Archiving ff_fortnightly drabbles. (ffxii version)
Title: Spawn
Fandom: FFXII
Characters/Pairings: Ffamran, Cidolphus
Prompt: 68: anarchy
Rating: PG
Summary: Ffamran gives him father one of the best things a child could think to give.
Cid was a man of tangible planes, in a remote sense. A man of digits, steel and stars. Ffamran was a boy of tangible planes, in the worst sense; a boy of catching mice, mud on his shirts and oil on his face. Ffamran thinks this the best way of being, thinks that the numbers Cid scrawls look like crushed spider legs, cold and alien.
Therefore, anybody might reason, that it was only an attempt to cheer the man up with colour and vivacity.
Ffamran spent his evenings, after studying, at the creek in the furthest reaches of the ground, with one of the guard’s old helmets, a dented kitchen sieve attached to a broom handle and fistfuls of worms. At the end of the last evening he snuck into Cid’s study, opened the hinged desk and spread his treasure inside. He grinned himself to sleep; his father would surely appreciate his efforts and the magnificence of Ffamran’s trove.
Cid saw it as an attack, and it was only after the cleaning staff had located every last frog in his study, and expunged them, that Ffamran finally saw the naked rage on the man’s face and began to think, oops.
Title: The best soldier is a living gargoyle.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Vossler, Ashe
Prompt: #70 - Senses
Rating/Warnings: PG
Word Count: 100
Summary: Vossler and Ashe meet for the first time, Vossler almost regrets being living stone.
He is too fought out, to feel much at all. Stubble lines his jaw, to protect the angle of his throat from the grate of sand against skin. His lips are chapped, from harsh heat, harsher kisses; his entire body is calloused from chafing and wielding.
Even his hair is a shag of tangles - difficult to locate individual hairs, sometimes. Vossler cares little: to feel is to hurt.
Nevertheless, he stays poised in stillness, absolute, when the child princess runs fingers over his countenance. He may have barely felt the flutter of hands against his skin, but innocence penetrates deeper than tactility
Title: The base of rebellion.
Fandom: FFXII
Word Count: 200 words
Characters/Pairings: Ashe, Raminas
Prompt: 68: anarchy
Rating: PG -13
Summary: The naming of Ashe.
The first babe is formless between the legs. A daughter.
His wife stares at him, bitter eyes holding him to promises he never thought he’d have to honour.
Days after the birth, head full of law and ink spread on his hands and those of his lawmen, like the blood he would have preferred, the promise is writ, concrete in the eyes of wife and country.
He stands at the helm of his nation with the infant in his hands; proclaims to the crowds his heir.
Ever used to tradition, the once staid and solid rebel. The streets shake with accusations of seduction to his Landisi wife’s matriarchal ways. Chaotic destruction sets its teeth around the ankle of Raminas’ kingdom; he does nothing - retribution would set afire what will glower itself to death if left alone.
Without consultation to his wife he names the child in presence of a priest, a general and a scribe as is the way for any child of Royal blood.
“Ashelia.” He proclaims, and they write it of meaning truth, true leader.
Raminas never calls her anything but Ashe, for the flames her birth caused his rule, she is smeared darkness at the base of rebellion.
Title: A once machination.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Venat, Cid, Balthier.
Prompt: #65 - Useless
Rating: PG
Words: 100
When Cidolphus sleeps she goes to his son. She can mire herself in both their heads - their threads of thought both weave the same way; if not of the same things.
She planned a contingency, once; the son taking up the father’s mantle should Cidolphus’ madness devour himself. The first time Cidolphus made her aware of his son’s presence she planned him a successor.
This will never be so - the mechanics of the child’s mind are of steel and smoke, where his father’s are of heresy.
Defiance runs thick through them both. Venat cares not - Balthier is of little use.
Title: Dissent in the ranks. And in the air. And in the mess hall.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Balthier, Basch, blink and you miss them Vaan and Penelo.
Prompt: #67-gossip
Rating: PG
Summary: WWII AU, a christening, slightly drunk Balthier and poor, poor Basch.
Captain Fon Rosenburg stands slightly outside of the mess area, and listens to the low burble of humanity. One conversation stands out amongst the noise; a young paramedic and a private; “They say he’s stark raving. Abso-bloody-lutly brilliant, of course, but do-lally.”
