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May. 30th, 2010 03:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
green_animationSo, what do I do when given a load of pretty prompts? MMhmm, I get the idea for a totally different piece. Am working on the prompts, but came up with this first.
Title: The relative amount of the freedom of lust to love.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Vossler, Penelo
Rating: PG-13 for almost sex?
They meet too fiercely; teeth clack against lips painfully; his teeth bleed her. Her arms are flung messily around his shoulders – somehow their bracelets manage to catch the bare skin between the gap in his armour, and the sharp embellishments dig into him deeply. They disentangle and Vossler, sloppy slow, grabs at a glinting wrist; wipes the metal with his palm. Holding it up into her line of sight he grumbles; “This is my blood.”
A harsh glare glints, colder, even, than the light reflecting from her jewellery – her eyes are unsympathetic to him. Penelo passes a sweat-salted digit over his lips, draws back to show him the sanguine smear on her fingers. “And this, mine.” Neither of them consider any form of apology – one would not believe the other (- “dancers are worse than gypsies”, he snarls to Basch after a Rozarrian strumpet had tricked him from his wallet, this being years before the war took a delight in them.) and of course apologies mean naught, with no feeling behind the farce of words.
Penelo runs the finger thoughtlessly back against her lip, winces at the contact with the wound. Vossler stares, would warn her of blood-born pathogens probable in his own blood. He would warn her if she were Ashe. He thinks nothing of letting his filth slip into this woman. Instead he sneers, disgusted by the frailty he sees in her reaction. “Priss,” Vossler cares not if he is cruel. He could say worse, and would, but that he’d lose his easy fuck.
Penelo glares again; all of her fragmented edges of self seem sharper still. She chooses her words to wound; she knows that as Vossler breathes he will never be enough without another at his shoulder, a man of his choosing at his side. More so, she realizes that he knows this. “Perhaps you should have brought Basch to curb your tongue. I hardly want you this way.”
Vossler knows he is not enough. Bitter, he pins her shoulder blades hard enough that, should he have a mind to, in the morning he could match fingertips to inky smudges on her skin. He has always been less than adept at verbal duelling, in love, war or play. As such, before she can consider struggling herself free, he picks her up –leaving most of his armour on, and bends her onto the nearest surface.
Penelo thinks, in the flutter of a moment, that she is glad the table he leans her on is stone – though startlingly cold on the back of her thighs, it will hold the weight put on it via their less than delicate liaison.
Afterwards, Vossler sits breathlessly on a roughly-hewn chair, made in the same quarry as the table, his head tipped back, asleep or dead – Penelo does not much care as to either outcome. She laces up a shin-length sandle, Vossler does not attend to her as others might.
Basch would kneel forward; almost on all fours as he laced them, his servitude beaten into him like the mongrel he was not. He learnt obedience; it was not bred into him, no part of his nature – but so far into his bones now that he has forgotten he was anything other than obedient, knows not that servitude was never to run through the veins of Landis and her people.
(This Gabranth, who was once Noah, proved.)
Penelo would lean her elbows on Basch’s back and feel each jerk of the laces vibrating through his corded muscle. She would, when he was almost done, have lowered her hands, arms, in two lines that almost reached his waist. She would have stayed until he was done, pretending that if she held tight enough that he felt like home. As he left she’d peck him on the lips. She might have even afforded him a goodbye.
In contrast, Balthier would have barely touched knee to ground for her, and would caress her legs as he dawdled on her laces. Penelo would not lean on him; he would reach for a breast with mouth or fingers, and they might start the process again.
When Balthier was done he would kiss her knuckles and stand, out of the door before she was on her feet, tossing some irritatingly gilded and verbose court-prose over his shoulder as he pulled the door to.
But for all the ‘woulds’ she is tying herself up with Vossler as her companion. And this is best, as she can leave him and neither of them care to imply a farewell; there have been too many goodbyes. Penelo is ever too much herself for this much emotion that the other two would deign to press upon her, in mistaken masculine assumption that she wanted someone to care.
Penelo just wanted someone that she could leave behind.
Title: The relative amount of the freedom of lust to love.
