#but hey! wol writing!

[fantastic-mr-corvid]

I am the softly falling snow

my first ffxiv writing about my wol! spoilers for heavenward post the vault as well as the dragoon level 60 quest, and the beginning of stormblood, although all are vague and the second and third are one line each. warning for grief [you know what im taking about] title taken from 'do not stand at my grave and weep'

the observations and musings of solider of camp dragons head as he watches the warrior of light.

The near silhouette of dragoon armor on top of a black chocobo moved over the white snow towards the observatorium. The unusual size of bird and warrior alike marked it as the warrior of light and her favored mount, probably pounding towards Ser Bale and another of his tasks.

The soldiers of dragons head camp had seen her make that trip many previous times. 

Once, the large warrior bursting from the atherite and calling her mount from the stables before running though the gate full speed had caused alarm (and laughter, wild affectionate laughter that these walls no longer heard.)

It still did, as the wide eyes of the fresh blood paired up with him showed. But it could yet be awe of the near mythical woman, someone who became so quickly a hero of ishgard.

He remembered her when she was a lancer still, wandering through the snow, sprinting, terrified of the monsters she now slays with ease, towards the domineering walls of the camp, where the glow of the atherite peaked over the towering stone.

(Still remembers her and her friends shivering bodies crawling through the snow, the near blizzard obscuring them until they got close, frozen to the core, hearts heavy with grief and anger, heroes of eorzea no more, just another group of people seeking refuge)

Still remembers secretive meetings, a parade of notable people that they were sworn to silence about, in and out of that door- a needless gesture in the face of their loyalty to the commander. (still remembers his commander reactions to those meetings)

Despite himself, he is smiling. Memories of the same journey, of when she would stop before pounding down, or even her slow ascents back up towards the warmth of the keep (towards the warmth of the seat of command and the hidden away room and the man within) after grueling missions to prove herself a dragoon.

She doesn't hesitate anymore. Doesn’t pause, just whistles and then moves. She summons the chocobo on the atherite platform, not even reveling in the leap from atop it before doing so.

There has been a lot less joy in Dragons Head. The other outpost’s celebrations of the end of the war and final defeat of the dread wyrm were noticeably louder, the stone walls here still suffocating in grief. 

He found himself wondering if that quiet celebration and suffocating loss was matched in the infamous headquarters of the knights dragoon. Although, they were accustomed to the high death toll and constant grief that marked the years post calamity long before. It hurt to think of the heroes' fellow dragon slayers moving exactly the same, already accustomed to drowning in loss, unchanged even after the horror that befell their leader, and the death of Ser de Vimaroix.

And yet the veil was slowly lifting here. The new soldiers that accompanied the new commander, uncertain around the solemn faces, reminding them of how hospitable these walls were meant to be. The slow acceptance of what happened, the creeping pride in the future he helped create.

A flash of fire shakes him out of his musings, one of the stone giants falling to the heroes first attack. She pauses as the corpse collapses into aether, possibly in shock at how quickly the stone beast fell to her spear, before sprinting towards the next one, to slay it too.

The next one suffers the same swift fate, with her now mere yalms away from the gate.

She enters slowly, and he hurries to the other side of the battlements, not wanting to lose sight of her.

She walks into the commander's room, pulling closed the door behind her. He lets out a breath he was unaware of holding. 

The fresh blood stares at him, eyes wide, before shaking his head and continuing patrol. Evidently the young soldier thought him quite mad, but given the other eyes glued to their armored friend, he was not alone.

The door opened again, the warrior walking out, before… standing still. She seemed almost regretful, the opposite of her confident step in. A shared glance with the guard by the door confirmed his worries.

No doubt when their shifts were up, he would hear the whispers of what happened in that room.

The snow had already drowned her footprints, and was threatening to settle on her hair, before she moved. 

Moved towards the alleyway between the buildings.

Moved towards the door.

His heart ached for her.

After she entered, he waited. Eventually he restarted his patrol, yet still glanced towards the alleyway more than he should have.

-

In the end, he only saw her exit when he was climbing down after his shift had ended. Her solemn face mostly hidden by her helmet. 

The helmet she wasn't wearing when she walked in.

It did little to hide the tightness of her lips, but he had seen dragoon after dragoon hide emotional eyes behind mithril visor - there's a reason the warrior wearing the helmet with the visor up had been a surprise, her fellow warriors all either forgoing the helmet or hiding behind it.

He silently wished her well and for her heart to be at ease. Their commander wasn't the only person they were missing, but she had been taken from them in an entirely different way.

Still it comforted them all, these little glimpses of her, to see her alive, still running, still fighting, growing ever stronger.