Basch’s authoritative bellow catches them both and he smiles to himself at the shock on their faces. “We’ll have no more of that sort of talk - it decreases morale. I’ve half a mind to tell the poor man what you’re saying about him. Name?”
The nurse breaks; “Flight Sergeant Balthier.” Basch nods, walks out - heading towards to the flight hanger. It should be deserted at this time of night - it isn’t. He rounds the corner to see a lean man pouring what seemed to be whiskey onto the wing of a plane.
“What in the King’s name are you doing?” Basch is horrified - who knows what that could do for the machine. The man grins at him widely.
“Just got her, sir. And I say if a ship may be christened with champagne, then why not a plane with whiskey. Good drink, that. Wouldn’t you agree?”
A headache begins to form between Bash’s eyes. “Balthier, I suppose?”
--
I don't know about anyone else but I can see all of the FFXII characters in a WWII setting. Oh, for the record they are British troops, here.
Title: Where whoring is the lesser evil.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Fran, Balthier.
Prompt: #67-gossip
Rating: PG-13
Summary: WWII AU, chaining the gossip prompt. This takes place a few minutes prior to This
They think Fran a whore; they tell her so in their bitter, guttural language. They think, for her lack of reactance that she does not understand. They think their beloved leader has shipped in his favourite mistress. He is high enough in the ranks that this is ignored, if not strictly allowed.
They would both be court-marshalled if those gossips knew her true purpose; that the only fluid she and Balthier have ever swapped between them was petrol.
Even here, in the most progressive country of the world, or so she’s been told, they will not let a woman hold a wrench; they whisper of jinxes and gremlins in the machine.
Balthier knows her to be the best engineer on base, has said so since she fixed the almost irreparable damage he sustained to the Strahl when he crashed into her country. An exchange easily made; a flight out for her continued help.
She finishes her work as Balthier watches, rubbing her hands delicately with a rag. The door of the hangar opens, and she exits from the space. Balthier pours whiskey out of an emergency flask to cover the smell of her perfume; even a whore isn’t permitted near the crafts.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters/Pairings: Ffamran, Cidolphus
Prompt: 68: anarchy
Rating: PG
Summary: Ffamran gives him father one of the best things a child could think to give.
Cid was a man of tangible planes, in a remote sense. A man of digits, steel and stars. Ffamran was a boy of tangible planes, in the worst sense; a boy of catching mice, mud on his shirts and oil on his face. Ffamran thinks this the best way of being, thinks that the numbers Cid scrawls look like crushed spider legs, cold and alien.
Therefore, anybody might reason, that it was only an attempt to cheer the man up with colour and vivacity.
Ffamran spent his evenings, after studying, at the creek in the furthest reaches of the ground, with one of the guard’s old helmets, a dented kitchen sieve attached to a broom handle and fistfuls of worms. At the end of the last evening he snuck into Cid’s study, opened the hinged desk and spread his treasure inside. He grinned himself to sleep; his father would surely appreciate his efforts and the magnificence of Ffamran’s trove.
Cid saw it as an attack, and it was only after the cleaning staff had located every last frog in his study, and expunged them, that Ffamran finally saw the naked rage on the man’s face and began to think, oops.
Title: The best soldier is a living gargoyle.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Vossler, Ashe
Prompt: #70 - Senses
Rating/Warnings: PG
Word Count: 100
Summary: Vossler and Ashe meet for the first time, Vossler almost regrets being living stone.
He is too fought out, to feel much at all. Stubble lines his jaw, to protect the angle of his throat from the grate of sand against skin. His lips are chapped, from harsh heat, harsher kisses; his entire body is calloused from chafing and wielding.
Even his hair is a shag of tangles - difficult to locate individual hairs, sometimes. Vossler cares little: to feel is to hurt.
Nevertheless, he stays poised in stillness, absolute, when the child princess runs fingers over his countenance. He may have barely felt the flutter of hands against his skin, but innocence penetrates deeper than tactility
Title: The base of rebellion.
Fandom: FFXII
Word Count: 200 words
Characters/Pairings: Ashe, Raminas
Prompt: 68: anarchy
Rating: PG -13
Summary: The naming of Ashe.
