#ffxivwrite thoughts

[akirakirxaa]

I just want everyone to know

I really hate the word noisome.

[myreia]

Anthesis

Characters: Thancred Waters, Aureia Malathar (WoL) Pairings: Thancred/Aureia Summary: To celebrate her most recent accomplishment, Thancred and Aureia slip into an arboretum after hours to admire the views. But Aureia has a different plan about what view exactly he should be admiring. Rating: Explicit Tags: Thancred POV, romance, fluff, semi-public sex, adventures with lingerie Notes: Set in a vague time post-MSQ, mild contextless spoilers for Shadowbringers and Endwalker (Aureia and Thancred are both in their 40s by this point). Partially based on this gpose from wolcred week. 6,022 words Read on AO3

Evening has long since fallen, but the gardens are not silent.

Water drips from the leaves of enormous plants far larger than their wild counterparts. Mist rises, the sheen from the humidity shimmering in the air. Insects hum in a soft symphony, their lights bobbing about in the depths of the blue-green darkness. There is life singing within these crystalline walls, understated but powerful.

The quiet here is a far cry from the party thrown here only a few nights ago. It was a good one, as far as Leveilleur-funded festivities go. Elaborate, stunning, well-catered, magical, with the best bards and musicians from across the three great continents. The new arboretum is deserving of the celebration. A collaboration between the Studium and every other major institute of learning, both of the Source and other shards. A place dedicated to the preservation and study of the flora of Etheirys, both magical and non-magical, across every iteration of their star. Past and present.

Aureia is very proud of it.

She intended to linger after the event wrapped up and show him the sights, enjoy the gardens for what they are and on their own terms without distraction. But between conversing with guests, greeting friends new and old, and getting pulled into one conversation or another, time simply slipped by and they left in due course, exhausted from the conversation but content. A part of him wishes they had stayed. He would have enjoyed the heightened romanticism wandering this place in their evening wear—she was stunning that night in her long black gown, the fabric woven with small crystals so as to mimic the glimmer of stars in a night sky. She’s worn it countless times in the past half-decade, and it never fails to make an impression.

A selfish part of him wishes she had more reasons to wear it. She is beautiful no matter what she wears, but she does a number on his heart whenever she dolls herself up in finery.

And so now they’ve returned alone, long after the doors have been shut and locked, to wander and explore on their own time. Though it feels a little childish to say, there is something enchanting about these galleries filled with greenery he cannot name. The sweeping glass halls, the domed roof looking up to a sea of stars at night.

It reminds him—with a pang—of the Hortorium.

“I wish Ryne could see this,” Aureia says quietly as they ascend a wrought iron staircase to the second level. It twists about in a tight spiral, the climb giving a pleasant view of the gardens below.

Her words do little to absolve the bittersweet heartache that never fully goes away. Despite the passage of years, the distance between the Source and the First remains palpable. Ryne is grown now, with a life of her own in the Crystarium. She writes monthly, but no number of letters can be exchanged for her presence. And so, he replies with the only thing he can, an echo of a sentiment they have both voiced many times. “Perhaps one day she will.”

Aureia slows to a stop above him and glances over her shoulder. “There are flowers from Lakeland here,” she says. “In the west wing.”

Thancred smiles. “I know.”

He rises to her step and sweeps her into an embrace, kissing her deeply in the starlight. She melts against him, a palm pressed above his chest, lingering in the kiss. When at last she draws back, her gaze finds his and she raises her hand, her tips of her fingers resting against his cheek. Ruby eyes warm beneath dark lashes. Threads of grey nestled in the midnight of her hair, interwoven with the streaks of red. Creases around her eyes and mouth. The mole beneath her right eye stark against her pale skin. Familiar sights, all, and yet she never fails to take his breath away.

She never will.  

He's becoming a romantic in his old age. Not that he’s old. Not yet, anyway, as she is fond of reminding him. There may be silver in his hair and he may not quite have the stamina of his youth, but there is still so much of his life left to live. Which is notable for him, given that there was a time when he thought he had no life left to live. It still escapes him some days, this notion of a peaceful life. It doesn’t feel quite real.  

Aureia regards him softly and draws her thumb across his jaw, brushing the faint line of white stubble. “This is new,” she murmurs, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips.

He chuckles. “Well, you know me,” he replies with a shrug. “Never quite been one for it—”

She gives him an arch look.

