First one is unfortunately rather disturbing. Note that pairings were part of prompts.
Final Fantasy VIII
Title: "Lunar Cry"
Word Count: 480
It was time.
(For Edea, Time Compression had already begun.)
Time. Her time.
(Edea sat upon a chair, blind beneath a bird-shell mask, frozen, head thrown back. Gauzy drapery rustled about her, caressing her skin like a silken cocoon. She felt the warm slick alien presence spilling within her, stretching and swelling like a parasitic worm, luxuriating in her hapless body. For torment and pleasure, Ultimecia had thrust Edea's hands between her thighs, stroking her to savage ecstasy.)
Hair streamed back. The mask peeled away, yet the slave was still blind inside skull's prison, seeing only what she chose to let through. White hanging veils of drapery snapped taut around them as Edea stiffened and screamed inside her body's shackles. Ultimecia smiled coolly and arose, gliding through the silken membrane. Her hands caressed her breasts and the sweep of collarbones with tingling satisfaction. A fine young body, this. She might keep it.
(Numb and spent, Edea sensed the girl behind her, held as she was. Another child, and she had no way to protect this sacrificial lamb. She had taken Ultimecia's essence into herself to save the orphanage children, lest any of them become such a vessel. Now the sorceress would eat them all, a devouring Mother.)
Edea lounged on a floating throne, a cruel smile flickering over her lips as puppet dancers whirled and weaved about her feet. The madness was filling the crowd. They roared like beasts, carried away by the pulse of drums. The nightmare had begun. They were living her fevered fantasy.
(Edea's arm lifted with a flourish, shaping a lance of ice that curled around her wrist before flying forward, into Squall's body with a sickening crunch. She could feel the very bones of his shoulder separating, dislocating as he fell back and away. His face was so white. The girl reached for him, powerless.)
That boy. Unbelievably, he had slain her. Now he stood impassively by a broken pillar of stone, watching her last embers fading away. Yet a young woman in a dark sheath was gliding towards her, meekly offering submission, salvation: a willing vessel.
(Edea crumpled under the thudding blast of purple lightning. The power, the pain were unimaginable. Squall-not-Squall leapt forward with a cry, clutching a sword whose strike she knew she must one day feel. But for now, the children were safe. The sorceress poured into her, a blind probing leech latching onto her soul and beginning to give suck.
The sorceress rose with an idle caress of her own skin, gliding through the silken membrane to a waiting throne. Dancers whirled about her feet. Poor Squall fell out and away from her in endless repetition, ice-riven, betrayed by Matron's own hand. The gauzy drapery around her chair snapped taut as she stiffened and screamed inside, a lunar cry to shatter the shackles of time and space.
(It was time. And now all time was hers.)
Final Fantasy XII
Title: Arrow's Dance
Word Count: 500
Fran was so patient. For the fiftieth time, Penelo plucked the string. The arrow went fish-tailing into the grass, burying itself yards before the target.
Fran loped out to retrieve the flight, feeling the grass with her toes. Penelo caught her breath as the Viera bent, baring that view that froze the males in the party. She followed meekly. Their hands touched as the arrows clattered into the quiver.
"Almost," Fran said, stroking the back of Penelo's wrist. "Remember, the arrow is winged and waiting. Release, and it will fly."
Penelo's hand was sweaty in the half-glove, but she nodded, drawing the nock to the hollow of her cheek.
"Breathe out," Fran said. "Let the arrow ride your breath."
Penelo exhaled. Her fingers opened. The shaft flew and struck with a thwack.
"Yes," Fran said. "You have it now."
The campfire flickered on the Salikawood’s trunks. A nearby camp of Moogles was jolly with drink and music. Tiny drums pattered, echoing in their hollow tree. Pipes chased each other like manic mice.
Basch kept watch. Balthier too, although his smile strayed now and then to the campfire.
Penelo whirled and leapt to the beat of Vaan’s improvised canteen drum. She was drunk with dancing, a hummingbird circling the stately Viera. "Your sisters,” Penelo said, breathless. “They don’t dance?"
Bemused yet graceful, Fran let the hume girl spin her around. "The green word is stillness, not movement."
"So that's why you ran away!"
“Perhaps.” Fran caught her around the waist, lifting her. The Viera's long limbs glistened in the firelight, and her palms were slick with sweat. Penelo slipped and caught herself on Fran's shoulders as she tumbled down.
For a moment they were facing each other in a loose embrace. Penelo's breath hitched. She was no boy. Why did she feel a thrill to be so close?
Fran stepped away, lifted her arms and began to dance for the sky. Even Basch was hard-pressed not to gape. Penelo forgot to move, mesmerized.
"Did you ever...do Viera make love?" Penelo whispered, embarrassed by the noises coming from Ashe's tent. Balthier again, attending to their princess.
"We visit the Garif," Fran said, "once every five hundred years. But breeding is not love. Among heart-sisters, there is a different song."
Penelo snuggled against her. Phon's nights were cold, yet she was sweating. It was sensible to spoon for warmth, but lately, it had become disconcerting. She tingled wherever velvet-furred curves pressed against her.
“You taught me dancing,” said Fran. “Would you have me show you ours?”
Penelo nodded, tongue-tied.
Starting out slow, the Viera wove a net of silken touches over her flesh until she was quivering, then spun her around, kissing her eyelids, throat, breasts. Lower still, making her arch like a bow.
“Breathe,” Fran said, fingers leaping. “Breathe, and you will fly.”