He hoped it would be a sight he saw until they were both old and gray. 

He knew that with the way she threw herself into cause after cause, with the whispers of her fighting garleans in the dessert, his hopes, the hopes of the whole camp (the hopes of their commander) might be betrayed.

Yet still he hoped.

[hazelkjt]

"Trust me, you're gonna love this."

[redwayfarers]

AFFRONT

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Nika/Artoirel Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL), Artoirel de Fortemps, Lucretia Fiore, Mina Fiore Rating: Gen Word count: 1696 Spoilers: minor StB spoilers. part 2 - read on ao3 divider by @saradika

He’d been warned, of course, how difficult this would be. Nika is far from an easy man to get along with on the best of days, let alone in what appears to be the worst state he’s found himself in as of recent history, mentally and physically. He’d been warned, yet he’d insisted, because he couldn’t simply watch as they organised the transport to Ishgard and not offer to help. He couldn’t watch as they carted Nika, fragile and unconscious, away to the hands of Ishgardian chirurgeons, and away from his vigilant eye. 

So he bartered. He told his father it was securing Eorzea’s future if he stayed in Ishgard, by Nika’s side, overseeing his recovery. Maybe he even expected pride in his father's eye for the foresight. He found agreement, but little else. 

Artoirel knows it’s not becoming of him anymore. He knows, yet finds it necessary to justify his actions to his father. Securing Eorzea’s future seems to matter more than the heart of one’s son almost breaking at his lover almost dying. His father has even taken upon himself to bring Nika’s mothers from Limsa, as an additional pair of eyes. 

It’s taken Artoirel a moment to realise how much of a mercy this is. He doesn’t dare interpret it as a sign of care, not quite yet, but he’s grateful nevertheless. Said mothers did warn him about the difficulty of his choice, but he did see the relief in their eyes, knowing that their son has someone steadfast by his side.

He wonders if his own father would share the same relief. For Haurchefant, certainly. For Emmanellain, perhaps. But for Artoirel? The fact he has to wonder at all speaks much more than any answer could. 

But he has bigger things to worry about, such as the hurt in his chest at Nika’s shame-fueled anger that had nowhere to go but to Artoirel. He knows it’s not personal, he even understands the impulse, and yet, his eyes prickle with tears he can’t shed. Relief comes when Nika’s mother rushes in, looks between them and just signals for Artoirel to go. 

Ordinarily, he would’ve been insulted. As it stands, he takes the direction and leaves, though he stops to watch Nika stifle a scream in his mother’s neck. Artoirel hardly remembers what his mother’s hugs felt like. He cannot seem to recall a recent one from his father, either. 

If his insides were a battlefield, they would signal a lost battle. 

Artoirel turns away and walks briskly to his office. He contains any sniffling, and his eyes burn with the effort of holding back tears, but the few gazes he does notice linger. It makes shame burn bright - he’s their lord now - so he picks up the pace and closes the door loudly behind him. Only then does he crumple, halfway across the room to his desk, and the stain of tears follows him as he sits and hides his face in his palms. 

And he cries. He cries, and cries, and cries, cries even as his pride begs him to stop and reason demands he does. It all hits him like bricks, one at the time: Nika’s harsh words, barely audible through tears, that sickening feeling of emptiness and resentment when he thinks of his father, the sight of Nika crying in his mother’s arms and the absence of his own. He feels his hands shake and realizes he’s shaking from head to toe, and cries even harder, because he’s failing his duty. 

Halone save him, he’s failing his duty. He’s responsible for Nika now, and he should be there, in that fucking room, take the yelling with grace, and he should be grateful he’s alive at all to scream at him, not run away–

The door slides open and Artoirel’s blood runs cold. 

“I came to– oh, you’re crying,” a female voice says and he raises his eyes. She sounds genuinely empathetic, which makes him dig his nails into his palms. 

“Madam, I apologize you had to–” he starts, but he hates how his shaken voice sounds. The woman huffs. “If you could just wait for a moment–” 

“That kind of crying isn’t about to disappear in a moment,” she says quietly and Artoirel slumps in his chair. “It’s all good, though. Crying’s normal. Didn’t know you Ishgardians are so uppity about it.” 

He wipes his eyes and looks at her. She’s tall enough to be a Highlander, and her hair is dark and short. She’s dressed in an oversized, woolen coat, and in the dim light of the room, her eyes appear to be two smothering pools of darkness. He suddenly recalls where he knows her from. It’s one of Nika’s mothers. 

“Madam Perseis, I do not.. I do not ordinarily cry before guests,” he says by way of apology. 