“—save for a time best left in the past, aye. But admittedly I have been yearning for a change these past few months. I suppose this will do the trick. Whether it makes me scruffy or dignified is yet to be determined, though I suspect Alphinaud will be the first to let me know.”

She curls her fingers around his collar and tugs lightly. “I rather like it,” she says smartly, smoothing the fabric down. The pressure her hands passing over his collarbone stirs something deep within him. “I think you should keep it.”

“That is the intention, aye.”

A pause.

“You’re fishing for something, aren’t you.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it, certainly—”

Aureia throws back her head, the stairwell reflecting her tinkling laugh. “If you want to know, yes, I think it makes you look quite dashing,” she says, patting his cheek. Then she kisses him once more, slips her hand into his, and leads him up onto the landing.

They wander the second-floor gallery hand-in-hand, taking joy in their silent privacy. Their footsteps thud quietly against the marble tile, the sound muffled by the enveloping plants. It is lighter here on the second floor, even though the conservatory’s humidity still presses against them. The rush of water trickles in the distance, flowing as swiftly as a river. Large leafy trees curl up to the glass dome, reaching for the stars. The fruits of her labour.  

How many of these have sprouted from seedlings gathered from the world over? How many have come from across the shards? The ancients’ distant past? It was her mind that birthed it. Her heart that cultivated it. Her care that nurtured it. She has come a long way from killing plants on her windowsill in the dim light of the Forgotten Knight.  

It is truly impressive, this work of hers.

“Have you reconsidered?” he asks after a moment. “Your thesis?”

Her pace slows, her hand tugging gently on his. “Which one? You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Your Archon’s thesis.”

“Again, you’ll have to be more specific. Which one?”

He exhales a long sigh. She’s being obstinate on purpose, as she always is whenever this topic comes up. “Any of them.”

“There’s not much to be reconsidered. I’ll finish them when I’m ready.” She pauses, her gaze drawn to the heartblooms poking through the verdant greenery. Though there is a dedicated plot to the Elpis flower on the first level, the blooms have a habit of showing up in unexpected places, shining with faint light. “I don’t need another title.”

“It’s not about the title.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s an acknowledgement. Of your qualifications and your contributions.” He glances at her. “Some would say you have contributed more than most.”

“I’m flattered, Thancred, truly, but I don’t think I need it. Nor do I want it.” Her grip on his hand tightens, her fingers twining with his, and she slows their pace. The heartblooms rustle, turning gently towards her as they pass like flowers turning to face the sun, their petals flushed with a soft reddish violet. Though they react to the emotions of all within their presence, the blooms seem particularly attuned to her. “I’m not a scholar, I simply have questions and enjoy finding the answers for myself. I like to have clarity. I like discovery. In some fields that may make me an expert, but expertise does not make an academic.”

“Spoken like a true academic.”

Her mouth opens and yet no words come out. The familiar little crinkle that happens when she can’t think of a good retort forms between her brows; her lips twitch as she holds back a smile, torn between laughter and irritation. She shoots him a glare and raps him lightly on the arm in mock outrage.

He laughs. “Am I wrong?”

With a sigh, she links her arm with his and pulls him further down the path. “You aren’t. But being an Archon isn’t simply about the recognition of skill. It is a Sharlayan position, with Sharlayan connections. And I am not Sharlayan.”

“All the more reason to accept, no? The Forum no longer holds its knowledge behind closed borders. A non-Sharlayan Archon would mean much to Eorzea and beyond. A symbol of the changing times, that all are welcome here.”

“I think I have been someone’s symbol more than enough times. Sharlayan doesn’t need me to be theirs. My work is already based here out of necessity, I’m close enough as it is. I wouldn’t want the Alliance thinking I favour one country over another.” Her jaw tightens. “I’m sorry. I know this is important to you, I just… I don’t think I can. At least not now.”

He squeezes her hand and presses a kiss to her forehead. Though his heart sinks with her refusal, he is grateful she stands her ground. This is a decision she must make for herself, he cannot make it for her.

Another turn and they pass through an archway of stone and glass, stepping out into the central hall. The heartblooms grow bright and plentiful here, their luminescence spreading a gentle glow across the dark paths. He can sense the undercurrent of dynamis weaving around them, tugging at them like the flow of a gentle tide. Subtle, but strong. Strange to think how he can make more sense of it now than aether. It is no replacement for the aether he can no longer control, but perhaps it is a guide to something else. Another unknown in a sea of unknowns.

