FFXII Drabbles: FF_Fortnightly Dump Pt.2
New tag system! Same old content! COLLEGE/WORK SUCKS, FANDOM ROCKS.
Just dumping the FFXII drabbles or double drabbles that I've written for ff_fortnightly so far. More to come whenever I feel like it, also divided by final fantasy installment.
Fran; G; 100 words; "Failure" - Prodigal Child
The Wood is silent.
Birds chirp - panthers crawl upon rustling leaves - fruit fall - preys breathe, pant, die. Golmore Jungle whispers a cacophony of life.
Still, Fran can't hear the Wood.
She'd known; dreaded the deafness of her ears since the children breached the forest so eagerly.
The Wood despises her freedom, and Her argument is eloquent in Her lack of words - filthy hume artifices, the only which she understands now.
The pathway to the village surges, and Fran screams inside to mute the silence - failed vieras shouldn't return.
She'll not fail at being a failure.
-------
Vaan, Basch; PG (blood/death); 100 words; "Experience VS First Time" - Small Wonders
He's never killed a man before. Rats and wolves, a hunt, but not a man. There's hume flesh, bone - soul - beneath that Imperial armor; life ceasing as mythirl sinks past skin and rips bowels apart.
He wonders, warm blood bathing his hands - did Reks gasp, moan as this man does now - is there a younger brother waiting forever in Archadia - did it hurt this much for that fucker off to the side, striking soldiers down like flies?
"Move," Basch's is a rasp of disuse, regret, certainty. "These are just the start."
Vaan hates - follows.
-------
Vaan/Basch; R (sexual themes); 100 words; "Acceptance" - Granted
Basch tastes more of wine than regret to Vaan's busy tongue; his muscles tauter from tension than fitness, his beard scratchy in every hesitation. The barkeeper had just raised Vaan an eyebrow before granting them passage to upstairs Sandsea - he'd never expected better from street trash.
“I shouldn't -”
“So what?” Vaan digs freshly callused fingers on prison pale ribs, grinds hips with the repentant captain. He's got his face buried on the curve of Basch's neck before he knows it. “It's not like you don't wanna.”
He's accepted his fate already - forever a thief, even of what he could request.
-------
Vayne, Venat; PG (murder); 200 words; "Pictures/Photos/Memorial Media" - Private Collection
Traitors of the Empire are fated to oblivion, their names remembered solely as the example not to be followed during a short while, their faces erased from Ivalice permanently. More than death, complete disappearance from the annals of history is the punishment for questioning the ways of House Solidor.
Vayne keeps portraits of his brothers in the room conjoined to his chambers.
Both had dark hair, one straight and flowing, the other wavier than his own. The eyes have been painted with the same hardness of every nobleman's picture, but Vayne remembers watery edges, burning hatred and loathing, hurt - lost love - when his sword sunk to the hilt down the oldest's chest, ripped a slash from navel to throat on the youngest.
Venat whispers, sweet and quiet by his back. A shiver runs up his neck; one he failed at feeling when his predecessors crossed swords with him, and died for defying his - Venat's - wishes.
"Clearly I don't regret, rest assured," Vayne smiles, a corner of thinned lips, as he draws heavy velvet curtains over the memories. "It's only... inspiring, the act of recollecting."
His father's portrait shall look magnificent between these, only his to see.
-------
Penelo, Balthier/Basch; R (sexual themes); 100 words; "Voyeurism" - Of Propriety and Need
She shouldn't see, but she must.
Crouched under the main control panel of the Strahl, Penelo stares. They strip themselves from captain and pirate to men; muscles wired by tendons, flexing as they grab and clash and meet in places not even reached by the desert sun, if the paleness of otherwise tan skin is to be trusted.
She shouldn't be here before, exploring another's most prized possession - but searching fingers have found better goals in herself. She must see and long and crave, marvelling whether their glistening sweat is as slick as she is.
She must want more.
-------
Penelo, Basch, Zalera; G; 100 words; "Demons and/or Angels" - Rescue By The Antithesis
Basch stumbles, kneels; blurred vision thickening the masses of avid fiends - ill fated the time when the search for wealth and fame took them to the Zertinan Caves. He's doomed and they've caught not a whisper of the mark - shameful, absurd way to perish; one more blow leaves him a gasp away from oblivion.
"Curaga."
His eyes still play tricks, for he sees twin braids glazed in magick as feathered wings - and when she smiles, Penelo always seems godsend.
"Stand back, captain," she gathers all her Mist, grins impishly. "Zalera."
