FYFF: MISSION ONE, ACCEPT Y/N?

[sexychocobo]

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Comments

[(Anonymous)]

FFX, Auron/Lulu, unrequited

FFX, Auron/Lulu: o speak, bright star (1/2)

[(Anonymous)]

Bevelle is always lovely, but Lulu loves it best in the summer. The air is scorching and the streets are full of people, all happy, loose, carefree. Lulu remembers when it wasn't so, when Bevelle meant quiet, reflection, and lies, when it felt like a city of mourning on loop. She doesn't miss it, even at the price that was paid. That Bevelle is three years gone.

"Lulu."

She turns from the open balcony doors and smiles. "Praetor."

"I've told you before to call me Baralai, please," he says, stepping forward to take her hands. "It's lovely to see you. How is Wakka, and Vidina?"

"Vidina is troubelsome, and Wakka annoyed that I agreed to another stop before coming home," she says. "But your message intrigued me; I have never been asked to contribute to historical documents directly."

Baralai stepped back toward his desk, which was a mess. Lulu hadn't expected that — the Baralai in her head was calm and tidy, and all the new discoveries she was making about him only let her sink even further into her enjoyment of the Bevelle of her present. "Ah, yes. I did ask Yuna to come, as well, but she and Paine are with Gippal, apparently in the dessert somewhere, digging up trash."

"She would be put out at that," Lulu says. "But it's very true, they don't find much anymore. Is this project something you need us both for?"

"No, I imagine you'll do quite well yourself," he says. "A long time ago, Gippal met a man in the desert."

"I don't know many Al Bhed, Baralai," Lulu says.

"He wasn't Al Bhed," Baralai said. "I've decided that it's time for people to know what he did — the whole story."

Lulu nods. "I will help however I can, but again..." She pauses when Baralai holds up a hand.

"You are actually the best to ask," he says. "I want you to tell me about Auron."

Heat blooms in her chest, old but familiar. None of them talk about Auron — he is unspoken, but there, at rest, and in his peace, they have it as well, but it is an ache that will never go away, she knows. "I see."

Baralai gestures to a chair. "Will you? I only ask for things you wish to share, of course."

Lulu smiles.

----

Lulu doesn't know what it is, but as they flank Yuna and walk forward, ever closer to the end she both hopes for and dreads, his words echo. Braska asked me to, he had said in Luca. Braska asked me to.

Over and over, and the Highroad is long and the phrase spirals hundreds of times in her head. She tries to poke through it, eyes on Yuna's straight back as they walk forward. Auron is behind her, silent in voice and step, but loud in how he inhabits the space, as if his presence alone is a sharp clap of noise in the solemnity of prayer, a sacreligious word in a temple full of priests.

"Your thoughts are loud," he says.

The surprise shows; of course it does. She doesn't stop walking, or falter, but she catches her moogle tighter to her. "I apologize."

"No need," he says. "You should ask, if you are so curious."

They are far enough from the others that it wouldn't hurt. She keeps her eyes ahead. "High Summoner Braska asked you to lead his daughter down this path."

"That was not a question."

Lulu risks a look back. "You are as clever as they all say." She looks away, because it almost hurts to look at him, a legend. Her mind is flailing away from the truth of him and she doesn't understand why. "Was your High Summoner a clairvoyant, then, to know the future?"

Auron snickers and she almost does stumble then, his voice deep and amused. "No such thing," Auron says. "He was a know-it-all. Even you can admit that's worse."

Lulu's questions have no answers, but she suddenly feels comfortable in a way she hadn't. The phrase keeps spiraling, over and over, but she's not going to find the solution, she thinks. Not yet.

---

Baralai's laugh is full and rich. "He sounds wonderful."

Lulu resists the urge to roll her eyes. "He was not wonderful the first few weeks. he was like that all the time, upside down answers, distractions to put you off the scent of anything you might want to know."

"I could have used a teacher like him." Baralai lifts his tea cup. "What did you think when he joined the group?"

"I wondered if Sin's toxins had rubbed off on me from Tidus," she says. "Even though I knew that was ridiculous. I don't know how to paint a fair picture. We were all awed, and maybe me more than most."

"How so?"

Lulu takes a drink of her own tea, sweet and flowery. "I had met him before, when the High Summoner came to Besaid. He insulted my moogle and told me to go be annoying somewhere else." She doesn't bother keeping the fondness out of her voice. "He was so young — and I even younger, and cowed. I never quite got over that. He fascinated me, even more than the Summoner, because he was so...brash."

"Did it change?" Baralai asks. "So many months with him, all that time protecting and wondering..."

"It did," she says. "More quickly than I could have imagined."

---

Her hands are still shaking, a potion is trailed across her skirt and the ground and she has already cursed herself for never taking the time to learn even the cursory cure magics. She was always relying on Yuna, whose healing magic was so warm and comforting, so unlike hers, which is more like salt water, quenching a thirst in all the wrong ways.

"Let me," he says.

Lulu freezes. The sand is cold underneath her legs where she had fallen, and her arm burns.

He bends beside her. His hand is warm, when it cups her elbow, and he uses water to clean the wound. It drips, staining the sand under them red. He follows with a potion that's cool as he pours it along the gash, and then his hands, green and red smearing together under his fingertips, stinging, and she holds her breath and looks at him.

"I fell," she says. "The rocks."

"You hit your head." His reply is soft, all the gruffness gone. "We need to regroup, and go care for Yuna, before she dances herself to death." The tone is wry, but there's sadness there that any other time she was try to pluck out. Not now, though, not not, maybe never. She feels sick.

His thumb brushes along her arm, rubbing away the black of the potion, revealing white skin and a jagged red line. "Time," he says. He hasn't let go yet.

"I'm not afraid of scars," she replies.

"And you're smart enough to know what I mean." He rises. "Yuna, now."

She watches him go, and Yuna needs them now, it's time, but she still takes a moment to press her face into the soft belly of her moogle and think of the tears she will not cry.

---

The afternoon sun turns Baralai even more golden. He's staring out the window as she finishes, and her voice doesn't break.