There is so very little that is constant in his life, save for the one walking at his side. His wife. His partner. His friend.  

The heartblooms pulse around them, flushing a pale pink.

Aureia exhales a soft sigh and slips her hand from his. She approaches the centre of the gallery where it overlooks the floor below and peers down, trailing her fingers idly across the marble railing. The pool glistens, its waters reflecting the moon above where it shines through the glass roof. Dark, leafy flora encroach its perimeter, obfuscating the rest of the level. Fireflies float through the darkness, their pale lights winking in and out. She rests an arm against the railing, the fingers of her other hand toying idly with a lock of escaped hair. It’s wavier than it should be, curled by its time in her high bun.

She glances over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised. “What?” she asks.

She’s caught him staring at her.

He chuckles and shrugs, spreading his hands. “Nothing,” he says quietly.

A small smile tugs at the corners of her lips. Slowly, she steps into him and sweeps him into a silent kiss, her mouth pressed gently, but openly, to his. Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him into her. He wraps his arms around her, a hand on her lower back, slipping down to brush her ass. She laughs, the quiet, throaty sound rumbling pleasantly against his lips, stirring desire. When she finally breaks and pulls away, she leaves him breathless and wanting, aching for more. She raises her eyes, looking at him through dark lashes, a coy smile brightening her face, then turns and walks away.

“Aureia,” he calls, his voice echoes through the arboretum, but she does not answer.

Smiling to himself, he follows. 

He finds here meandering down the open path, surveying the gardens with wide-eyed curiosity. Her movements are slow and calm, yet precise with intention—even here, in this moment of peace, the warrior does not leave her completely. She pauses now and then, standing on tiptoe here to examine the giant leaves of a tree he cannot name, crouching there to examine the blue petals of some Thavnairian flower. Each time he catches up with her, she moves onto the next display, acting as if him arriving and her leaving in are a coincidence.

But even she can’t hide that mischievous little grin or the way her eyes light up.

“Aureia,” he calls as the hem of her cloak disappears around the corner.

Tinkling laughter resounds in his ears and her footsteps patter away, her boots clacking against the marble. He follows, but when he rounds the corner, she has simply vanished. He slows his pace, drawing to a stop. Her cloak lies in the centre of the path.

He stoops and picks it up, his heart pounding. So, this is the game she wishes to play. “Fascinating turn of events, Aur,” he says. “Don’t you think we’re a bit old for such tomfoolery?”

“I don’t think we’re too old for anything. Besides, I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

“So, you simply happened to drop things very inconspicuously, in the centre of this very inconspicuous path?”

She laughs, her voice muffled by the surrounding plants. “It must have slipped out of my hands. Why don’t you bring it back to me?”

He chuckles and rises to his feet. “Why don’t you stay in one place so I might have a chance?”

“Call it the spirit of adventure.” She pauses for a moment, falling suspiciously silent. He takes the opportunity to pick up his pace. “Without it, this would not be quite as much fun.”

He bites his tongue, holding onto his response as he rounds the next corner, hoping to catch her—but she is gone again. This time her tunic and trousers lie in a heap, dark against the white and gold tiles. “You do realize this is a public space, yes?” he says, gathering them up.

“And you do realize that we are quite alone, and it’s after hours. Exceedingly after hours.”

I’ve noticed. The ache for her blooms deep within. He can imagine what she must look like now—standing in her underthings, her jewellery shining in the moonlight—and the thought is too alluring to ignore. His breath catches in his throat and he hurries down the path.

“Aye,” he says finally, rounding another corner. “We’re alone.”

She laughs. Is she behind him, or is that her voice echoing? “Come here, then,” she says softly. “Come find me.”

He pauses, trembling with anticipation at the request. “Where are you?” he whispers.

She doesn’t answer.

Thancred turns the last bend and his heart stops.

Aureia sits on the edge of a white bench in a secluded, hidden corner of the arboretum perhaps only she knows about, caught in a pool of blue-green light that flows in through the ornamental stained glass and backlit by the soft glow of blooming heartblooms. Her back is to him, her skin alabaster and luminescent in the light, the arcane marks branded across her shoulder blades faded from red to silver. She has one leg crossed over the other, her foot pointed, her heeled boot extending the line of her leg. Her body is adorned in small pearls and crystals in two parts, the loops criss-crossing over her thighs and around her hips, down her shoulders and across her breasts.

