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brokenprismTen Phases of the Moon
Fandom: FFIV
Pairing: Palom/Porom
Rating: R
Warnings: Twincest (explicit). Sexual content (explicit, but not graphic.)
For: The Alphabet Meme,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
katmillia, for P: "Palom/Porom, "in the dark of the night"
Summary: The twins share so much; ten times, between them. (Ten drabbles. Ten very racy drabbles, as I apparently make up for all the porn I haven't been writing otherwise.)
- - -
The darkness doesn't matter. Her skin is an echo to his, matching limbs and eager fingers; her mind, vibrating in echoing refrain to his fire. Palom doesn't need to see: her motions are made with his hands, her breathing with his lungs; her gasps are his. Her kiss is so familiar it's bittersweet.
It's easy to find her in the dark, and easier still to tease: Porom breathes, pants, whines – all under her breath, in the secret this has become. Silent, but Palom can hear them nonetheless in the way her body hitches beneath his.
It is all too easy.
- - -
She waits in the darkness, her back against the cool stone of the tower – their tower, now; they've claimed it, with the holy peak beyond and the moon above, and sometimes Porom despairs of it. But he's there, suddenly, seeing her even without light, and her breath catches.
He kisses her, demanding, and presses her body into the wall: caught between heat and stone, she cannot move, and his mouth is unrelenting. She whimpers, and shifts, and his fingers scramble within her robes, touching—
She moans, soft, and Palom's fingers begin to move, his mind gleaming as her eyes close.
- - -
He feels the questioning tug of magic through his half-sleep and answers it, instinctively – no hesitation, now; they're far beyond. Some might wonder how Porom moves silently through darkened halls, but Palom's burning with it, their shared magic bringing them together in the night like a trail of ember-bright bread crumbs.
By the time the door opens, she's cloaked in their magic, thick and fiery; no other mage could spot her through the layers of their spell, but in Palom's mind's-eye she's lit up like a candle, gloriously pale.
Porom leaves her robes at the door, and comes to him.
- - -
She waits, in the dark of the night, standing at her window; he is coming, and Porom's afraid even as she's eager. The first time – two, three times – it could have been a mistake; an error; the resonance of their magic pulling together parts never meant to join. But she knows that as a lie, even as she denies it; the magic that links them makes it so very easy to succumb.
When casting, his magic completes hers; together, these nights, their bodies complete each other. Porom cannot deny it, no more than she can deny their Twincast; she waits.
- - -
He slams her into the wall, harder this time, because he loves the feeling when she heals herself: her body tenses around him, and then relaxes, and he has to slow his motions at feeling of her cure, the tug of her casting tempting his own magic even as the tendrils of her healing soothe him. He shudders.
When he opens his eyes, hers are half-lidded, and Palom shouldn't be surprised; there are no secrets between them, joined like this against the cloister wall at night.
She casts, this time on him; he cries out, and comes, deep within her.
- - -
The intensity of their magic impresses even the Elder, who has been harder on them these past months, as the undead threat increases – but there are no complaints with their Comet's power and precision. Even more impressive is the Full Cure, because no one thought Palom would ever have the patience required to master white magic's delicacy.
The door hasn't even closed behind them when she closes on him, lips and hands pressing him against the wall; all day he's been casting through her, magically joined and fully intimate, and Porom can't wait another minute to feel him physically, too.
- - -
Palom shushes the little mewling sounds she makes in her throat: his hands within her robe, his fingers inside her, thumb moving slick against her as she shivers and twitches. He cannot explain this urgency, why they are lying across the floor of the storeroom as he touches her, propped up on an elbow and watching her face, the little gasps she chokes back inside.
It is Porom, in the dust, losing control that he loves: he moves faster, harder, and Porom moans, her hips bucking into his hand; he holds her down as she comes, and hushes her again.
- - -
She does not have to wait long; Palom's magic tugs hers, and she feeds it willingly, for she's been gone weeks – she feels him moving through the halls, magic-silent, cloaked and shadowed, following their undeniable link.
She can feel him, burning through the bond, so that when he finally slips through the door there aren't even seconds between their kiss: the magic sparks around them, lighting the room with faint firefly trails.
Her hands find his skin, warmed already to her touch; his hands find her face. They are echoes of each other's need: mirror images, ablaze in the night.
- - -
Palom watches as she banishes them all from the infirmary with one gesture, her face pale and angry, shoulders drawn back in determination. The door closes, and she tugs at his magic with intense ferocity, fueling her own powerful Curaga with their twincasting link: it washes over the poison in his leg like rain, her gift with his fire, healing what the doctors could not.
The cast leaves him feeling drained and exhausted, but Porom is angry and scared: she climbs atop him, shaking. Palom shivers with her emotions, awakened and aroused by her need, and pulls her to him.
- - -
They still hide in the dark, from the truth of what this has become, the burning brand of their magic melding between them like a deadly lifeline. Porom wonders whether she should pretend he is another man - then she wonders how she could. Palom's hands are larger, but similarly shaped; his legs are longer, but the same bones lie underneath. There is no lying, not when her gasps come from his lips, the air shared so close between them it could be only one sigh as his magic sparks hers. She does not pretend; there is no one else.