"That was the first time, of course," she says. "It's funny, back then I thought I was so wise, with all my years, and I really knew nothing. One small comfort and he had me."

"But he was not a charismatic man?"

"He could be when he wanted, but in general I think he prefered to be an arrogant jackass," she says, lips twitching. "I didn't realize it at the time, and maybe not even immediately after, when he was gone, but..."

"No pressure, remember," Baralai says, gently.

"No, it's fine." She stares out the open balcony again as the day inches down toward its rest. "Yuna and Wakka and I spoke about it, a year later. I think, for each of us, he filled a need we had, a void we didn't even know was there. For Wakka, he was always so solid. I am not sure Wakka would have handled the shock of learning the truths of Yevon without Auron to anchor him. Yuna knows what he was to her, but she kept that secret."

"Never told you?" Baralai asks. "Or are you just not at liberty to share?"

"She has secrets," Lulu says. "Her time with Auron is explicitly tied to her time with Tidus, and losing them both, forever..." Lulu shakes her head. "She might tell you, if you explain why you want to know, but I don't know myself."

"What was he for you, then?" Baralai's eyes sparkle, like he's found a treasure. On his desk, the lit sphere recording their conversation sparkles in the late afternoon sunlight.

"We think of Unsent in harsh terms," she says. "We expect them to be monsters, joyless, soulless, cold. It's why it's a children's taunt — who wants to be that?"

Baralai's gaze is straightforward, and Lulu imagines they both have a history, penned in cruel lines across their hearts, of that insult, hurled in immaturity and anger. "And he wasn't?"

Lulu curls her mouth into a smile. "I was leading the sister of my heart to die, and that was a cold knowledge. Only he knew that I was leading her to live and be free. He was my warmth, and I didn't even know it."

FFVIII, Seifer/Xu

[(Anonymous)]

seifer and xu's disastrous affair two years before the game, where they fuck in secret places in garden during term and in hotels and inns during the summer. the story of xu breaking seifer's heart and leaving him jaded, cynical and mean.

FFVIII, Seifer/Xu (R): Alchemy

[(Anonymous)]

It’s that look she gives him when she assigns him a week of detention: arrogant sparkle in her eye, brows raised in lofty challenge, tempting him to spit back obscenities into her face. Xu and her fucking Disciplinary Committee think they own the world, now that Kramer finally signed off and made it official, fucking little cards they get to carry around proudly like the ass-kissers they are.

He doesn’t deserve a week of time for punching Dincht and they both fucking know it. She’s abusing the power, and of course Seifer’s her first and favorite target. Always has been.

- - -

This is the third week in a row he’s been stuck in this goddamn room; when Xu opens the door and says sweetly, “You can go now,” he’s waiting for her, leaping from the desk in a move worthy of its own Knight movie; the door slams shut and she’s trapped in the corner of the room.

He’s panting. “What is your fucking deal,” and she shoots him a half-lidded glare, backing deliberately into the corner, palms pressing the wall.

He doesn’t even remember being kissed; what he remembers is the red-hot sting to his lips, after, as she leaves.

- - -

She makes him trudge his way through the Training Center this time, completely messing up his brand-new gunblade model with Grat guts and dirt and blood, the grip already sweat-stained, and he’s tired enough from swinging the damn thing by the time he gets to this ‘secret area’ that he thinks about ditching: this is the most Knight-like thing he has ever done for a fucking girl and he hates how he loves it, fighting his way to her side as if the hot scrabbling fuck they’ll have is a badge of honor, with dead Grats and bruises as foreplay.

- - -

This might be the worst game Seifer has ever played – worse than sandcastles, worse even than teasing Dincht – because he is always losing at it, the little challenges Xu leaves in her wake like treasures wrapped just for him, the way she always knows how to push his buttons and make him follow just one last time. She’s up on Kramer’s desk, legs wrapped around him as he buries himself in her, moaning: and he knows they could both get kicked out for this, his dream evaporating in one dumb mistake, and he wishes he cared a little bit more.

- - -

She comes back triumphant, tall and regal with it and glowing like a fucking beacon; just looking at her is making him horny, the unhealed cut across her cheek like a medal of honor more tangible than the uniform she has just earned. She won’t even acknowledge him at the banquet, breezing past him on Trepe’s arm like cadets don’t even exist and Seifer feels so low for one stupid moment, kicked to Garden’s curb.

She meets his eyes once, her gaze burning with challenge, and he knows they’ll meet up later; he nods, as if it’s okay. She smirks.

- - -

I hate you, he wants to say, later, in the darkness, as she’s bent over Instructor Ido’s desk, perfect SeeD uniform skirt hiked up over her hips, nothing beneath, nothing in the room but the sound of her panting and the way the desk shakes a little every time Seifer thrusts into her – hard, because he wants her to feel it – her hands gripping the edge of the desk, his clutching at her hips so hard she’ll bruise tomorrow, matching her other wounds.

He likes that, somehow: reminder of him imprinted on her skin, somewhere she can’t smirk it away.

- - -

Her second mission goes wrong, and she’s in the Infirmary for days, eyes quivering but closed every time Seifer sneaks in after midnight to try and see her. Her skin is pale and pasty and covered in cuts so razor-thin he wouldn’t think them possible, and her chart is full of long unintelligible words interspersed with gut-chilling phrases like blood loss and tourniquet.

Tubes snake in and out of her arms and nose and mouth. Seifer is filled with rage and the undeniable urge to hurt something. Instead he clumsily tucks the blanket around her and punches the wall, once.

- - -

“Why do you care?” Xu’s words are clipped, cold, and it’s like the surgery replaced her heart with a fucking stone, grey and lifeless instead of hot and angry, some doctor’s awful mistake. She has ignored him for days, uniform a navy-blue wall, and Seifer hates that his last memory of her naked is in that stupid hospital gown with a needle in her arm.

“I guess I don’t,” he says, and his words are laced with venom as he turns away. He has his lock changed on principle; she could pick it regardless, but he knows that she won’t.