Desire courses through him, warm and hot and heady. She must have been wearing it this entire time, a treasure hidden beneath nondescript clothing. There’s something charming, perhaps even a bit magical, about the lengths to which she has gone to create this moment—and it only makes him want her more.

His breath quickens. He sets down her clothing. “Aureia…”

She glances over her shoulder and puts a finger to her lips, regarding him with dark, liquid eyes. The pearls and crystals rustle with her movements, the sleeves drooping lavishly over her upper arms. She may as well be naked, the adornments leave nothing to the imagination. A fine sheen of sweat clings to her skin, glistening from the arboretum’s humidity. Her necklace lies against her collarbone, the silver pendant shimmering in the light. Her hair remains swept away from her face, save for the one stubborn lock that curls attractively against the column of her throat.

There is something dreamlike about her in this liminal place, at once both quite real and not real enough. Perhaps it’s the gardens, perhaps it’s the light, perhaps it’s the godsdamn lingerie that will be the end of him.

Here, tonight, she may as well be a goddess. And by the gods—whatever now remains of them—he will worship her, body and soul.

Aureia extends a hand.

Thancred takes it and raises it to his lips. His eyes flick up, his gaze trained rapturously on her, and he presses a slow, agonizing kiss to the back of her hand. She holds still, her chest rising and falling with steady breath.

This is a moment to savour.

He turns her hand and presses his mouth to the inside of her wrist, his lips ghosting across her skin as he holds them both here in this moment. She sighs softly, an invitation for more, and he takes it in earnest, trailing slow, aching kisses up the length of her arm. Soon he is standing before her, head bowed, a hand cupping the side of her face. She raises her chin, ruby eyes open and sparkling, the curve of her lips lifted in a gentle smile. The light catches the pearls clinging to her arms and breasts, casting colour across the iridescent sheen. Her chest rises and falls with her breath, dusky nipples peaking out from behind the loops of teardrops. 

His thumb brushes her cheek. Together, they breathe. One breath. Two. Something passes between them, something words cannot express.

Her gaze remains locked to his, staring intently as she spreads her legs, the net of pearls and crystals on her lower half tinkling with her movements. He steps between them and leans down, fingers skimming her collarbone as he kisses her. A faint sigh escapes her, muffled against his lips, and his tongue slips inside her mouth, kissing her just as he has hundreds of times before. Hot, liquid desire courses through him and he forces it down, keen not to let this moment pass too quickly.

He drags a hand down her chest, slipping it through the beads of pearls, and cups her breast. The moan he coaxes from her now is more urgent than before. She breaks the kiss, head tilting back, a loose curl brushing the column of her throat. Dark lashes flutter against pale skin as he runs a thumb over her nipple, caressing it to a peak. Trembling, she opens her eyes and breathes a sigh into the warm, humid air.

She reaches for him, her fingertips brushing first the tattoos on his neck, then the white choker around his throat. Even after all these years, he still wears it.

Her gaze finds his.

She hooks a finger beneath the choker and pulls him down, crushing her mouth to his. He groans and leans into her, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other squeezing her breast. His knees quake, his lips still pressed to hers in a raw and open kiss, and he sinks before her to kneel between her legs.

A growl rumbles in the back of his throat and he drags his lips from the corner of her mouth and along her jaw, down the column of her throat to her collarbone. When he presses a long, sucking kiss to the hollow of her throat, she grips the edge of the bench and holds herself still. Her leg hooks around him, pulling him closer, her heel pressed against his back, and she bites her lower lip to muffle a moan. The sound sends a pleasurable shiver rolling down his spine.

Heat flushes through him from his core, his head spinning with the haze of desire.

A light touch now. He slips down her body, his nose grazing the beads that fall in a line down her breastbone, his hands roaming across the strings of pearls. It doesn’t take much to push them apart, to loop them back and out of the way. He falls against her, hands now locked around her waist, holding her securely as he presses his face to her breasts. His tongue flicks across her nipple and she inhales a sharp breath. He chuckles huskily and teases her with his tongue, pressing one sucking kiss after another until she is trembling in his arms.

The ghost of his name murmurs on her lips, lost in the sound of the arboretum’s rippling water and rustling leaves.

He moves further down, the stubble on his chin scratching her skin as he presses kiss after kiss to the soft curves of her belly. Her head tilts back, her sighs now fading into the gentle quiet of this lush and private place. Her foot slips, her heel grazing the floor, and she shifts her weight, arcing her hips towards him. He grins and slides a hand beneath her thigh, the other falling to her hip. He toys with the pearls there, twining the strands between his fingers.

