Final Fantasy XII: Gift of a Dancer (Vayne/Penelo)
Title: Gift of a Dancer
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Characters/Pairings: Vayne/Penelo
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Vayne would do anything to please his younger brother.
Gift of a Dancer
Vayne asks for a fair-haired dancer with bound hair, and Dalmasca gives him a dancer as he wishes, a girl with unremarkable eyes and a forgettable face. That this should be the girl his brother is so taken with gives Vayne pause, but he asks for the girl to dance, and dance she does, bells upon her hips and chimes upon her fingers.
Her dance is not without flaw, but it's not without spirit, either, and Vayne imagines that he sees a bit of what Larsa is so enamored with. A spirited street-girl, however, is a street-girl still, and Vayne would not see his last brother unduly broken.
"Your name?" Vayne asks, and he leans back in his seat, hand cupping his chin.
"Penelo, my lord," she says, and Vayne is charmed for half a moment.
"And your companions, Penelo? Where are they?"
Her smile is silver-quick, a flash and demure tilt of a head, and Vayne can see why Larsa was so taken in.
"I have none, my lord," she says, and her voice is near sweet enough for Vayne to believe her, but Vayne believes in none, neither mortal nor immortal.
"Then," Vayne says, "you shall be my companion, for the nights in Dalmasca are long."
"I," she begins to say, and her hands are flicking, hesitation. "I--"
"No companions shall miss you, Penelo," Vayne says, and words are as heavy as iron, and can bind with twice as much strength, and the girl's hands are little in his own, like Larsa's.
Her clothes are thin, as are all Dalmascan clothes, and the fastenings are small, hooks and catches that she undoes ever more slowly. Vayne catches her hair, twists his fingers through her braid, and the half-sound in her throat is muffled by his other hand. If she is what Larsa wishes for, then she shall be what Larsa shall receive, wrapped in a collar of Vayne's construction.
Vayne writes Larsa's name upon her skin, in her body, and she turns her gasps away from him, her cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He does not kiss her, for that is to be Larsa's, but he takes her, twists her until her neck is bared and her hair is spread out on the bedsheets, the yellow on white such a contrast with Vayne's or Larsa's own hair that Vayne cannot hold it within his hands, nor within his breath.
"I," she says, and it is a gasp, a moan, and Vayne has his own cries, of brother, brother. The nights are empty in Dalmasca.
"My lord," the street-girl says, and she is half-dressed, her hair near covering her girl-breasts.
"I would not that you stay here," Vayne says, and he watches her face, with its unremarkable eyes and forgettable mouth. She is not like Larsa, but Vayne would not ask the world for another such as Larsa, for Larsa is something far beyond the dying and undying both.
"My lord?" the girl asks again, and Vayne catches her wrist, pulls her near close enough to circle his other hand about the front of her throat.
"My brother," he says, and he cannot stop the faint groan at the word, at brother, brother. "He is far better than all others. I would that you dance to him."
"I," she says.
"--shall not be good enough," he says, "but perhaps,"
"--what you say," she says, "I shall do,"
"--for my brother," he says, and the taste of Larsa's name is one that Vayne shall never have enough of.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XII
Characters/Pairings: Vayne/Penelo
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Vayne would do anything to please his younger brother.
Gift of a Dancer
Vayne asks for a fair-haired dancer with bound hair, and Dalmasca gives him a dancer as he wishes, a girl with unremarkable eyes and a forgettable face. That this should be the girl his brother is so taken with gives Vayne pause, but he asks for the girl to dance, and dance she does, bells upon her hips and chimes upon her fingers.
Her dance is not without flaw, but it's not without spirit, either, and Vayne imagines that he sees a bit of what Larsa is so enamored with. A spirited street-girl, however, is a street-girl still, and Vayne would not see his last brother unduly broken.
"Your name?" Vayne asks, and he leans back in his seat, hand cupping his chin.
"Penelo, my lord," she says, and Vayne is charmed for half a moment.
"And your companions, Penelo? Where are they?"
Her smile is silver-quick, a flash and demure tilt of a head, and Vayne can see why Larsa was so taken in.
"I have none, my lord," she says, and her voice is near sweet enough for Vayne to believe her, but Vayne believes in none, neither mortal nor immortal.
"Then," Vayne says, "you shall be my companion, for the nights in Dalmasca are long."
"I," she begins to say, and her hands are flicking, hesitation. "I--"
"No companions shall miss you, Penelo," Vayne says, and words are as heavy as iron, and can bind with twice as much strength, and the girl's hands are little in his own, like Larsa's.
Her clothes are thin, as are all Dalmascan clothes, and the fastenings are small, hooks and catches that she undoes ever more slowly. Vayne catches her hair, twists his fingers through her braid, and the half-sound in her throat is muffled by his other hand. If she is what Larsa wishes for, then she shall be what Larsa shall receive, wrapped in a collar of Vayne's construction.
Vayne writes Larsa's name upon her skin, in her body, and she turns her gasps away from him, her cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He does not kiss her, for that is to be Larsa's, but he takes her, twists her until her neck is bared and her hair is spread out on the bedsheets, the yellow on white such a contrast with Vayne's or Larsa's own hair that Vayne cannot hold it within his hands, nor within his breath.
"I," she says, and it is a gasp, a moan, and Vayne has his own cries, of brother, brother. The nights are empty in Dalmasca.
"My lord," the street-girl says, and she is half-dressed, her hair near covering her girl-breasts.
"I would not that you stay here," Vayne says, and he watches her face, with its unremarkable eyes and forgettable mouth. She is not like Larsa, but Vayne would not ask the world for another such as Larsa, for Larsa is something far beyond the dying and undying both.
"My lord?" the girl asks again, and Vayne catches her wrist, pulls her near close enough to circle his other hand about the front of her throat.
"My brother," he says, and he cannot stop the faint groan at the word, at brother, brother. "He is far better than all others. I would that you dance to him."
"I," she says.
"--shall not be good enough," he says, "but perhaps,"
"--what you say," she says, "I shall do,"
"--for my brother," he says, and the taste of Larsa's name is one that Vayne shall never have enough of.