- - -

“You know that if you abuse this, the consequences will be severe.”

Bullshit, Seifer thinks, because Xu fucking abused it and abused him too, and nobody ever checked whether Seifer’s six weeks of almost-constant detention served any purpose other than giving her a fucking mindrush of absolute power. “Yes, sir,” he says, instead, because he wants this so badly he can taste it. It’s the last time he’ll follow her, and for a reason completely unlike all the others.

“Well, then,” says Kramer, with that goofy smile that makes him want to punch walls. “Welcome to the Disciplinary Committee, Seifer.”

- - -

He opens the door and deposits the snotty little brat in the classroom with officious ceremony. Xu and Trepe both look up, but he only has eyes for one, a glare so potent he thinks for a second it’ll catch fire, Balamb Garden burning to ashes around them and why the fuck does he care, again?

Making SeeD is bullshit: you either die, or wake up without your soul.

“Here you go,” he says, sneering a sweet smile, his badge clearly visible - and as Xu’s face darkens, the first emotion he’s seen her wear in weeks, he finally wins.

FFX-2, Yuna & Rikku & Paine

[(Anonymous)]

that one time yuna, rikku and paine steal brother's airship and disaster and/or fun times follow.

FFVI, Edgar/Sabin

[(Anonymous)]

late nights, too much alcohol, and desires left unspoken too long

[(Anonymous)]

FFX, Rikku/Wakka, "it was like that when I found it"

FFIX, Garnet/Beatrix

[(Anonymous)]

Or Garnet & Beatrix, or somewhere in between. "In Her Majesty's Service"

FFVIII, Rinoa or Rinoa/Squall

[(Anonymous)]

Rinoa trains to use a gunblade.

FFVIII, Rinoa/Squall: Gunblade

[(Anonymous)]

This is probably sillier than you were looking for, but this is what the muses gave me. XD


Rinoa came back from the bathroom to find that Squall had spread out over most of the bed, leaving a narrow strip that she might be able to twist into if she tried hard enough, but that was bound to leave her with a crick in her back at best.

She eyed her sleeping knight, and decided that the armchair was the better part of valor. His clothes were piled more-or-less neatly in it, but she felt no qualms about shoving them onto the floor. “Serves him right for stealing the bed,” she muttered.

His gunblade across the footstool was the next obstacle, and it would require a bit more finesse – dropping it on the floor would doubtless make enough noise to wake him, and while she was disgruntled about his catlike tendency to claim more space than seemed physically possible, he was still incredibly adorable asleep.

She grabbed the handle as she’d seen Squall do a thousand times, and discovered that it was much heavier than she’d anticipated. Straining as hard as she could, she managed to lift it a few inches off the footstool, but she had no control and didn’t think she could get it to the floor without dropping it. “Float,” she whispered. The weight disappeared, and she was able to maneuver it with ease. Of course, now it was floating at hip height, and when the spell wore off, it would go crashing to the ground. That wouldn’t do at all. Rinoa looked around the room, frowning. The dresser was about the right height, so she towed his gunblade across the room, coaxed it up a few more inches until it was bumping softly on the wooden top, and canceled the status effect. The weapon slumped to the dresser with nothing more than a click.

“What are you doing?” Squall was blinking at her. Awake, he’d somehow retracted his limbs far enough that there was room for her at his side again.

“Nothing.” She climbed into bed next to him. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, rubbed a hand across his face. “Did you want to learn how to use it?”

“Use what?”

“My gunblade. You can touch it; it’s okay.”

“Oh! Um. Sure, yeah, that would be…great.”

“We’ll get you one of your own, though. I think mine would be a little long for you.”

She smirked and kissed him. “I think yours is exactly the right length for me, Squall.”

FF8, Seifer/Zell

[chaosraven]

The Seifer and Zell hunting components for weapons. Buddy action film commence!

Re: FF8, Seifer/Zell

[(Anonymous)]

seriously this needs to be in my pants right now

FFVI, Locke/Celes/Terra

[(Anonymous)]

The one in which they all realize they're too tied together - by the Empire, by their magic, by Locke's promises to both women - to stay apart.

ffxii, vaan & supinelu

[(Anonymous)]

Vaan learns sekrit Garif wrestling techniques.

FFIV, Rydia

[(Anonymous)]

in which Rydia's non-human, raised-by-monsters traits and tendencies are highlighted: bonus for interaction (or even shipping? OR PORN) with Leviathan and/or Asura

FFXII: Vaan, Balthier, Vieras

[(Anonymous)]

Things are changing in the Wood, and the Viera need to adapt their ways to keep from being swallowed by an ever changing world. Enter a roving band of sky pirates who are willing to give a hand.

FFVIII, Laguna/Squall/Ellone

[(Anonymous)]

FFVIII, Laguna/Squall/Ellone

Possible ideas, pick any/all that strike your fancy, or none!
- this is how we do family
- make new memories
- she feels them through her own skin, not dream-sendings of theirs
- he never asked for either of them
- things left behind and found again
- he doesn't want this, but what do you deny the children you left too long before?
- like coming home
- like breaking home

All-three-ways reciprocated if possible! As sweet or twisted as you like =D

Almost Normal (FFVIII, Laguna/Squall/Ellone, PG-13)

[(Anonymous)]

What really scared Laguna were the days when it felt almost normal.

Those were usually the days when Squall was on leave from being the commander, or whatever he was now, and had shown up on his doorstep, staring him down from the other side of the cloaking screen, waiting with a well-concealed smile for Laguna to open the door. Elle would leave her meditations for him - and it galled Laguna a little, how she would always leave them for Squall but would sometimes leave Laguna hanging when he asked her to spend time with him. Not that he didn't understand, mind - Squall wasn't always there, and Laguna was - but still, it hurt his old heart just a little.

Or maybe he just needed to watch what he ate. But he didn't joke about that when Squall and Elle were around. They never thought it was as hilarious as he thought it was; they didn't like being reminded of his mortality and his age, probably because it reminded them of other things about this whole situation.