He kisses above her navel.  

She trembles. Her foot digs into his rear, pushing him closer. A moment later, her fingers thread in his hair, pulling gently as she leads him down to all the places she wants to be touched. Blood pulses in his veins, desire pooling deep within at the command. He groans, the sound muffled against her stomach, the yearning for her—to caress, to kiss, to feel, to explore every part of her—clouds his mind, everything else all but forgotten.

He kisses further down, coming to rest above the apex of her thighs. She breathes his name and he chances a glance upwards, gazing at her, entranced. In these few precious seconds, he takes her all in—the dark of her hair, the curve of her lips, the strength of her arms, the alluring gleam of those damn pearls wrapped around her breasts. Such beautiful sensuality that only makes him crave her more.

She is here. With him. For him. This exquisite moment a creation of her design.

He bows his head and presses his mouth to the scintillating heat between her legs.

The scent and taste of her is intoxicating. Breathing deep, he drinks her up, lapping at her clit. She gasps, her breath hitching, and drags her fingers through his hair, firmer this time. He groans, his own desire pushing tight against his trousers, and for a moment he basks in the memory of her hand around his cock, stroking him to sweet release. He coasts on the tender desire, letting it swell and bloom even as his mouth works her into a mewling mess. She pants above him, eyes closed, chest heaving, her hair unravelling even more now.  

He shifts his weight, his knees aching where they press against the marble tile, and turns his head, sweeping his tongue through her folds. Up, down, licking and sucking, some movements long and languid, others fast and fervent. A pause so as not to overstimulate, to leave the sensitive nub yearning for more while he attends to other parts of her. He strokes downward with the flat of his tongue and slides it into the heady heat of her cunt, thrusting in deep. He has always been good with his mouth. The way she tenses and relaxes under his ministrations, the scent and taste of her, the small sounds she makes, the view of her from between her legs. How could this not be the way to make love to her?  

Pleasure pulses within him, hot and bright.

He grips her hips, one hand slipping below the drooping pearls to squeeze her ass. She tenses, her pleasure mounting, her fingers running again and again through his hair as the foot hooked around his waist holds him tight.

With a smirk, he drags his mouth upward, pulls her clit into his mouth, and sucks.

She cries out, trembling and shaking as he pushes her past her peak. Her leg slips from its position, sliding over his ass to hit the floor, the sound of her heel striking the marble tile echoing through the gallery. Her hands move from his hair to his jaw, cradling his face as she the last waves of pleasure fade, and at last she stills, her faint, shallow breaths resounding in his ears. He draws back and sinks to the floor, his head resting against her thigh, and covers her hand with his. Their fingers twine together, holding tight.

They sit, her perched on the bench, him on the floor, and breathe as one in a pool of blue-green light. His heart thunders in his chest, so loud he is certain she can hear it.

He closes his eyes.

Fingers rest against his chin, gently turning his head up. Heels clicking on the floor. Pearls rustling by him.

When he opens his eyes, he finds her standing before him, a mischievous smile on her face. She takes his hand and pulls him up, leaning in to capture his mouth with hers. His lips part for her and she kisses him deeply, drawing him in so deep he thinks nothing of what she is doing until he finds himself turned, his back now to the bench, the backs of his calves pressed against it. She breaks the kiss and glances up at him, gazing at him from under dark lashes.

She slips a hand between his legs, palming the hardened bulge.

Pleasure strikes through him, warm and wanting.

She presses her body against his and undoes his trousers, pulling his cock free.

His chest rises, his breath caught in his throat.

She places her hands on his shoulders.    

His knees buckle. He stares at her, captivated, and allows her to push him down onto the bench. He sits, watching as if spellbound as she sinks to her knees. She places her hands on his thighs, her touch featherlight even as she pushes his legs apart, her gaze still trained on his. Desire throbs within him, his cock flushed and erect, and this moment of pause driving him mad. He has never wanted her to touch him more.

Please. The plead lies voiceless on the tip of his tongue.

She smiles, running her hands along the inside of his thighs. The light reflects off the loops of pearls, shimmering bright.

Then she bends, bowing her head, and takes him in her mouth.

His chest heaves, a sharp intake of breath flooding his lung, and pleasure courses through him as her tongue sweeps across the tip of his cock. He blinks, his vision dark and hazy with lust, time slowing to a halt as he gazes at the person between his legs. His lips part, mouth half-open in a sloppy, stunned smile, a moan rumbling in his throat as she takes him deeper.

