This might just be the most evil crack!fic I've ever written. I'm seriously not sure if I should ashamed... or proud. It was written as one possible ending to my AU Larsa X Penelo X Vayne story, In the Wake of Tomorrow, and is dedicated to Aeris888, my evil Vayne X Penelo muse. No one inspires me to plummet into the heights-- or should that be the depths?-- of this pairing the way she does.

And of course, reviews are much appreciated! I am going to write one more fic in this particular AU-verse for my friend Auraki... any prompts on what holes in this should be filled would be extraordinarily useful.

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Title: Droit De Seigneur

Fandom: Final Fantasy XII

Pairings: Larsa X Penelo, Vayne X Penelo

Rating: R

Summary: In the years to come, there were no answers. Just questions that couldn't be asked. Larsa X Penelo, Vayne X Penelo.

Note: Please be advised that this piece contains some rather strong and (hopefully) disturbing sexual situations and implications.

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In the years to come, Larsa Ferrinas Solidor grew to learn that there were very few answers he could receive from his wife-- just a long line of questions that couldn't be asked.

He had married her almost a year ago; he had known her for only six months prior. He had taken her hand in marriage at the mere age of 16 with the blessings of the new Archadian Emperor and to the acclaim of his people, willing to have something lighthearted to celebrate on the wake of their singularly grim victories over Dalmasca and the Rozarrian empire. He had moved with her to what had been left of Rabanastre as soon as it was negotiable, taking over his brother's older position as the Consul of the city-- and indeed, what had been left of that entire kingdom-- at both his Emperor's bequest and the sadness in his wife's eyes. He had loved her almost as soon as he had met her and even now, after almost a year and a half of knowing her, the flame of love had yet to smother in him every time he saw her small-boned avian beauty flicker before his eyes.

Despite all that, there were so many facets of her that Larsa knew he could barely grasp. He loved her, all he knew of her, from the golden curls upon her head to her sharp sense of humor, from the sleepy smile that greeted him every morning to the wide eyes that met his whenever he took her in his arms. But he knew just as well that there were some questions he could never ask her without breaking whatever fragile trust still existed between them. She loved him (she had even said so) at least in part because of his discretion, because of his compassion, because of his ability to keep his mouth shut.

She loved him and he never could bring himself to directly hurt her. So in the days to come, Larsa learned never to ask Penelo about her hopeless past, her glittering present or her tremulous future. They never spoke of what her family had been like, if she had really been happy to marry him, or if she still dreamt of escape whenever he caught her glancing out at the former streets she had live in with that look of horrible hope brimming in her eyes.

And most of all, he never, ever asked his wife about the private moments in which she saw the Emperor of Archades, or why she saw him, or how he had managed to hurt her this particular time around.

Larsa never asked her if his lord brother had been cruel to her on the nights in which he arrived in Dalmasca to summon his sister-in-law to his side. He knew enough to never probe her over how Vayne had possessed her that particular evening, or what orifices his lord brother had used, or if he had bothered to kiss her before or after. He never expected to learn about whether his wife had been hurt, had been wounded, or had to struggle to choke down her tears even as her brother-in-law forced his flesh inside of hers. And he certainly never inquired as to whether Vayne had chained her up, or forced her down, or hurt her in ways Larsa never would contemplate, even in the nights when she was away and he could hear his brother's laughter echo through what had been the former Lady Ashe's halls.

And likewise, Larsa shied away from all questions of competency, of whether Penelo had enjoyed Vayne's prowess after all. He never asked her if she was, in any way at all, pleased by anything that Vayne did with her. He never asked if Vayne's touch truly could make her swoon, if he could blow her already delicate inhibitions away, if Vayne was a beautiful man when he undressed, a man Penelo gladly pressed her soft body to, filled with unspeakable ardor. Or even if Vayne was a beast, a brute, a monster, and if Penelo secretly enjoyed that in him, and gloried in every depravity he could bring her.

And Larsa certainly never asked if she found Vayne a better lover, if Vayne was more potent and more experienced and more able to give her the sort of pleasure that made her writhe so intensely in Larsa's arms. He never asked if she enjoyed the touch of his brother's large hands and full lips and black hair and all the rest of it, all of the rest of him, on top of her, within her. He never asked if she found she wanted the ruler of all the world far, far more than she wanted his pale, weak, effeminate brother.

It would be cruel, far too cruel, to ask her to talk about anything of that sort. No matter how much he wanted to know or how badly he wanted to stop her from going to Vayne's side every other night.

There was no way to do so, after all, even if she wanted him to. Not when his brother held all powers of the Archadian empire in his hands and used them so effectively to string them along as little puppets dancing to his singularly cruel songs. Not when he held Penelo's life in one hand and Larsa's in another and used one against the other with such deft adroitness and paternal calm.

Larsa had always been Vayne's favorite, first and foremost. Perhaps his lord brother even thought it was necessary to keep the song bird that they had trapped together-- he out of love, Vayne out of pride-- in her gilded cage by showing her how awful the world could be if she were not by Larsa's side.

She could have become Vayne's consort, after all. Perhaps that was the fate his brother exposed her to, almost every night he spent in Dalmasca.

But in a way, Larsa didn't have to ask her any questions at all. All he needed to know about what she had been through would rest on her body, in the aftermath of her encounters with his brother. All was clear enough when Penelo would come back to their marital bed by the break of dawn, a blurry eyed ghost in a torn gown, though it was impossible to tell if the tears that streaked her cheeks came from pain, or guilt, or even hopeless pleasure.

No, it was not difficult to tell on which nights his brother had had her. The physical signs were always unmistakable.

The slight, pale stains that smeared along her thighs. The streaky purple bruises left around her waist and shoulders. The bumblebee swell sweeping up about her lips, lips that had been used hard and often and gnawed at later.

And the blood. Of course the blood. Always the little drops of blood that still clung to the corners of her lips and that smeared into ugly red marks even as he took her into his arms to comfort her, to whisper endearments into her ear, to assure her she would be loved no matter.

Always the blood. The blood that had brought him into his present state of princeling and pawn, the blood that had brought all these events to a close, and the blood that had condemned all of his line earlier and was dooming her now.

Larsa knew, of course. He always knew what nights his brother had had her.

But even that could do nothing to cool his own ardor, or prevent him from keeping her caged by his side ever afterwards.