They were happy, though, after a fashion. They would have dinner together, and the room would ring with laughter. Sure, some of it was at him, but he didn't mind that. He'd never minded playing the fool. Ever since Kiros and Ward had died on that damned diplomatic mission... well, there hadn't been much laughter even when they'd still been with him. There definitely wasn't enough now that they were gone.

Squall seemed to understand that, too - probably better than Ellone did, and maybe better that Laguna himself. Did Squall still blame himself for the war? Did he think that he could have stopped Rinoa from trying to defend Timber, and dying in the last attack? Laguna didn't think that he should blame himself. Sorceresses weren't immortal, and Knights weren't invulnerable. But he couldn't blame Squall, either.

They would spend long, lazy evenings in the mansion, away from prying eyes, or so Laguna hoped. Without Kiros and Ward around, he didn't know what he was going to do if there was a scandal. He could see the headlines now: President Loire Caught In Compromising Position With Own Children, they'd read, complete with photographic evidence. This was a horrible idea, and when they weren't both with him, he knew it.

When they were both with him... well, he knew it then too, but it didn't matter as much anymore. They were both so much happier when they were all together. Even Squall would smile, once in a while, when he was wrapped up in Elle's arms, when Laguna come up behind them and stroke his hair whisper things in their ears that would make a tabloid publisher blush. He might not be the biggest, baddest guy in the world, but he'd been a soldier; he'd heard plenty of dirty talk, and maybe he was getting a bit wilder in his old age.

He could not remember the exact moment when their relationship had gone from a normal (if a bit needier and more complicated than usual) love between a father and his lost children to, well, this strange thing that left all three of them curled up on the den floor, mostly rid of their clothes, gasping for air. It must have been near the end of the war, when the three of them had been huddled together and aching with loss... he didn't know for sure, but he thought that it must have been it. And, well... it was wrong, wasn't it? They all knew it, and it must have been in the back of all of their minds. Laguna knew that it was always in the back of his, hovering at the back of his tongue, making him sick. He knew that their dead friends and loved ones would probably hate them for what they were doing. He knew that this would have to be kept under wraps, always; he didn't even go out into his own city with Squall and Ellone anymore, because he didn't trust himself not to do something that would maybe betray what they'd become and attract the attention of some reporter desperate for a buck.

But it didn't matter, how wrong it was. He needed it. They all did. And despite the way that it kept him awake at night, wondering if Raine was watching him in horror and thinking about haunting him or something, he wasn't going to tell them to leave. He couldn't turn them away, couldn't leave them. Not again. Never again.

FFXII, Balthier & Ashe & Fran

[(Anonymous)]

Balthier is the prince, and Ashe and Fran are the kickass lady skypirates who have adventures. Adventures ahoy!

Re: FFXII, Balthier & Ashe & Fran

[softestbullet]

OMG :D :D :D

Friendships: Jecht & Auron & Braska

[(Anonymous)]

Jecht, Braska and young Auron encounter an unsent. Auron has interesting thoughts.

Coward Heart (FFX) (Auron & Braska & Jecht) (PG) (3,700 words) [1/3]

[(Anonymous)]

The caves cast light back at them, fractured reflections and the rock's own native glow: the water was still and star-littered, pinpricks of light beneath a surface so motionless that Auron could barely tell where water ended and the pressing dark of the caverns began. All the light should have illumed the air, but the icy breath of the place seemed nearly solid, swallowing the light before it could reveal more than it hid. Auron had drawn his sword long ago, its rasp loud and echo-inhaled. Even the fiends glowed, here, great gelid flans with galaxies glittering inside them, dissolving into pyreflies like gentle novas.

Auron's gaze slid to Braska. In the gloaming, Braska's eyes seemed wide and white, his robes silver-edged black, all the careful distinctions of colour — red, for mourning; purple, for hope; blue, for seas and skies — lost in the half-light. Jecht was a suffocated flame beside him, the leaping fish on his sarong like the empty spaces between licks of fire as he shrugged off the wool-lined jacket Braska had finally convinced him to wear.

Braska's hand came up to touch the rock blocking their path. He murmured under his breath, and Auron strained to hear over the slither of Jecht's disrobing and muttered curses. He drifted closer.

Hearing his approach, Braska turned his head briefly before resuming his examination. "A cave-in, or a deliberate obstacle? I wonder." His voice seemed to loud in the unmoving air.

Something extremely bad-tempered about summoners and crazy pilgrimages drifted over from where Jecht was hopping on one foot, trying to remove the other boot — he'd looked ridiculous in his too-small jacket, baggy shorts, and snow boots, and Auron suspected it had not helped his mood, whatever its intended effect on impending frostbite. He turned his attention back to his summoner. "Obstacle?"

"I would not be surprised if this place is meant to test us."

"Come on." Jecht, grumpy in the dark and cold, joined them and glared at the obstruction. "After everything they're asking, they'd—" Jecht bit the rest of the sentence off — and this was new, Jecht swallowing down his words, and it clotted Auron's throat: sympathy and his own helplessness. Braska turned to watch Jecht, quietly, the spaces between them still awkward and half-angry and thick with Braska's solemn gratitude for Jecht's efforts. Jecht met Braska's eyes and Auron had to look away from the intensity of their shared gaze — say these things for me, Jecht, tell him what I can't... Jecht huffed, sharp exhale of breath. "Yeah. Of course they would," and by the time Auron looked at them again the stare was broken, and Jecht had gone over to the water's edge where the cavern's other branching lay submerged, sword left behind and blitzball in hand.

Jecht poked the water with his toe.

"FUCKING HELL—" and a hiss of indrawn breath, three quick round-cheeked blows of exhalation, and Jecht sank into the freezing water, imprecations echoing continuously across the cave until his black hair was swallowed under the surface. Auron was left by Braska's side, alone with the dense dark and the water that stilled too quickly.

Auron blew out a long breath, empathy and released tension.