Her hand slides between his thighs and cups him gently.

He curses, his hips arcing in response. His teeth scrape his lower lip and he clings desperately to the sensation, wanting more and yet fearing it will end too soon. Groaning, he shifts his weight and reaches for her, running his fingers through her hair. Her bun loosens, more strands coming undone and falling against her collarbone. The sight of her—the dishevelled hair now at odds with the precise exquisiteness of the pearl lingerie, kneeling between his legs with her mouth and hands around his cock—sends coiling heat rushing through him.

Her eyes flick up, meeting his. A small, playful smirk brightens her eyes.

She presses her lips around the tip of his cock and sucks, lavishing him with her tongue.

His fingers grip her hair, holding her close, his moan echoing through the empty gallery. He trembles, the need to move, the desire to thrust upwards making his head spin, but he holds still for her. She draws out one stroke after another, faster and faster, sucking and sucking until at last he cannot hold himself back. He gasps, trembling as he spills into her mouth. She takes it calmly and in control, steady where he is shaking, and at last pulls back and releases him with a wet pop. 

She sits back on her haunches and looks up at him with a satisfied grin, gently wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

He stares back in wonder, his hands still in her hair, and leans down, resting his forehead against hers. The air around them swirls, warm with the scent of sweat and sex. The glow of heartblooms gleams in his peripheral vision, their luminous petals flushed a golden pink.

He cradles her and kisses her cheek. Her jaw. Her ear. Her lips. Her neck. They should be done and over, but he wants nothing more than to draw her into him, to feel every part of her.

He takes her hands and draws her up.

She stands before him, radiant in the hazy light, hair unravelling, ruby eyes shining. Her gaze sweeps over him and she reaches out, pressing a palm to his chest, right over his heart. She pauses, feeling the beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, brimming with life and joy. She leans in, brushing her fingers across his cheek, and kisses him.

He groans against her lips, surprised by the gentleness of her touch. Drawing back, he meets her eyes, a question in his gaze as his hands drift to her hips. She smiles, her laughter soft, and nods, kissing him again in confirmation.

He grins.

Gripping her hips, he turns her around. His gaze flicks up, looking her up and down, admiring the strength of her back, the shape of her ass, the way the pearl straps loop around her curves. Exhaling a breath, he pulls her eagerly into his lap, her familiar weight leaving him flushed and aroused. He kisses her shoulder, dragging his lips up to the crook of her neck. He kisses her deeply, sucking at the delicate skin, one hand wrapping around her waist. His touch is featherlight, teasing her with faint brushes against her inner thighs, drawing out the moment.

At last, he slips his fingers between her legs.

She is warm and slick, and she trembles in his arms as he runs a finger across her clit. Still sensitive—the lightest stroke has her moaning. A husky chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat and he places a hand against her cheek, turning her head to kiss her. He parts her lips with his tongue and strokes downward with his fingers, pressing them to the entrance of her cunt. She gasps, a faint demand for more murmured on her lips, and he pushes a finger inside, thrusting in and out. Her breath hitches and she arcs her hips, grinding against him as she moves in rhythm to his thrusts.

He bows his head, forehead brushing her shoulder. Desire simmers deep within. She rolls her hips, stoking his arousal, and his cock stiffens, yearning for more. The desire to be within her is too potent for words.  

Holding her close, he pulls his fingers free and shimmies her back. She pants, breathless and wild, and plants her heels on the floor. She pushes up and he grips himself, guiding his cock. She moans as he enters her, pushing into the aching, swollen heat.

Finally, he sheathes himself with her.

She pauses, adjusting to the pressure, the moves, pulling him deeper to the sweet spot that has her trembling with pleasure. He clutches her to him, wrapping a hand around her front and slipping it beneath the pearls. He toys with her breast, plucking delicately at her nipple, enjoying the mewls he coaxes from her as he thrusts up into her, slow and deep. She sighs and leans against him, her back pressing into his chest, the clasps of her lingerie catching on his shirt.

Her hand grips his thigh.

His tangles in her hair, unwinding the rest of her bun until her hair falls, wild and free, about her shoulders.

Then she presses up off the floor, taking control of their pace, and rides him with slow, purposeful movements.   