“Ain’t a Perseis. Nor a madam.” Great. Now he feels incompetent, ashamed and stupid. “Name’s Lucretia Fiore. I hope my own son’s mentioned me once or twice.” 

“Once or twice,” Artoirel cautiously replies and sniffles. “Shamefully little. He’s never mentioned that your surname is Fiore.” 

Lucretia sighs. “Gods know how little he told you about anything else, then.” 

“I still don’t know what happened to his father, if it’s any consolation, and we have been courting for months now, and have been friends for longer.” 

Lucretia stares. “When he’s less likely to bite my head off, I will have a word with him about it.” She walks over and  uncrosses her hands from her chest. “You’re a lord or something, yeah? Is it okay if I skip the titles and just call you what your name is?” 

“A count,” he corrects and throws his head back against the chair. Not that he’s worthy of the title in this state, anyway. “But please, do not refer to me as such. It’s hardly earned.” 

“That’s how aristocracy works, I think.” 

“It is not a just system, necessarily. Artoirel is enough.” He shrugs. “It is my name.”  

“Good.” Lucretia points towards a nearby seat and he nods. “Just came to say sorry on Nika’s behalf and that he’ll come around. It’s not your fault he almost got himself killed. You didn’t deserve the anger he poured on you earlier.” 

“I am responsible for him now,” Artoirel replies. “For the time being, I should say. For his care. I have seen people.. Do unjust things in their rage, and there should be someone there to listen to that rage.” He pauses. “Not a.. superior. A caretaker.” 

“Very noble of you,” Lucretia says. “But what happens when caretakers get overwhelmed? Taking care of people is hard. Taking care of Nika is even harder. Give yourself a breather when you need it.” 

He simply sucks air in and massages his hands. His head feels full of lead, a heavy pull that drags down to his chest. There is no ‘breather’ when you are responsible. There is no ‘breather’ when you have a duty, towards one’s country, one’s family, and one’s lover. A part of him notes that Nika’s failed in honoring the one he has towards his family. 

But when has Nika ever cared for such things? He disapproves, of course, but Nika’s offense feels lesser than his own. In fact, he might as well have not had a single bad thought in his entire life. It’s a lie, of course. But Artoirel has no strength to grapple with moral qualms right now. 

“He will come around,” Lucretia repeats. “He’s like his mother, says shit he doesn’t mean, does shit he doesn’t mean. He also has her tendency of running away, but something tells me he won’t run away from this one. I won’t let him.” 

“He does resemble her,” Artoirel whispers. The image of them, side by side, comes into sharp focus; the same dark skin, black hair, the same full lips, the same prominent nose. Nika looks so alike to his mother that there is no question that they share blood. But she lacks the scar, and her eyes are the same brown and warm, whereas his are mismatched and sharp. 

There was no sharpness when he crumpled in her arms, though, only anguish. Artoirel recalls his own mother and wonders if his features keep anything from hers anymore or he’s entirely Edmont’s son. He’d been told that he had his mother’s face as a child. But since then he’s grown, and the fullness of his cheeks has been replaced by sharpness. 

But round though it may have been, his mother’s face could still be as cold as his father’s. Cold enough to whisper in his ear that he should reject Haurchefant, cold enough to convince him of it. Cold enough to leave an emptiness when she died. She was only ever truly happy when she played music. 

But both she and Haurchefant are dead. Her hatred does not matter anymore. Artoirel blinks tears away. Lucretia is watching him, gentle, and it makes him want to cry even more. 

“Do you need a hug?” she asks, and her voice is low and akin to a soft wave. She places a tentative hand on his arm. Artoirel doesn’t recall his parents’ hugs. 

His pride rebels, naturally. But this whole situation is ridiculous enough as is and his head feels as if it’s about to burst from the pressure of recent events. He thinks of Nika in the other room, his sharp words play in Artoirel’s head in a loop, but he cannot find it in him to be angry. He thinks of his father calling Aymeric his son, without a word in Artoirel’s direction, but he cannot find it in him to be angry about this, either. 

All he can do is endure and hope it goes away, like any duty-bound son of Ishgard would. 

“I do, actually,” he says at last, and Lucretia shuffles until she wraps her arms around him, and Artoirel melts against her and this time, he doesn’t bother to hide his tears. 

Because all he can do is endure, and maybe, enduring does not have to mean being strong at all times. 

What an odd notion. He’ll take it anyway. 

[umbralaether]

7. Protecting your partner when they're scared

A blowing breeze of blinding light burrows it’s way into every dream.

Even on the Source, so far separated from the problems on the First, the Light continues to find a way to plague his psyche. Lumi wasn’t surprised when the nightmares started—his corrupted aether made every sense amplified, even when asleep.