"Well," Braska said, and stopped a moment before continuing. "Let's have some warmth ready for him when he returns. And," he set down his pack and rummaged within, drawing out a fire gem, "it would not hurt us, either, I think, if we're to be here a while." He looked at Auron over the gem's faint internal glow, like a small beating heart in his hand: sad-smile on his face, and tired eyes. Auron wanted to look away, again, his own heart clenching like that was what Braska's palm held — so many silences between them all now, after Jecht had learned of their journey's end, and Auron's faith crumbling too soon to stop Jecht's desperation infecting him. His jaw clenched unhappily, but he nodded, and cleared some ground with sweeps of his foot as Braska sank to the cavern floor.

Braska fiddled with the gem a moment — some Al Bhed trickery he'd learned; Auron surely had no idea how Braska used half the things they picked up and traded for — then set it down in the cleared space. It burst into silent flame, burning without apparent source; the heat it threw on Auron's face felt like a flush of anger, or shame— and Auron realized it was no illusion as the fever filled his veins, sluggish and poisonous and— "My lord—"

"Auron." The gentlest interruption, firm as stone. Auron's jaw snapped shut in automatic obedience. Braska put his head in his hands for a moment, drew them slowly down his face and looked up at Auron and he looked so tired and— old, and Auron's heart beat thick and hard and fast at the thought. Braska's voice was soft in the dark. "I'm sorry. But... please, don't." He looked steadily up at Auron, like a supplicant: it felt so wrong, observing this moment of weakness seemed obscene, and Braska kneeling before him, sacrilege.

Auron fell to his knees. Braska's words had done nothing to stop the thick roil in his blood, his belly — not as they once had, wisdom and kindness balming his spirit and his teeth ached, breath hissing between them: did he demand consolation from this man, like a child? It was Auron's duty to give — and Braska's also, but not to him.

He stared into the fire and the silence. "I don't know what to believe anymore. My lord."

A touch, on his hair, and he nearly flinched — but it was Braska's fingers, a light brush that made Auron think of the way Braska comforted Yuna. He swallowed, torn between contempt at himself for deserving this child-comfort — and yearning for it, for some shred of relief, of belief, of Braska, selfish wants in this late hour. Auron sat stiffly, not leaning into Braska's touch but not recoiling from it.

Braska drew in breath, to answer—

A splash jarred through the quiet and Auron was on his feet, turning with sword in hand — only Jecht, returning too soon, dripping and shivering and calling, "Br-assk-ka," teeth clattering across the consonants. Auron tore off his belt and robe, throwing the garment around Jecht's shoulders as the cold crept in across his own; Jecht jerked a nod of thanks. Braska had risen too, fingers aglow with healing magic at the ready, but Jecht waved it away, huddling over the fire and trying to talk. "Braska— think you need to come see this."

"Did you find a clear passage?"

"Maybe, but there's someone— something there. Hell if I know. I didn't like the look of it." Jecht frowned down into the flames, the flickering light turning his fierce glower ugly, leaping across his scars.

Auron didn't like the way this sounded — nor the way Jecht hadn't stopped to joke or brag, bring back tales of brashly tackling the threat himself. "My lord. If there's chance of passage, we should all go." His grip tightened on his sword.

Jecht's eyes flicked to him with a grimace of agreement. "Yeah. Bring everything. We're getting outta here."


———

 

Friendship: Kimahri & Yuna

[(Anonymous)]

Howzabout Kimahri & Yuna's first meeting? Bonus points for any bebe Besaiders along the way.

Friendship: FFVII/FFX crossover. Cid & Auron.

[(Anonymous)]

I don't even know, I just want to see this happen.

Relationship: FFVII/FFX Crossover. Yunalesca/Jenova

[(Anonymous)]

AGAIN, I DON'T EVEN KNOW.

FFIV, Edge/Kain/Rydia

[(Anonymous)]

FFIV, Edge/Kain/Rydia - maybe between them they can find answers

FF Tactics, Ramza/Deltia

[(Anonymous)]

And the history books forgot about us...

Re: FF Tactics, Ramza/Deltia

[(Anonymous)]

-First Kiss-

He is my family's stable boy. He is my best friend. I find him this night, tending to the pregnant mare. His soft brown hair glows gently in the light from the lanterns. He makes no sound, but the motion of his shoulders shaking silently gives away the extent of his wounds. In all the years we've grown together, I've never known Delita to cry.

My steps are light among the earth as I approach. The brush in his hand pauses in it's motion. His arm raises to wipe at his face. His breath escapes, shaking from his lips. He returns to his earlier preoccupation, gliding the bristles through the smooth red coat of the gentle creature.

He speaks without turning to me. His tone bitter. “Do you believe, Ramza, --‘friend’-- Do you believe as they do?”

I pause in my steps. I cannot fathom of what he speaks. I had not heard all the details. Only, that a fight had broken out in the market. I’d spent most of the morning at my father’s side, learning of politics from my older brothers. When I’d learned that Delita had been involved, I had left the castle to find him. I looked all over peasant quarters from the fading light of dusk to the rise of the moon. It was only when I headed home, that his piteous sobs reached my ears.

I did not know what exactly had happened. But I was no longer as naïve as I’d been in younger days. I could have guess what had likely happened. I chose my words carefully. “They are knaves, Del--”

He spun suddenly, the fire in his eyes a dangerously lit coal that might one day consume a lesser man. “ Knaves that have your father’s ear! And what am I? But a mere groomsman?”

My breath is taken by a dagger through my heart at the bruising of his eye. My eyes are drawn now to the tatters in his shirt, from the scuffle. Through them, my eyes discern, there are more bruises along his chest and about his waist. Without thinking, I step forward and lift his shirt to remove it.

He draws a sharp breath and before the useless cloth is discarded onto the earth, I already know, his ribs are broken. My fingers trace the swollen, discolored skin. Delita winces at my mere touch. A sudden anger burns within me. I shall find those knaves. Justice will be done for you, my friend.

