Author's Note: A quick little one shot, mostly PWP. Yes, it's smut. But if you know me, you know it's classy smut. Don't expect much Fran/Balthier fanfiction from me. I'm not really a fan of the pairing. But this begged to be written, and I just don't think any other guy would appreciate Fran as much as Balthier would. Fran plus Basch equals stoic, boring sex scene. Fran plus Vaan equals immature, fumbling virgin sex scene. Fran plus Balthier equals perfection. Enjoy!

Written for the Final Fantasy Kink Meme on Shanaqui's LiveJournal. Google it if you're looking for a kink of your own. This request was, "Exploration of Viera mating habits and/or physiology. Basically, Fran/Anyone, male or female, using the 'different race' thing to your best advantage!"

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy XII nor any of its respective characters, settings, etc. Hell, I haven't even finished the game. I bloody hate you, Paramina Rift. Srsly.

Where Senses Conquer

Balthier learned long ago that Viera, despite their humanoid structure, were drastically different from Humes. Their senses were finely tuned, each sinuous muscle of their body toned to perfection. Despite their height and tendency to be thinner than average women, they were anything but gawky; they moved with an ethereal glide, like gods gracing the world with their elegance. They could sense a pindrop from meters away, and even the tiniest misplaced touch could unleash their wrath. They were at least thrice as sensitive as Humes, and far wiser.

But this had never daunted Balthier before. He saw Fran as an equal, as a partner. Of course he treated her like a princess, a goddess even, but that was because she was a woman - a creature so tenderly sculpted by nature that reverence was simply natural - not because she was a Viera. Then again, her long, slender legs and crystal-carved features didn't hurt either.

Her tan skin - a common feature among Viera, but its majesty was never lost on him - always looked splendid against the burgundy silk of his bed, bathed in dim lamplight. She was nude, her hair freed from its tie and cascading about her in a great silver pool. Against the smooth ivory strands, even the fine silk of his bed seemed dull and tawdry. But Fran had a way of doing that: turning the mundane into the wonderful, and vice versa. Balthier often felt his bedspread, no matter how extravagant or expensive, never quite did her justice.

He trailed a feather along her body, barely letting the tip graze her caramel flesh. Light touches no Hume would notice, even acknowledge. But Fran was no Hume, and she moaned at the slight contact. It was delectable: such a fierce warrior, with senses and reflexes of steel, affected so strongly by the smallest touch. The feather danced along the contour of her stomach, dipping to tickle her belly button. She shuddered, a river of piqued flesh clearly showing where the feather had traced its path.

There were times when he worried. Fran was much older than he was, and though that didn't bother him, he was set to wondering how many partners she'd had in the past. How many men had done what he was doing? And for that matter, how many Humes? Was he exclusive, or only one of many, the successor in a long line of princes who had given her pleasure?

His concerns were silenced as another moan tore itself from her lips, the feather brushing against her nipple. He knew then that it didn't matter how many she'd had before, only that he could please her now. That those soft sighs were elicited by him, meant for him, and him alone.

His lips slipped over hers, seamlessly joined like the missing piece of an intricate puzzle. This was nothing new, but that fact had no effect on the rapid beating of his heart, and the steady drum of hers beneath the white feather's tip. He dragged the plume over her throat, almost feeling in his fingertips her pulse as it battered away within her veins, a loyal emissary of her heart. Her skin was flush, hot, a constant sea of warmth that splashed against him in waves. And if her body was the ocean, then her kisses were the spray: cool, refreshing, wild.

The feather tip-toed along the bare flesh of her arm, outlining the gentle curve of her breast. Her breath hitched, a sharp sound that caught his ears with intrigue. His tongue slid over hers, a rehearsed tango to a familiar but silent melody. The feather dropped lower, sinking between her legs to tingle against her smooth thighs. It fluttered lightly against her sex, barely a brush, and her hips bucks against him. Viera curses spilled forth from her tongue, a cacophony of stringed, alien words. Balthier loved when she spoke her mother language, the root of her accent and her being. It made her all the more different, all the more unique.

His lips went to draw tiny, invisible patterns along her cheeks and throat, still tickling her with the feather. The combination of barely-there sensations sent her into a flurry of felicity, a desperate moan reluctantly leaving her throat. That was his favorite sound, one that showcased the vulnerability she was constantly hiding. A little humility never hurt, though she would berate him about it later. She always did.

He stroked the feather along the sensitive flesh between her legs, now moist with anticipation. He let more of the plumage touch her, sending an elaborate, blissful mixture of feeling throughout her body. She writhed in contentment, sharp fingernails kneading and tearing the tender silk beneath her. It didn't bother him - how many dozens of times had they done this before? A few snags in the sheets were nothing unusual, and of course he had expected it. Just another tribute to her abandon, that carnal desire she shielded from the world.

Her breathing was fevered, labored even - stressed and heated in a way no Hume's could be. She inhaled in short, curt gasps, a response to her quickened heartbeat. Balthier's tongue dipped lower, laving the pert flesh of her nipple. He pressed the feather closer to her, until she could sense every silken bristle. Tan fingers dug through burgundy, the fabric now crumpled tatters in her fists. Balthier grinned, sweeping the feather along her with intimate contingence, and closed his teeth delicately, almost imperceptibly, over her nipple.

She came with a feral scream, body taken impetuously by her orgasm. Her fervid moans melded with the sound of ripping fabric, torn shreds of silk sifting through her hands. As she descended, Balthier laid another kiss against her lips, gliding the feather slowly along her cheek.

"Don't taunt me," she warned, voice tired and laced with satisfaction.

Balthier grinned, placing the feather aside and brushing his lips against her small, keen nose. Her face crinkled at the sensation, a rare expression he found rather endearing. "I wouldn't dream of it."