she felt it a question best left up to ambiguity.

The answer, were she ever to tell him, was this: There had been others. Others she tied, others she teased, others upon whom she had drawn marks with her claws, others who had left her feeling relaxed and satisfied.

Never had there been another she had so wanted to lovingly embrace afterward.