I don't own either Balthier or Fran, but oh the things I would do if I did...
Rapture
Her hair ripples around her like strands of glimmering pearl against her earth-colored skin, and he fights the urge to twine his fingers around it—in it—and revel in its silk-soft texture. The temptation is sharp and painful and makes his whole body ache with its intensity, and he wonders if she knows just what it is she does to him. Probably, the vixen.
He admires the slight arch in her spine, the straight lines of her forever-long legs, and the flat plane of her gossamer-covered abdomen. He wants to trace the outline of her armor against her skin—wants to feel the warmth of her flesh and the strength in her lean, taut muscles. Standing behind her, he watches her walk gracefully across whatever surface she deigns to touch, her hips swaying just out of reach. Somehow, he thinks it might be sacrilege to want to touch—kiss—this glorious goddess of the battlefield.
The first time he ever sees her use a sword is the first time he seriously questions his sanity. Naked steel clutched in her hand, there are beads of blood dappled across her armor, on her skin, in her ivory-colored hair. She looks so beautiful—magnificent, triumphant, gorgeous—with her teeth bared at her fallen enemy like a merciless predator, victory glimmering in her garnet eyes. It seems wrong to want to kiss her despite the flecks of gore spattered both on and all around her, and he wonders if he is spiraling into some sort of madness.
He wonders still more if her touch would cure it.