Thumpthumpthumpthump.

A hammering heartbeat as the adrenaline spike fades. The nightmares were growing more vivid each time; he could taste the blood in the air, smell the smoke from buildings destroyed— these were more than fears. They were prophetic, setting the stage for what was only a matter of time.

Shadows sneak around the corners of his vision as his eyes adjust to the darkness of the inn room. He feels as though each soul relying on him back on the First was pressing their hands along his throat, on his chest. So many lives in his hands, his duty to serve. To save. He shouldn’t be here, in a reprieve on the Source.

Thumpthumpthumpthump.

Being here was a risk. Selfish, dangerous. Each second was a gamble, tempting fate. You could hurt him, wounds that never heal, you could ruin everything you’ve wanted—

The elezen beside him stirs, a deep sigh against his neck as arms tighten around him.

“Another nightmare, I take it?” Estinien murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

“Its nothing,” Lumi manages to choke out, “go back to sleep,” This night was already a stolen moment, he didn’t want to burden the other with his impending doom, not when it could be the last time they’d be together.

Estinien doesn’t budge, “You are unwell, Lu, that is plain to see.”

Lumi turns, forehead pressing against the elezen’s chest as he clings to him, each breath a shuddering sob.

“When I go back, there’s a very good chance I’ll become a monster… I could kill them all and never know it. I might not come back.” He closes his eyes, the images from his nightmares a fresh imprint, “It’s… terrifying to know what will happen if I fail.”

Estinien rests his chin on top of Lumi’s head, the viera now crying softly in his arms. It sends an ache to his own chest, seeing how much Lumi had been suffering alone.

“There is no world in which you fail, Lu. It’s not possible for someone as brave as yourself.”

Lumi softens when gentle fingers run through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. He leans back to meet Estinien’s gaze, “You mean that?”

“Aye, I do. And if something does happen to you, I’ll cross as many worlds as I need to avenge you.”

Lumi smiles as he buries himself closer to Estinien. He hadn’t known how much he needed this, a sense of safety even when he felt so monstrous, so broken. He knows he’ll have to return to the First come sunrise, and Estinien would have to stay behind.

But for now, this was enough.

[astrxealis]

sorry to ffxivlovepost always anyway Man the way the devs & game did so good in making an mc that is Basically a blank-slate for the players, and there's so many opportunities to make your oc However you like but. the game itself adds so much story and character to that blank-slate guy. amazing

[neriyon]

∙ Basics ∙

Name: Hawu'li Puu Nickname(s): No one's really came up with anything (me included) Age: 23 Nameday: 17th Sun of the 4th Umbral Moon (17.8) Race: Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te Gender: Male Orientation: Gayyyy Profession: Warrior of Light / travelling healer

∙ Physical Aspects ∙

Hair: Lavender purple and pretty fluffy. The turquoise part of his bangs is dyed, and needs to be redone regularily. Eyes: Bright yellow Skin: White with pink undertone Tattoos/Scars: White, slightly curved "dots" next to his eyes, three on each side. No notable scars - he's very diligent in healing any big hurts after battle.

∙ Family ∙

Parents: - Mother, Hawu Puu. Matriarch of the Puu family. Alive and well, strictly leading her family back in Shroud. Hawu'li visits her, but rather rarely. - Never met his father, nor know anything about him. It's uncertain if he even knows he has a kid. Siblings: - 2 older brothers, Hawu'a and Hawu'to. Hawu'a lives back in Shroud and hunts for a living, while Hawu'to is a researcher in Old Sharlayan. - Grand total of 5 older and 2 younger sisters. Three of the older sisters left home after adulthood to start their own families, the rest of them live with their mother and help provide for the family. Grandparents: Mostly unknown. Hawu sometimes talked about her mother (Hawu'li's maternal grandmother), but she had passed away before Hawu'li was even born. Other: - Draevoux "Drae" Chevalier and Nana Chevalier, elezen couple who are both his (currently retired) co-wols and "roommates". - Varying lineup of partners. He's poly with multiple partners and I've yet to make a solid list of them all since they change all the time. Aymeric and G'raha are the two I mention most. Pets: Carby the Carbuncle. Hawu'li's uh, not that good with names. Carby is your avarage ruby carbuncle, but is around pretty much 24/7. Often refered to as Hawu'li's "emotional support carbuncle", since it's jobs include keeping him calm when he is left alone.