Fandom: FFXII
Characters: Vossler, Penelo
Rating: PG-13 for almost sex?
They meet too fiercely; teeth clack against lips painfully; his teeth bleed her. Her arms are flung messily around his shoulders – somehow their bracelets manage to catch the bare skin between the gap in his armour, and the sharp embellishments dig into him deeply. They disentangle and Vossler, sloppy slow, grabs at a glinting wrist; wipes the metal with his palm. Holding it up into her line of sight he grumbles; “This is my blood.”
A harsh glare glints, colder, even, than the light reflecting from her jewellery – her eyes are unsympathetic to him. Penelo passes a sweat-salted digit over his lips, draws back to show him the sanguine smear on her fingers. “And this, mine.” Neither of them consider any form of apology – one would not believe the other (- “dancers are worse than gypsies”, he snarls to Basch after a Rozarrian strumpet had tricked him from his wallet, this being years before the war took a delight in them.) and of course apologies mean naught, with no feeling behind the farce of words.
Penelo runs the finger thoughtlessly back against her lip, winces at the contact with the wound. Vossler stares, would warn her of blood-born pathogens probable in his own blood. He would warn her if she were Ashe. He thinks nothing of letting his filth slip into this woman. Instead he sneers, disgusted by the frailty he sees in her reaction. “Priss,” Vossler cares not if he is cruel. He could say worse, and would, but that he’d lose his easy fuck.
Penelo glares again; all of her fragmented edges of self seem sharper still. She chooses her words to wound; she knows that as Vossler breathes he will never be enough without another at his shoulder, a man of his choosing at his side. More so, she realizes that he knows this. “Perhaps you should have brought Basch to curb your tongue. I hardly want you this way.”
Vossler knows he is not enough. Bitter, he pins her shoulder blades hard enough that, should he have a mind to, in the morning he could match fingertips to inky smudges on her skin. He has always been less than adept at verbal duelling, in love, war or play. As such, before she can consider struggling herself free, he picks her up –leaving most of his armour on, and bends her onto the nearest surface.
Penelo thinks, in the flutter of a moment, that she is glad the table he leans her on is stone – though startlingly cold on the back of her thighs, it will hold the weight put on it via their less than delicate liaison.
Afterwards, Vossler sits breathlessly on a roughly-hewn chair, made in the same quarry as the table, his head tipped back, asleep or dead – Penelo does not much care as to either outcome. She laces up a shin-length sandle, Vossler does not attend to her as others might.
Basch would kneel forward; almost on all fours as he laced them, his servitude beaten into him like the mongrel he was not. He learnt obedience; it was not bred into him, no part of his nature – but so far into his bones now that he has forgotten he was anything other than obedient, knows not that servitude was never to run through the veins of Landis and her people.
(This Gabranth, who was once Noah, proved.)
Penelo would lean her elbows on Basch’s back and feel each jerk of the laces vibrating through his corded muscle. She would, when he was almost done, have lowered her hands, arms, in two lines that almost reached his waist. She would have stayed until he was done, pretending that if she held tight enough that he felt like home. As he left she’d peck him on the lips. She might have even afforded him a goodbye.
In contrast, Balthier would have barely touched knee to ground for her, and would caress her legs as he dawdled on her laces. Penelo would not lean on him; he would reach for a breast with mouth or fingers, and they might start the process again.
When Balthier was done he would kiss her knuckles and stand, out of the door before she was on her feet, tossing some irritatingly gilded and verbose court-prose over his shoulder as he pulled the door to.
But for all the ‘woulds’ she is tying herself up with Vossler as her companion. And this is best, as she can leave him and neither of them care to imply a farewell; there have been too many goodbyes. Penelo is ever too much herself for this much emotion that the other two would deign to press upon her, in mistaken masculine assumption that she wanted someone to care.
Penelo just wanted someone that she could leave behind.
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Re: PENELO
Date: 2010-05-30 07:19 pm (UTC)I'm really glad you liked it - cruel women who everyone else thinks are sweet? Delicious... I sometimes see Aeris the same way, y'know?
no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 05:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-04 05:35 pm (UTC)