Devil by her side, she saves him.
-------
Thanks for reading ^^~
Just dumping the FFXII drabbles or double drabbles that I've written for ff_fortnightly so far. More to come whenever I feel like it, also divided by final fantasy installment.
Fran; G; 100 words; "Failure" - Prodigal Child
The Wood is silent.
Birds chirp - panthers crawl upon rustling leaves - fruit fall - preys breathe, pant, die. Golmore Jungle whispers a cacophony of life.
Still, Fran can't hear the Wood.
She'd known; dreaded the deafness of her ears since the children breached the forest so eagerly.
The Wood despises her freedom, and Her argument is eloquent in Her lack of words - filthy hume artifices, the only which she understands now.
The pathway to the village surges, and Fran screams inside to mute the silence - failed vieras shouldn't return.
She'll not fail at being a failure.
-------
Vaan, Basch; PG (blood/death); 100 words; "Experience VS First Time" - Small Wonders
He's never killed a man before. Rats and wolves, a hunt, but not a man. There's hume flesh, bone - soul - beneath that Imperial armor; life ceasing as mythirl sinks past skin and rips bowels apart.
He wonders, warm blood bathing his hands - did Reks gasp, moan as this man does now - is there a younger brother waiting forever in Archadia - did it hurt this much for that fucker off to the side, striking soldiers down like flies?
"Move," Basch's is a rasp of disuse, regret, certainty. "These are just the start."
Vaan hates - follows.
-------
Vaan/Basch; R (sexual themes); 100 words; "Acceptance" - Granted
Basch tastes more of wine than regret to Vaan's busy tongue; his muscles tauter from tension than fitness, his beard scratchy in every hesitation. The barkeeper had just raised Vaan an eyebrow before granting them passage to upstairs Sandsea - he'd never expected better from street trash.
“I shouldn't -”
“So what?” Vaan digs freshly callused fingers on prison pale ribs, grinds hips with the repentant captain. He's got his face buried on the curve of Basch's neck before he knows it. “It's not like you don't wanna.”
He's accepted his fate already - forever a thief, even of what he could request.
-------
Vayne, Venat; PG (murder); 200 words; "Pictures/Photos/Memorial Media" - Private Collection
Traitors of the Empire are fated to oblivion, their names remembered solely as the example not to be followed during a short while, their faces erased from Ivalice permanently. More than death, complete disappearance from the annals of history is the punishment for questioning the ways of House Solidor.
Vayne keeps portraits of his brothers in the room conjoined to his chambers.
Both had dark hair, one straight and flowing, the other wavier than his own. The eyes have been painted with the same hardness of every nobleman's picture, but Vayne remembers watery edges, burning hatred and loathing, hurt - lost love - when his sword sunk to the hilt down the oldest's chest, ripped a slash from navel to throat on the youngest.
Venat whispers, sweet and quiet by his back. A shiver runs up his neck; one he failed at feeling when his predecessors crossed swords with him, and died for defying his - Venat's - wishes.
"Clearly I don't regret, rest assured," Vayne smiles, a corner of thinned lips, as he draws heavy velvet curtains over the memories. "It's only... inspiring, the act of recollecting."
His father's portrait shall look magnificent between these, only his to see.
-------
Penelo, Balthier/Basch; R (sexual themes); 100 words; "Voyeurism" - Of Propriety and Need
She shouldn't see, but she must.
Crouched under the main control panel of the Strahl, Penelo stares. They strip themselves from captain and pirate to men; muscles wired by tendons, flexing as they grab and clash and meet in places not even reached by the desert sun, if the paleness of otherwise tan skin is to be trusted.
She shouldn't be here before, exploring another's most prized possession - but searching fingers have found better goals in herself. She must see and long and crave, marvelling whether their glistening sweat is as slick as she is.
She must want more.
-------
Penelo, Basch, Zalera; G; 100 words; "Demons and/or Angels" - Rescue By The Antithesis
Basch stumbles, kneels; blurred vision thickening the masses of avid fiends - ill fated the time when the search for wealth and fame took them to the Zertinan Caves. He's doomed and they've caught not a whisper of the mark - shameful, absurd way to perish; one more blow leaves him a gasp away from oblivion.
"Curaga."
His eyes still play tricks, for he sees twin braids glazed in magick as feathered wings - and when she smiles, Penelo always seems godsend.
"Stand back, captain," she gathers all her Mist, grins impishly. "Zalera."
Devil by her side, she saves him.
-------
Thanks for reading ^^~