∙ Skills ∙

Abilities: Strong affinity with healing magic and the ability to hear the elementals, making him a formidable white mage. When situation calls for destruction rather than healing, he's also well versed in the art of summoning, and has been known to call upon demi-Bahamut when feeling truly desperate. Hobbies: Cooking, reading and singing. Also likes to mend stuff (patch holes, fix broken furniture) and read stories to kids (usually his sisters')

∙ Traits ∙

Most Positive Trait: Seemingly endless positivity. For someone who's job is to kill gods and see people get hurt on daily basis he's somehow still sure Things Will Be Better, and that deep down everyone has the potential to change for the better. Most Negative Trait: Separation anxiety. From some deepest parts of his soul comes a crippling fear of being left alone. At it's worst, he'll go into full blown panic attack in fifteen or so minutes after losing sight of others. At it's best (mostly after EW) he'll survive with only Carby as his company for almost half a day.

∙ Likes ∙

Colors: Purples, turquoise, most pastels and bright colors Smells: Freshly baked things, forest, lilies, apples baked with cinnamon Textures: Running fingers through silky hair. Wood, fur and silk. Rocks smoothed over by water. Drinks: Tea (any), milk, blackcurrant juice, mulled wine

∙ Other details ∙

Smokes: Nope Drinks: Only in company Drugs: Nuh-uh Mount Issuance: Koivu, his beloved lavender chocobo companion. Disinterested in almost everything, but happily follows any command given by his owner in exchange of some tasty treats. Been Arrested: Surprisingly, only once - in Ishgard, on suspicion of heresy along with Alphi and Tataru. (Drae took the msq spot of fighting for Tataru's freedom)

Seen this tag game around a lot lately, and I wanted in on the fun despite not being tagged. Took a lot longer to fill than I thought, so we'll see if I have the energy to fill this for other ocs too.

If you want to do it too, go for it! ♪(´▽｀) It takes a while, but is very fun to fill~

[sasslett]

5. Getting ready for a party :)

"Do you think they're going to expect a speech?"

"You know they will," Jess huffed, making one final adjustment in the mirror before turning to Lyse beside her, the blonde woman eyeing her fearfully.

"I can't make public speeches! I mean, I can, but I-"

"You're the leader of the Resistance, Lyse," Jess insisted. "It's your place to-"

"But I'm not their leader." Lyse shook her head. "I'm just-"

Jess interrupted her, firmly placing her hands on the Highlander's shoulders. "You're a true daughter of Ala Mhigo, the one who led them to victory. You were born for this, Lyse. You can do it."

"Oh," the pugilist sighed, her shoulders slumping, "I know I can, I just… Everyone will be out there. Watching me. Every city state leader, every village elder, every- I mean, you know that."

Jess nodded, knowing full well the scope of the celebration that awaited them in the Royal Menagerie… where she and Varrus had struck down Zenos' primal just days prior. But she could put her feelings aside, if only for an evening - it was what the Ala Mhigans needed to bolster their spirits. 

With that, Lyse turned, adjusting the ribbon in her hair for probably the hundredth time that night before looking back to Jess, her blue eyes widened. 

"I, um… Conrad told me what he said to you… Before Spectula Imperatoris. About your parents. I know I should have said it sooner, but, gods, Jess, I'm so sorry…"

"You shouldn't be." Jess shook her head with a small smile. "The past is the past; it's enough to know where I came from, if nothing else. I just wish he'd had time to tell me more… But come on." She patted her friend on the back, gently ushering her towards the door. "This isn't the time for ruminating about the past. This is the time to get out there and show the world exactly the sort of leader you'll be."

[shivasdarknight]

banging my head on the table

why do people have this urge to come onto other peoples' posts and make it about themselves.

the number of times ive talked about My Own Lore publicly and someones come onto My post to talk about their stuff while completely ignoring everything i said.

like do you not realize how shitty that feels. wouldnt you not want it to happen to you.

then why the FUCK do you do it to others.

[tea-and-conspiracy]

Prompt 5: Cutting Corners

(Inspired by this fanart I reblogged earlier :P)

--

Elidibus was many things. Creative was not one of them.

Azem had noticed this habit in so many of her colleagues. The more prodigiously accomplished they were – as naturalists, as conceptualists, as whatever else – the less they seemed to possess common sense. Venat used to call it “missing the forest for the trees”. It was why, she said, the over-intellectual Convocation needed an Azem in the first place.

Still, Azem couldn’t help covering her mouth to try and obscure a laugh. Here Elidibus was, beaming proud, asking her for her opinion on his new disguise.

He’d changed his mask. That was it.

“Uh, well,” she said. “I don’t want to say you’ve cut corners with your costume, but...”

“Is it not enough?” Elidibus blinked, peering down at himself. “I’ve done a lot of growing since I was first elected. I was hoping that no one would recognize me without my mask.”

