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Even through the thin cotton of his breeches, Alisaie’s hand felt noticeably warmer than usual. Alphinaud suspected she had been out sparring before this, instead of studying as he had been (and she should have been). He certainly wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he was the sole cause of her flushed cheeks and the mussed silver hair falling over her eyes as she sat astride him, having marched into the study just a few moments earlier to push his books aside and straddle him without a word.
It was nice to think he may have contributed to her flustered state in some small measure, however.
He had never been quite sure why this was his sister’s favoured method of getting his attention. Instead of teasing gestures or leading touches, she would wait for a quiet moment once the servants were busy elsewhere and mount him out of nowhere - brazen and demanding, as she so often was. What would happen next would depend entirely on her mood; sometimes she would press in close and kiss him, or allow his hands to roam across her slender thighs, pulling at her clothes as he returned her affections.
Other times - like today - she would use those thighs to keep him pinned in place, the heat of her agonisingly out of reach, and would do whatever suited her fancy. Today it was stroking him through his trousers with quick, insistent strokes as he throbbed against her palm. Her other hand had slapped away his own when he had tried to reach out to touch her, and Alphinaud had not tried again, resigning himself to sitting back in the chair and thrusting idly into his sister's grip, denied the chance to give her pleasure as she demanded his own.
It was somehow both selfish and altruistic at the same time, but that summed up Alisaie perfectly. He suspected she had lost whatever duel she had sought out from their classmates and so returned to vent his frustrations out on him. Not that he would have the nerve to ask her if this was the case.
And not that he minded - not in the least.
Alisaie’s hand moved with an almost ruthless efficiency, as if getting Alphinaud to climax was yet another competition. If it was, then in all fairness she was winning; despite the fact the fabric stopped her slender fingers from curling around him completely and denied him the softness of her skin, Alphinaud could feel the knot of tension growing quickly in his belly as he pulsed against Alisaie’s hand.
He glanced down to where her fingers cupped around the tent in his trousers as they worked the modest bulge beneath. He wondered idly if he would be fortunate enough to hit his growth spurt before his twin did, and would be blessed with a chance to see those slender fingers, delicate and pale, wrapped around something much more impressive than that which his small Elezen frame currently offered. Perhaps then he would be strong enough to gain the upper hand for once.
The picture that thought conjured in his mind was enough to send him over the edge, and Alisaie knew him well enough by now to tell. He twitched almost painfully against the tight fabric of his pants as she squeezed, a devilish and unnecessarily satisfied smirk toying at the corner of her lips as he spilled into his undergarments, panting softly.
Alisaie did not wait for him to regain his breath before hopping off him with practiced ease, picking up one of his scattered books and tossing it unceremoniously onto the desk.
“There you go, brother. I hope you haven’t lost your place.”
Alphinaud glanced from the askew pages to Alisaie’s retreating back. He had lost his place in the book entirely, but it wasn’t worth arguing about.
He’d needed to take a break, anyway.