Dark eyes rove mine for an answer I cannot provide him. ‘Tis not my place to wonder where the hearts of men have gone. Why some must suffer while others live in excess. I’ve always wished that we were equals, not for Delita’s family to be rich, like mine, but I’d rather, to have been born poor, as he.

“Delita,” his name flees my lips as soft as a whisper, “what happened?”

His eyes darken then, the dangerous coal stoking to greater heights, the fire within his soul. “What always happens, Ramza,” he nearly spits the venom of his rage at me, “The powerful oppress the meek, as it always is, as it has always been,” he turns his eyes from me, “As it will always be,”

“Delita…” he flinches when my fingers touch his cheek, “No. I will change it. It will not alwa--”

“You are third, Beoulve,” he scoffs, “ Time’s march will slow your ambition. You will forget your boyhood vows when the hour of manhood is upon you. Power corrupts, absolutely, friend,”

“Delita…” I cannot bear to the see the hurt in his eyes anymore, and his tone spears me to the soul. Something has changed between us. I do not know what it is. It feels as though…

He hates me.

Burning tears sting my eyes. He turns away from me and grabs the pitchfork. In the light of the lanterns, all I see is the dark bruises that mottle his back, his shoulders, his arms. He cries out and drops to one knee. The pitchfork clatters to the ground.

“Delita!” I rush to his side. He is panting, his face contorted in pain. His breaths come strained through gritted teeth. He is heavy, but I manage to bring him away from the mare, with his own assistance. I let his arm down from about my shoulders. He slumps to the ground. I do not care that my pants are worth more than his yearly earn. My brothers will yell tomorrow, and I will let them. Their voices and curses will fade to the winds. I kneel down in the mud beside my lifelong friend.

Sweat covers his brow. He pants for breath. I reach into my side pouch. Among the various herbs I picked to help Alma and Teta with supper, there is a small bottle. Carefully I lift it out. The mysterious healing liquid glows a deep, dark blue.

“Ram…za…”

“Here, drink it,” My hand lifts his chin, but he turns away from me.

“No… tis too expensive. I cannot repay you for it. I…argh!…I will heal…in time,” he protests.

My sigh, followed by my insistent hand under his chin is all it takes to convince him that I do care not of such petty things. Only that he be well. “And how can you care for my mares when you can barely breathe to feed them?” My voice is light and teasing as I uncork the vial and tip the contents into his mouth.

His face is bitter as the horrid taste goes down. Moments later, his body miraculously mends by means of ancient magics. His breath is no longer ragged. He stands on his own. “Thank you, Ram,”

There is a gentleness in his eyes that mends the wound in my heart at his earlier accusation. A warm rush of feeling prompts my arms to find him and clutch him to my breast. “We will always be friends, Delita. I give you my word, on the Beoulve’s honor,”

He laughs, a deep rumble against my chest that reverberates down into my body and tickles my chest. “Yes, Ram,” he affirms, wrapping his arms around me in return. He squeezes tighter than I’d have expected. His cheek brushes mine. His breath rages fire against my ear. “You’ve no idea the extent of my gratitude,” His lips press against my cheek.

My heart pounds in confusion. He draws away and I am somehow both relieved and disappointed. However, he does not draw away completely. His dark eyes rove mine once more, searching again, for an answer I do not know how to give. “Or my love,” he whispers ever so gentle in to the lantern-light.

His lips settle onto mine and they are light and free and soft. I cannot contain myself and I respond with equal vigor. Clashing sensations race through my mind. This is right. This is very wrong. This is all I want. Him, here, in this moment, holding me, caressing me with his mouth. Claiming me with his tongue against mine. I love him. He is my best friend. He is mine.

FFIV:TAY, Rosa

[(Anonymous)]

Rosa's forced to wear a robe and can't keep Harvey as a last time due to being a skank and getting pregnant from other men out of wedlock. Feel free to include reactions from Ceodore, Rydia, Cecil and Baron's public as you see fit.

OP making a correction

[(Anonymous)]

Harvey as a last name is what I meant.

ffiv, edward/cecil

[(Anonymous)]

edward --> cecil, as requited or unrequited as you might like, any or all of the following: hero worship, death vs disarming, protecting the ones we love, rescue.

art fill! ffiv edward/cecil

[(Anonymous)]

dear op: I hope you don't mind that this doesn't quite hit the extra ideas you gave -- I saw the pairing and this idea just popped into my head? I hope you enjoy just a little extra edward/cecil art, and also I hope some kind ficcer comes along and fills one of your prompts for real!




cecil always looks SO SERIOUS -- I imagine he would look even more so when trying to learn something :b

I realized as I colored that they're very sun-and-moon, aren't they?

hope you like!

(texture credit! (http://teeth-man.deviantart.com/art/old-crackly-parchment-texture-62016461))

FFVI, Locke/Celes/Setzer

[(Anonymous)]

Setzer convinces Locke and Celes to crash a formal ball with him, with results every bit as disastrous (and amusing) as one might expect.

FFVIII, Seifer/Squall

[(Anonymous)]

antagonism, cubed, a lousy disguise for how much they really mean to one another. bonus for filthy, filthy sex. =D

Re: FFVIII, Seifer/Squall, your words are all over me (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

I am a terrible person who can't follow prompts. :( This is really more Seifer/Squall(/Rinoa) than pure Seifer/Squall, but I swear if you are unhappy, anon, I will gladly write you some context free porn instead of 6000 words of, well, whatever this is. I am a bad person who breaks hearts of anons everywhere.

He sees Squall for the first time in three years at a shitty bar, at Deling City in the Lower East. In the flesh, anyway — Seifer had never been able to avoid his face plastered across magazines and newspapers for the first year of relief that SeeD turned out to be useful for something. It had only followed from there, Squall's apathetic face appearing all around him every time someone at Garden took a shit, because the world thought the establishment was so fucking perfect.

Seifer knew better.

He was pleased, the sour, slimy feel of it a cold comfort when the tabloids sank their teeth into Squall's fairytale. Rinoa was no stranger to the life, had always seemed nonchalant about the press following her around sniffing around like she could throw them scraps. She hid herself from it better, the only time Seifer could remember where her face was cold, closed off, almost evil was when she was looking down the lens of camera.