He’d been proud of that. The growing. Azem knew he longed for the day where he didn’t have to look up at everyone anymore, but she had the sneaking suspicion that Elidibus would always be small.

Azem smiled. “They probably wouldn’t. But the white robes are rather a dead giveaway, don’t you think? There’s only one youth in all of Amaurot wearing adviser’s garb.”

He considered. “I suppose that’s true. But my goal is not necessarily to deceive anyone. This is more of a test than a disguise.”

“Oh?” Azem asked.

He nodded, and now his eyes went bright. “I don’t mind the researchers suspecting my true identity. If anything that should make accessing Pandaemonium easier. But if the wardens – or if Lahabrea himself – does not recognize me, then we’ve found our culprit.”

Now Azem had to slant a grin. This boy. Maybe he couldn’t act to save his life, but he was clever.

“...Alright,” she admitted, crossing her arms. “I like it. But you don’t honestly suspect Lahabrea is an imposter, do you? He was his usual long-winded self at our last meeting; I don’t think even the most skilled architect could accurately re-create that.”

That won her a surprised laugh, though he looked guilty for laughing about it immediately after. “I admit it’s just a hunch, but it’s the only thing that makes sense. If the reports are true then what’s happening in Pandaemonium could only have been caused by a ranking insider. But I cannot believe that Lahabrea – the real Lahabrea – would sabotage his own work.”

“He most certainly wouldn’t,” Azem agreed. “But who would the imposter be? A jaded student? A mimic concept?” She paused, considering both. “You know, maybe I should go with you.”

“To protect me?” He gave her a knowing smile. “You know they’d never let you in there after your Anyder incident.”

“It broke out of containment!” she protested. “How was I supposed to know that was part of the test? I couldn’t just stand there while it rampaged down the hall!”

This time she got a genuine, delighted laugh. Even now it brought her joy to see him simply being a kid; and even now it rankled that they’d taken that from him. But maybe it wasn’t theft when Elidibus himself insisted on growing up as fast as possible. She saw it in him now as he leaned in towards her, fists balled in determination – a gesture he’d picked up from her.

“I am Elidibus. I assure you I can handle this on my own. But in the event that I need more strength I promise I will call for you.”

Azem sighed, but gave him a good-natured smile nonetheless. She knew when she’d lost a battle. “Well then, Elidibus, if you’re insisting that an Azem sit out on adventure, then you’d at least better give her a very detailed report of your findings.”

“I shall!” He beamed. “But, please. When I wear this mask, call me Themis.”

“Of course,” she said. “No one will ever know it was you.”

[theferalscion]

7. Burns, I think wol emma should develop a mild fear of the perfectly normal three dozen or so fireplaces in his own house. Yknow, so he can't feel safe even at home.

It's just fire.

Emmanellain still feels every cell in his body trying to pull him away from his seat on the sofa, staring into the flames of the fireplace as they flicker cozily across the logs. He's vaguely aware of Count Edmont and Artoirel speaking, but it's background noise.

The smell of brimstone fills his nose as his mind shifts back to that dreadful day in Thanalan, watching the faces of those around him turn numb and empty as the 'blessing' of Ifrit washed over them, unbalancing their aether and sentencing them to death.

Even through his armor his skin burned, scalding blisters forming where the heated metal touched him as Ifrit exhaled his awful, fiery breath directly into the former lord's face. His shield was starting to melt, his flesh was melding to the inside of his armor and being ripped off by his violent, frantic movements. He's never been in so much pain, or in such immediate danger. There's no brother or father to call out for to help him, no loyal knights to come rushing to his aid.

He's all alone with this horrible, gigantic primal, and he's convinced he's going to die, but he doesn't *want* to and so he keeps fighting, even through the agony-

Emmanellain shakes his head and stands up, moving to the center of the room with his back facing the fire. No one notices, everyone too busy discussing what they were to do about the prodigal youngest son.

For once, he's just fine with that.

[hear-feel-think]

FfxivWrite2022 | #21 - Solution

Rating: M

Thancred x Wol, hookup. Somewhat more NSFW followup/standalone soft sequel to my Day 13 .

Two pairs of lips connected with skin, disconnected by the jostling movements of their owners climbing a set of stairs, and connected again, over and over. The silver-haired hyur and his adventurer companion reach the door of his room and he fumbles in his pocket for the key. Your hands stay wrapped around his torso and you kiss down his neck while his attention is elsewhere, which does not make it easier for him to get the key into the lock and open the door. But he does get it open, and you both tumble inside. The door somehow manages to get closed behind you, and your back slams against it as he kisses you forcefully in a way he could not have done while climbing the stairs.