His heart thunders, blood rushes in his ears, and all sense of time and space evaporates. He kisses her—shoulders, neck, back, anywhere and everywhere within reach. Her back arches and her hips roll, drawing fervent pleasure from him again and again until he is certain he can hold on no longer.

His hand slips from her breast, his slick palm pressed flat against her stomach, and he reaches around with the other and dips below her navel. One heated stroke of her clit and she is shaking. A second and she is whimpering with bliss. A third and she crashes over her peak, her hand squeezing his thigh as her cunt clenches around his shaft.

Her wordless voice, her panting breath, the frenetic beat of her heart, it is all the sweetest music of recent memory. Here, in this moment of ecstasy, they stare out together at these gardens of blue and green and gold. Here, in this place of her own making, she leads him to rapture. 

He comes, his cry muffled against her shoulder, thrusting deep as he spills into her. She moans, her head lolling back, eyes closed, shaking as he strokes her through her climax. Another wave of pleasure crests and crashes, and she is panting and shaking as he brings her to one last end. Finally, he slips free, pleasantly spent, sweat clinging to the inside of his shirt, and does up his trousers. She twists around and curls up in his lap, her legs thrown haphazardly over his and her arms about his shoulders, her face buried in his neck. Her long hair tumbles down her back in a tangle, the red streaks fading into black.

He holds her and at last there is silence. True silence.

“I should have told you sooner,” Thancred says quietly, cradling her in his arms.

“Hm?”

“You are radiant tonight, Aureia darling.”

She snorts, muffling a little giggle with her hand. “A ridiculous idea, this,” she says, plucking at the pearls looped over her arm. “I should never have gotten this thing, and yet… well.”

“Well?”

She brushes his cheek with her thumb, running it across the stubble on his jaw. “I wanted to surprise you. And I rather like the way you look at me when I’m wearing something like this.”

“Is that so? Then you simply must give me more reasons to look.”

“Sweet talker.”

“With you? Always.”

They remain there for a time, surrounded by intimate quiet, caught in the glow of the heartblooms’ fading luminescence. It is rare for them to have such moments to themselves, though they are becoming more common in these halcyon days of their retirement. Moments of bliss and aching passion, tempered by their long years together. In a strange way, he feels they are only now finding the small pleasures that simply were not possible in their youth. Back in a time when they were both shaped by their sense of duty, by promises made to themselves and others, to the fate of nations and the destiny of the star.

Such matters are over now.   

Time moves ever onwards. There are new joys to explore, new moments to discover.

Perhaps this is what peace is.

[scionshtola]

FFXIVWrite2024 Prompt 9 - Lend an Ear

characters: Corisande Ymir, D'alia Liveq rating: G | word count: 436 words notes: just a little thing for the Cori and D'alia Fast and Furious universe 😂ty @lavampira for letting me borrow D'alia!

It was late when Corisande finally closed the hood of her car. The garage door had already been rolled down, and it seemed all the other mechanics and drivers had gone home for the night. They glanced at the clock on the far wall, and winced at the time—they’d meant to be home hours ago, in time to have dinner with Y’shtola.

They quickly cleaned up their area—and themself—and were heading for the light switch when movement in their periphery caught their eye. They stepped back, glancing down the rows of cars, and saw a rosy tail flicking in annoyance. Corisande suppressed a chuckle, and changed direction, making their way toward the muttered curses that accompanied the movement. 

As she came upon the car, the tail flicked again, and now she could see its owner, bent over the exposed engine as she reached for something inside. 

“Maybe that will do it,” D’alia said to herself as she stood, wiping her hands on a cloth. Her eyes fell on Corisande as she turned, and widened in surprise. “Cori! You’re still here?”

“Just on my way out,” Corisande answered, and then gestured at D’alia’s car. It was a sleek thing, black and shining, the very opposite of Corisande’s pink convertible, and yet it perfectly matched the mechanic, with her black shirt sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing her tattooed forearms. “Your car giving you problems? Anything I can help with?”

D’alia furrowed her brow as she thought, and then shrugged. “It…sounds weird.”

She looked slightly embarrassed to have so little information, but Corisande only nodded. They’d both worked together at Stephanivien’s garage for long enough that Corisande knew it as well as D’alia did: sometimes, it just sounds weird.

“Mind if I take a listen? I’ve got good ears,” she said, tapping one of her long ears. 