Fandom: FFIV
Pairing: Palom/Porom
Rating: R
Warnings: Twincest (explicit). Sexual content (explicit, but not graphic.)
For: The Alphabet Meme,
katmillia, for P: "Palom/Porom, "in the dark of the night"Summary: The twins share so much; ten times, between them. (Ten drabbles. Ten very racy drabbles, as I apparently make up for all the porn I haven't been writing otherwise.)
- - -
The darkness doesn't matter. Her skin is an echo to his, matching limbs and eager fingers; her mind, vibrating in echoing refrain to his fire. Palom doesn't need to see: her motions are made with his hands, her breathing with his lungs; her gasps are his. Her kiss is so familiar it's bittersweet.
It's easy to find her in the dark, and easier still to tease: Porom breathes, pants, whines – all under her breath, in the secret this has become. Silent, but Palom can hear them nonetheless in the way her body hitches beneath his.
It is all too easy.
- - -
She waits in the darkness, her back against the cool stone of the tower – their tower, now; they've claimed it, with the holy peak beyond and the moon above, and sometimes Porom despairs of it. But he's there, suddenly, seeing her even without light, and her breath catches.
He kisses her, demanding, and presses her body into the wall: caught between heat and stone, she cannot move, and his mouth is unrelenting. She whimpers, and shifts, and his fingers scramble within her robes, touching—
She moans, soft, and Palom's fingers begin to move, his mind gleaming as her eyes close.
- - -
He feels the questioning tug of magic through his half-sleep and answers it, instinctively – no hesitation, now; they're far beyond. Some might wonder how Porom moves silently through darkened halls, but Palom's burning with it, their shared magic bringing them together in the night like a trail of ember-bright bread crumbs.
By the time the door opens, she's cloaked in their magic, thick and fiery; no other mage could spot her through the layers of their spell, but in Palom's mind's-eye she's lit up like a candle, gloriously pale.
Porom leaves her robes at the door, and comes to him.
- - -
She waits, in the dark of the night, standing at her window; he is coming, and Porom's afraid even as she's eager. The first time – two, three times – it could have been a mistake; an error; the resonance of their magic pulling together parts never meant to join. But she knows that as a lie, even as she denies it; the magic that links them makes it so very easy to succumb.
When casting, his magic completes hers; together, these nights, their bodies complete each other. Porom cannot deny it, no more than she can deny their Twincast; she waits.
- - -
He slams her into the wall, harder this time, because he loves the feeling when she heals herself: her body tenses around him, and then relaxes, and he has to slow his motions at feeling of her cure, the tug of her casting tempting his own magic even as the tendrils of her healing soothe him. He shudders.
When he opens his eyes, hers are half-lidded, and Palom shouldn't be surprised; there are no secrets between them, joined like this against the cloister wall at night.
She casts, this time on him; he cries out, and comes, deep within her.
- - -
The intensity of their magic impresses even the Elder, who has been harder on them these past months, as the undead threat increases – but there are no complaints with their Comet's power and precision. Even more impressive is the Full Cure, because no one thought Palom would ever have the patience required to master white magic's delicacy.
The door hasn't even closed behind them when she closes on him, lips and hands pressing him against the wall; all day he's been casting through her, magically joined and fully intimate, and Porom can't wait another minute to feel him physically, too.
- - -
Palom shushes the little mewling sounds she makes in her throat: his hands within her robe, his fingers inside her, thumb moving slick against her as she shivers and twitches. He cannot explain this urgency, why they are lying across the floor of the storeroom as he touches her, propped up on an elbow and watching her face, the little gasps she chokes back inside.
It is Porom, in the dust, losing control that he loves: he moves faster, harder, and Porom moans, her hips bucking into his hand; he holds her down as she comes, and hushes her again.
- - -
She does not have to wait long; Palom's magic tugs hers, and she feeds it willingly, for she's been gone weeks – she feels him moving through the halls, magic-silent, cloaked and shadowed, following their undeniable link.
She can feel him, burning through the bond, so that when he finally slips through the door there aren't even seconds between their kiss: the magic sparks around them, lighting the room with faint firefly trails.
Her hands find his skin, warmed already to her touch; his hands find her face. They are echoes of each other's need: mirror images, ablaze in the night.
- - -
Palom watches as she banishes them all from the infirmary with one gesture, her face pale and angry, shoulders drawn back in determination. The door closes, and she tugs at his magic with intense ferocity, fueling her own powerful Curaga with their twincasting link: it washes over the poison in his leg like rain, her gift with his fire, healing what the doctors could not.
The cast leaves him feeling drained and exhausted, but Porom is angry and scared: she climbs atop him, shaking. Palom shivers with her emotions, awakened and aroused by her need, and pulls her to him.
- - -
They still hide in the dark, from the truth of what this has become, the burning brand of their magic melding between them like a deadly lifeline. Porom wonders whether she should pretend he is another man - then she wonders how she could. Palom's hands are larger, but similarly shaped; his legs are longer, but the same bones lie underneath. There is no lying, not when her gasps come from his lips, the air shared so close between them it could be only one sigh as his magic sparks hers. She does not pretend; there is no one else.
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