He continues kissing you, and your hands continue roaming over his back, his neck, his hair, his ass. His touches nearly mirror yours, though he is limited by the press of his body against yours, sandwiching you between himself and the door. Eventually, he breaks away, staying mere inches away from you. “It seems,” he says, brushing his hand between your legs and finding the evidence of your arousal, all hot and sensitive, “that you have a problem.” He takes your hand and presses it to the front of his trousers. Through the fabric, you can feel the growing hardness. Though still constrained by the garment, you can tell that it is sizable. “I have the solution,” he whispers in your ear, his voice hot and heavy.

He backs away, opening his arms in invitation. You follow, stripping your clothes off with every step. The backs of his knees hit the bed, and he falls back upon it. “Come and get it!”

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[littlelordalphinaud]

Almost Whole

Read it here

[thefreelanceangel]

tfw you’re reading Swordspoint (finally, god I’m such a slacker) and your mind drifts to your headcanon WoL, then to the other characters you’ve made and next thing you know, you’re writing out a whole raid party for your WoL to work with and their behind-the-scenes drama

[redwayfarers]

crisis he didn't ask for, but got anyway

Fandom: Final Fantasy FXIV Ship: Artoirel de Fortemps/Nika Perseis (WoL), Minfilia Warde/Nika Perseis Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL/OC), Minfilia Warde, Artoirel de Fortemps Words: 865 Rating: Gen Read on ao3 (will take you to chap. 1, which i chose not to publish here bc i think chap 2 is more interesting. but chap 1 exists as well! they're one-shots so no missing beats :> )

The lace is soft under his fingers. It’s the nicest thing Nika’s ever touched, actually, and he’s half afraid he’s going to rip it off if he so much as pulls it to put it on himself. But it’s a gift from Artoirel, and Alphinaud said that it would be rather rude if he didn’t wear it tonight at the dinner with Edmont and his sons. 

Ordinarily, Nika wouldn’t care. Rip the lace, rip the silk, it’s got shit to a solid, cotton shirt; but this time, it feels a little less decisive. Like something pulls on its edges, a soothing hand to Nika’s anger and harshness, and he doesn’t want to . What a strange thing, to not want to destroy. 

It unnerves him. The fact that he can’t get his anger out on anything in this overpriced room he’s been given, and the fact that he doesn’t want to but he has no idea what else to do, it all makes him pace around with the shirt in his hands. They’re expecting him down soon.  And for a reason only gods themselves know, he wants to comply for once. 

But he doesn’t know how to wear silk. He doesn’t know how to wear lace. Oh, he knows how to wear the sword-shaped earrings Artoirel got him, and that’s about the only thing from the whole fucking set that Nika rushed to put on, but everything else? 

And for fuck’s sake, how did Artoirel know what size to get them in? Was he watching, like a hawk, or was he hunting a seamstress down– 

Okay, okay, calm the fuck down. They’re probably hand-me-downs. They’re the nicest hand-me-downs Nika’s ever seen in his life, though. Would Minfilia like to see him wear this? A white cravatte, a fitted vest, slightly heeled shoes in the current Ishgardian trends, would she look at him and laugh? Would she pull him by said cravatte and get on her toes to kiss him? Would she ask what he’d done with his hair in her absence, and where did the highlights go? 

I cut them off, Minfilia. If you asked me to, I’d dye them again.  

Or maybe he’ll never see her again. The thought makes him want to cry so he stomps it under his foot. The carpet is offensively soft. 

Maybe he’ll never know if she loves him back. Maybe when they meet again, she’ll just forget his confession like it never happened and send him off to a next task. 

Nika slides down from the couch to the floor. He looks to the side and catches his reflection, ever the image of an Ishgardian fop. Minfilia didn’t give him these clothes; Artoirel did. A part of him thinks it wouldn’t be quite so bad if he did chase a seamstress down and looked at Nika in approval and maybe tear it from him himself that evening after the dinner ends– 

Nika makes a sound that’s halfway a groan, halfway a roar of an injured animal. No. No Ishgardian will tear his clothes off, man or woman, least of all a man! He doesn’t want to entertain those pesky thoughts of men and their long fingers and pouty lips! He likes those thoughts when they’re about women, thank you very much, and they’re more than enjoyable! 

He is only half aware when he grabs a nearby pillow and screams into it, but he’s more than aware when there’s a knock at the door and Artoirel’s voice that asks, “Master Perseis, are you quite alright?” 

“Do I sound alright, Artoirel, do I sound alright!?” 