Seifer doesn't know why Rinoa walks, but he watches it play out in bigger and bigger photos, more and more invasive, leaking from the tabloids to the legitimate papers like a virus, as if it matters who Squall is fucking. Or, in this case, not fucking any longer. The spiral doesn't stop after she's gone. Squall, stepping down as Commander. Squall, retiring outright. Squall, looking more and more like the pathetic kid who had had a chance to step out of his sinking ship. She waits, but Seifer could have informed Squall that she doesn't wait forever.

Seifer is harsh, but he's a hypocrite, too. They're matched in more ways than one: he couldn't keep her, either.

So when he sees Squall draped across the edge of the bar, back in the corner where there's barely any light and people go to get blown under the edge of the bar where no one else can see, he's intrigued.

It's no use lying to himself. Squall has always been under his skin, like the worse splinter he couldn't pry out, not with his blade, or his bravado; it's an annoying feeling, and he hates it. in return, Seifer has always wanted to bend Squall, see if he'll crack, brittle like old bones.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, and sits down at the opposite corner. Squall's drink is almost empty, the mug dripping onto the scratched, overly shiny wood. Squall's jacket is dirty, the fur lining a dingy yellow and the leather starting to crack. He doesn't look up.

"I can't say I expected a warm welcome, but a sneer? A dirty look? Don't leave me hanging, Leonhart."

Squall's eyes flicker up. "What do you want?"

"Wondering why such an eligible bachelor as yourself is drinking alone on a weekend in a bar that's barely holding onto its liquor license. You're a hero, doesn't that mean you get VIP treatment at the bars where they don't water down the tap?"

"I'm not interested in this, Seifer."

"Oh, I see." Seifer takes a drink from his bottle, running his tongue around the rim. "Still heartbroken?"

"None of your business," Squall says. "Go away."

"But, Squall," Seifer says, a sigh in his voice. "You're so dreamy when you actually use full sentences. I feel, like, so special."

Seifer grew up watching Squall, goading him. He knows the way his jaw will tighten when he's annoyed, the thing he does with his lip when he's horny, which had been so fucking fun to learn, like ten birthdays all at once. Most people wouldn't frown for amusement, but Squall isn't most people. Squall is Squall, and he's scrambled eggs all day long. So when Squall frowns at him, Seifer smiles.

"Or stay," Squall says finally. "Whatever."

------------

Seifer is surprised when Squll doesn't blow him off. He's surprised when Squall shows up the next night, and the next, and the night after that. It's not that Seifer enjoys his company, exactly, but he likes the way Squall watches him, silently, like he's trying to make a decision. It's the opposite of Garden, how Squall's eyes were always on the floor or the door, looking for a way to escape. He's sharper, now, alert and aware.

The television in their corner of the bar is snowy and covered in a layer of dust that makes it look even worse. There's no volume, and Seifer watches the Triad tournament go by, uninterested. "They finally get the ability to have television back, and they air card games," he says. "What a waste."

"Movie studios are still reopening." Squall twirls a peanut shell on the bar. It's the first thing he's said all night.

"He speaks!" Seifer leans forward. "Anything else you want to share before you clam up again?"

"There's no reason to talk all the time," Squall says, and he's angry, from zero to light-speed. "We don't have to talk every fucking second."

Seifer raises a brow. "Are you talking to me, or someone else?" When the flush seeps across Squall's sallow skin, Seifer pounces. "She did like to hear her own voice," he says, and carries on before Squall lashes out again. "She was interesting, and that's the problem, isn't it? You don't even realize you're getting tired of it until it's too late, and then you'll do anything for some damn silence."

Squall goes back to his peanut shell. "That sounds about right."

"Then you feel like you've kicked a little of puppies." Oh Seifer, knows. "But surprisingly, I don't think that's why she booted you."

Squall snorts. "Who said she did?"

"Please," Seifer says. "I knew her first." He lets it drip from his mouth, drawing out the consonants until Squall looks up at him. "I made all the mistakes and you fell in the craters I left behind."

"Cocky. Nothing's changed." He pauses. "You're still not exactly right." Squall looks like the picture of disinterest, but now, Seifer has him. If Squall is still in love with her, well then.

Common fucking ground.

------------

Seifer doesn't have to resort to out and out blackmail to get Squall to leave the bar with him. Seifer doesn't know anything about Squall beyond the greasy walls, where he goes when he's not there, if he's in the city alone, if he's sleeping in gutters. It's a curiosity, and it's been a long time since Seifer had any sort of challenging puzzle. So when Seifer says, "let's get out of here," and Squall stands up without a fight, he's shocked. Pleased, even. In their long acquaintance, they've never hung out. They aren't friends.

"I hate this place," Squall says as they walk down the sidewalk. It's cool, fall sliding cunning fingers under the edge of summer.

"Then why do you come here?" Seifer steps over a dead rat.

"I can't get enough silence anywhere else," Squall says. "It's the only place big enough with enough people."

"Back to wanting to be invisible, are you?"

"I never wanted--" Squall stops himself, and his tone is familiar. Squall giving a shit, when he doesn't want to give a shit. Seifer could write a thesis on Squall's voice. The thought scrapes across his mind, and he realizes, with a jolt, that he could, sure, he could, but it would be incomplete. Heat pools in his belly.

"You never wanted what?"

"I don't want to be invisible," Squall says. "I just want to be left alone. I want to be able to choose. There's a difference."

Seifer shrugged. "Bad form saving the world, then."

They walk in silence, and Seifer leads. Squall follows as if he doesn't give a shit where they're going, and maybe he doesn't. He's not drunk, Squall doesn't do drunk, he does tipsy, just fuzzy enough to be able to bury annoying thoughts under the rug of his subconscious. Seifer stops a block away from his apartment, which isn't much on the lousy pay from washing dishes in posh restaurants he can't afford to eat in, but it's his and he earned it.

"I'm taking you home," Seifer says, mild, like he's disinterested.