The first babe is formless between the legs. A daughter.
His wife stares at him, bitter eyes holding him to promises he never thought he’d have to honour.
Days after the birth, head full of law and ink spread on his hands and those of his lawmen, like the blood he would have preferred, the promise is writ, concrete in the eyes of wife and country.
He stands at the helm of his nation with the infant in his hands; proclaims to the crowds his heir.
Ever used to tradition, the once staid and solid rebel. The streets shake with accusations of seduction to his Landisi wife’s matriarchal ways. Chaotic destruction sets its teeth around the ankle of Raminas’ kingdom; he does nothing - retribution would set afire what will glower itself to death if left alone.
Without consultation to his wife he names the child in presence of a priest, a general and a scribe as is the way for any child of Royal blood.
“Ashelia.” He proclaims, and they write it of meaning truth, true leader.
Raminas never calls her anything but Ashe, for the flames her birth caused his rule, she is smeared darkness at the base of rebellion.
Title: A once machination.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Venat, Cid, Balthier.
Prompt: #65 - Useless
Rating: PG
Words: 100
When Cidolphus sleeps she goes to his son. She can mire herself in both their heads - their threads of thought both weave the same way; if not of the same things.
She planned a contingency, once; the son taking up the father’s mantle should Cidolphus’ madness devour himself. The first time Cidolphus made her aware of his son’s presence she planned him a successor.
This will never be so - the mechanics of the child’s mind are of steel and smoke, where his father’s are of heresy.
Defiance runs thick through them both. Venat cares not - Balthier is of little use.
Title: Dissent in the ranks. And in the air. And in the mess hall.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Balthier, Basch, blink and you miss them Vaan and Penelo.
Prompt: #67-gossip
Rating: PG
Summary: WWII AU, a christening, slightly drunk Balthier and poor, poor Basch.
Captain Fon Rosenburg stands slightly outside of the mess area, and listens to the low burble of humanity. One conversation stands out amongst the noise; a young paramedic and a private; “They say he’s stark raving. Abso-bloody-lutly brilliant, of course, but do-lally.”
Basch’s authoritative bellow catches them both and he smiles to himself at the shock on their faces. “We’ll have no more of that sort of talk - it decreases morale. I’ve half a mind to tell the poor man what you’re saying about him. Name?”
The nurse breaks; “Flight Sergeant Balthier.” Basch nods, walks out - heading towards to the flight hanger. It should be deserted at this time of night - it isn’t. He rounds the corner to see a lean man pouring what seemed to be whiskey onto the wing of a plane.
“What in the King’s name are you doing?” Basch is horrified - who knows what that could do for the machine. The man grins at him widely.
“Just got her, sir. And I say if a ship may be christened with champagne, then why not a plane with whiskey. Good drink, that. Wouldn’t you agree?”
A headache begins to form between Bash’s eyes. “Balthier, I suppose?”
--
I don't know about anyone else but I can see all of the FFXII characters in a WWII setting. Oh, for the record they are British troops, here.
Title: Where whoring is the lesser evil.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Fran, Balthier.
Prompt: #67-gossip
Rating: PG-13
Summary: WWII AU, chaining the gossip prompt. This takes place a few minutes prior to This
They think Fran a whore; they tell her so in their bitter, guttural language. They think, for her lack of reactance that she does not understand. They think their beloved leader has shipped in his favourite mistress. He is high enough in the ranks that this is ignored, if not strictly allowed.
They would both be court-marshalled if those gossips knew her true purpose; that the only fluid she and Balthier have ever swapped between them was petrol.
Even here, in the most progressive country of the world, or so she’s been told, they will not let a woman hold a wrench; they whisper of jinxes and gremlins in the machine.
Balthier knows her to be the best engineer on base, has said so since she fixed the almost irreparable damage he sustained to the Strahl when he crashed into her country. An exchange easily made; a flight out for her continued help.
She finishes her work as Balthier watches, rubbing her hands delicately with a rag. The door of the hangar opens, and she exits from the space. Balthier pours whiskey out of an emergency flask to cover the smell of her perfume; even a whore isn’t permitted near the crafts.