The doors open, only slightly. A dark head of hair peeks through and Nika slides the pillow down just so he can stare Artoirel down. “Is there anything I can do to help?” The bastard asks, damn him, and Nika doubles down. 

“I’m just very hungry and very angry. I will be down as soon as I get dressed.” 

“Alright,” Artoirel says slowly, “but if there’s anything we, or I, can do to help, do not hesitate to say. I do want our relationship to be a positive one, even though my first impressions may have led you to believe otherwise.”

Care to suck my dick? That would make me feel so much better . “I’ll be down soon, and I want to dress in peace, for fuck’s sake.”

“I will be seeing you at dinner then, Master Perseis,” Artoirel blinks. “Nika, if I even may.” 

“My actual name’s Nikita, so you can call me whatever you want. I’m all three of these fuckers.” Nika shrugs and drops the pillow. 

Artoirel laughs - laughs! - ever so slightly. It’s so insultingly charming. “Then I will see all three of you. I trust they will all wear the clothes. I was uncertain whether they would fit you.” 

“Sure. I’ll wear it.” 

That’s not what we agreed to do, brain. We’re not Ishgardian dandies. 

Shut up and respect the man’s wishes, brain. It’s only reasonable. 

The doors close. Nika throws his head back. “Oh, I’m so fucked,” he says to nobody in particular and vows to put the shirt on as soon as he is able to. “I’m so unspeakably fucked.”

[shepherd-to-the-stars]

FFxiv Write - Prompt #1 (Cross)

She had been through so much. Gone so far, done so much. And never, never, did she think to let someone else take the burden. This was her load to bear. Always hers. 

A load she would never wish on another. 

No matter how many people she would meet, only to say goodbye to, she would ever carry onward. From setting out from home, traveling farther than any at her young age ever should. From that battlefield to the future, to a world she recognized through nostalgia more than anything else. To the Void, to the Far East, to the First. All of these places and more would always be places that lingered in her thoughts, in her memories. 

And with these places, the people. Venat’s words ring out in her head. 

“Beacons of light and life.”

How could they not, when it felt like her own thoughts, her own feelings, were echoed in the words of the woman who was once Azem, a role that, though not truly hers, her unsundered self once held. There was a brightness to be seen in everyone, kindness and compassion that, while not displayed by all, was shown by enough people to strengthen her decisions. 

Even if some of those compassionate souls were snuffed out all too soon, as she kneels beside an all-too-familiar grave, her hand resting on a shield, fingers tracing the hole within it. 

“Laughter that warmed my heart like naught else before.”

Kaleh’s hand clenched into a fist, eyes shut tight, as her thoughts drift further. The Scions, she was so lucky to have met them all, to see where they’d gone, what they’d accomplished. And all too easily, she settled back in amongst them. A weight, the only one she’d allow to be lifted off her shoulders, left her that day when their paths once more intersected. And throughout all the hardships that followed, she would never change a thing. 

Not a one. 

Those fleeting moments between one battle and the next, sharing stories both joyful and not, all of them were precious, priceless. 

And even if she were never to see them again, if their paths never cross once more… they will ever and always remain in her heart. Be it from passing, or simply Fate having different plans. She would never forget anyone, so long as she could help it.

“They are my meaning, and my purpose. My love.”

For they mean the world to her. It is her love for this world, for the people within it, that lead her forward, that push her onward. She will always be ready to give her all, to give this second chance meaning. 

As the Miqo’te rises to her feet, she spots the red hair of her companion, and smiles. 

“I didn’t want to intrude.” He says, rubbing his wrists awkwardly, before glancing up and meeting her gaze with a smile. “After all, you should be afforded such privacy with a dearly departed.” 

Kaleh smiled back at him, sparing one last glance at the grave of one who cared so much, before walking forward, away from the past and to the future. He would always be there, in her heart when her thoughts would travel, but for now…

She took the redhead’s hand, nodding. “Thank you. Now, I have a promise to keep, don’t I? It’s high time you got to see Ishgard in all its glory.”

For now, there were new paths to cross, with friends both old and new. 

And she couldn’t wait to see where they would take her. 

[tinytveit]

shadowbringers -

her eyes had opened to purple leaves softly fluttering to the ground, unbeknownst to them that which plagued their world so. she laments sometimes, for the woman that had awoken to that bright sky, so unaware of what her time in the first would do to her, take from her. but oft she has to remind herself of what it had given her. a friend she had thought lost to eternal slumber, the answers to questions long left unknown - of origins and the time before. ardbert.

and yet when she had overcome the light tearing through her body, threatening to turn her into a monster - there was a moment. after ardbert had lent her his axe, just a moment. a millisecond in between all the noise where there was another, lingering on the edge of their being. her.