Squall looks up at him. "Okay," he says. Then, "But no."

Seifer laughs. "Make up your mind."

Squall actually rolls his eyes. "I did. I'm just saying, not tonight."

Seifer has to admit, he's a little impressed with Squall's foresight, but then, Seifer wouldn't want to fuck anyone who didn't have at least the brains he did.

------------

Knowing more changes everything. Seifer has three forms on Garden letterhead, three failures of an exam he was never meant to pass, that tell him so. The more knowledge you acquire, the more you screw yourself over. Knowing more and still being expected to form a line, to follow orders, to mind and behave and not fuck around do not mix.

Knowing that Squall sleeps, curled up in a ball, taking up almost no space changes things. Seifer isn't afraid of intimacy, he's just never had a need for it. The way Squall bends in on himself makes Seifer wonder how many times Squall has had it, and lost it. Before, Seifer would've fucked him and not cared, but knowing how the fuck he sleeps, like the whole world could tumble down on him, like he's expecting it to, changes everything.

It also pisses Seifer off. He might have pressed, the second night as they leave the bar, pushed Squall against the wall and convinced him, except for when he woke up that morning and found Squall in a tight semi-circle, back to Seifer. Seifer swears and gets up and goes to work and thinks about it, all damn day.

Squall is only the second person he's brought home, and the first one he's brought home that he didn't have sex with. If possible, it makes their nightly meetings at the bar even more awkward, makes Seifer quieter, and Squall more sullen. He could explain it away if it were sexual tension, but Squall has never been one to let that stuff hang out, and Seifer's not about to start looking pathetic and begging for it.

It doesn't break, the weird, roiling tension between them, until Rinoa pops back up.

Because it's Rinoa, and she's the sorceress, the world vacillates between so scared they're pissing in their pants or overjoyed that she's doing something kind, like helping at an animal farm with puppies instead of wiping them all out with some well-aimed Flare. When Seifer had heard, it didn't surprise him #8212; Rinoa wasn't the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if that horse was dragging two hundred carts of issues and misery with it. Timber wasn't a lark, after all.

Her face is plastered all over every paper, every tabloid, every screen across Deling, she and the president of Esthar at the groundbreaking for the beginning of the transoceanic train line that will open Esthar up to the entire world. Seifer wonders where Galbadia's president is, a whiny, wimpy dude that is constantly eclipsed by anyone who happens to open their mouth in front of him. He wonders why Rinoa is always stealing what should be his spotlight.

But then, Timber has been Rinoa's pet project for years. Maybe it stands to reason.

She looks happy, and he and Squall watch the recording of her over and over. Her eyes crinkle, and her mouth is red, and she doesn't look like she could kill you with a wave of her hand at all.

Seifer almost misses that Squall is talking. He tears his eyes away from the screen.

"...a couple months before she left."

"What?"

Squall looks back at him, sharply. He doesn't like repeating himself, Seifer knows this. "She had learned to levitate things."

Seifer laughs. "How did she break that news to you?"

Squall taps his fingers on the bar. "She accidentally flung me into a wall during a fight."

Everything is quiet around them except the rush in Seifer's head. He tries to imagine that, but can't #8212; Rinoa was never violent. He can't even get the picture of it in his head.

"She felt terrible, she..." Squall is wrecked. "I was angry, and she was angry and guilty and angry about feeling guilty and we weren't alone in our heads, ever, and it started then."

Knowledge changes everything. Seifer pushes, even know he knows he shouldn't. "What started?"

Squall glances at him, surprised. "That's when she started taking apart our bond."

FFXIII, Fang/Cid Raines

[(Anonymous)]

Convincing Fang to join the Calvary.

Re: FFXIII, Fang/Cid Raines - "The Arrangement", G - SPOILERS

[(Anonymous)]

The woman from Pulse stood on the bridge, one hand on her hip, the other balancing her spear against the floor, staring at the window. Cid approached her with caution -- she seemed more relaxed now than she had when they had taken her, but she'd still knocked down a dozen of his best men, and Rygdea was likely to be several more hours in the infirmary. "Pardon me."

She turned, blue eyes snapping as she looked at him. "What do you want? Why are you holding me captive?"

"Not captive," he replied, taking a careful step closer. "Protective custody."

"Hmmph!" She flipped her spear over her shoulder to hang it off her belt, then crossed her arms. "Seems like captivity to me." Cid could read it on her face: the impatience to be gone, the urgency of her errand. He was an obstacle to her goal, nothing more.

In that case, he would have to present himself as the means to her end. He opened a hand and held it out to her, a gesture of peace. "You could join us."

"Join you?" She snorted, then shook her head. "The Cocoon military doesn't usually welcome l'Cie, especially not when they come from Pulse. Tell me why I shouldn't be fighting my way free of this ship right now."

"Because we're on the same side." Cid let his hand clench into a fist. "You would see the fal'Cie destroyed, the government of Cocoon fallen from power? So would I. We have become too dependent on the fal'Cie, too soft, too vulnerable. We would be better off living like the people of Pulse: partners with the fal'Cie, not slaves or even servants."

She raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "Dissidents within the Cocoon military?" Cid nodded, and she shrugged. "All right, tell me more."

Cid felt the quick tug from his brand, the one that told him he was on the right track; he took a deep breath to keep from gritting his teeth. "You say that you can't remember why you and your partner were in the Vestige. But it seems likely enough that your goals and mine align. If you join us in the Calvary, I will help you find her."

He heard the hiss of a sharp breath between her teeth. Yessssss. The sound echoed in his head, the rasping whisper that Cid had come to hate. She is listening, and soon you will have her.

For a long moment, she stood there, and Cid waited, almost holding her breath. When she finally shifted, it was to hold out her hand. "All right," she said. "Can't make any promises, but let's see if we can work together. The name's Fang."

Cid allowed himself a brief smile, and took her hand to shake it, letting her envelop his hand in her strong grip. "Welcome aboard, Fang. I'm sure we'll have a productive partnership. Now tell me about your friend."