D’alia nodded, and reached into her car to start it. Corisande let it run for a minute, listening intently—she could definitely hear what D’alia meant by “weird,” but she needed just a little longer to suss out the problem. When it finally clicked, she gestured for D’alia to shut the car off, and reached for D’alia’s tools. She waited for her nod of permission, and then ducked under the hood, tinkering until she was satisfied.

When Corisande straightened, D’alia started the car once more and grinned at the immediately apparent difference. “You saved me a couple hours’ headache. Coffee’s on me tomorrow—and I’ll bring one for Shtola, since I held you up.”

“That’d be great, because I’m definitely telling her you’re the reason I’m late,” Corisande joked, smiling when D’alia laughed. 

[avirael]

FFxivWrite 2024

Day 22 - Return (Free Day)

A part of Rael thought that all of this was going to smoothly. Or maybe for once they were simply lucky. Not only had they been able to free Flame General Raubahn from Ilberd’s imprisonment, it also seemed as if Sultana Nanamo truly wasn’t dead. Not only were this very good news on its own but it would also absolve the Scions from all accusations that had been made against them - public or not.

Going back to Vesper Bay and the Waking Sands still felt peculiar and so did hiding Raubahn there, but Yugiri had assured them that she herself had checked if the place was safe and not watched by their enemies. The Au Ra had so far proven one of their most loyal and competent allies and so Rael didn’t doubt her words.

Neither did they doubt the information Yugiri and her shinobi had gathered this time. Given the possibility that the sultana had only been poisened and was just asleep, instead of dead, the most likely person to know how to wake her up would be the one who had administered the poison. Suspiciously one of the sultana’s personal chambermaids had vanished from the palace without a trace only a few days after the incident.

Now Yugiri had apparently found out that the woman was hiding at no other place than the Silver Bazaar. The mention of this name alone made A’viloh’s ears attentively shoot up. Rael could only imagine what the prospect of returning to the place, that now was the closest thing to a home for him, must feel like.

Raubahn suggested that, to stay unseen for as long as possible and also to fasten their journey, it would be best to take a boat from Vesper Bay, around Crescent Cove and past the Beaconhill Lighthouse to travel to the Bazaar. For understandable reasons A’viloh visibly didn’t like this idea. But of course none of the persons present - except Rael - knew that A’viloh had not only lived at the Silver Bazaar for about a year but also had been washed ashore there after a shipwreck and likely the most horrible time of his life.

“Wouldn’t it be smarter to split up?”, Rael suggested. “If A’viloh and I travel over land, just the two of us, we could certainly stay undected. This way we could approach the settlement from both ways at the same time and make sure our target doesn’t get away.”

Nothing would happen to the Miqo’te of course on a simple boat trip from here to the Bazaar and he probably could not hide from this phobia forever but in this case Rael didn’t see any reason to make him unnecessarily uncomfortable. Besides, the reason they had brought up was in fact a good one and so it was decided that just as Rael had suggested the two of them would travel over land while the rest of them would take a boat. They would keep in contact via linkpearl and make sure both groups were safe and would arrive at the same time.

As expected their journey went without issues. The area was sparsely populated apart from Vesper Bay and Horizon but even there weren’t too many guards present and they passed without being recognised.

“We should speak to Kikipu first.”, Rael suggested as the two of them walked towards the settlement. “I am sure she knows best about everything happening at the Bazaar.”

Vehemently A’viloh nodded and if his tail hadn’t been hidden by his coat, Rael was sure it would have excitedly wagged back and forth. As they walked into the settlement Pipin approached them from the harbor side and decided to keep an eye on the gate, while A’viloh had already spotted the small Lalafell woman with the lavender colored hair.

“Hello…”, he said shyly as they stepped toward her, almost as if he felt bad for having vanished for so long without a word.

Surprised she turned around and looked up to the familiar voice. Upon seeing the Miqo’te in his disguise, which obviously did nothing to hide his identity from her, the surprise on her face turned into a mix of disbelief and relieved happiness.

“A’vi? Is it really you?”, she asked quietly.

The Miqo’te knelt down, pulled back his hood and apologetically smiled at her. “Hello, Kikipu.”

Instantly the Lalafell raised her hands to her mouth and her eyes got glassy. “A’vi! My boy! I missed you so much! I was so horribly worried something could have happened to you.”

A’viloh leant forward, hugging her tightly and she returned the hug in equal manner. “I missed you too! And I am so sorry I left without saying goodbye or at least sending a letter. Believe me, I thought about it. But I feared it would only put you in danger…”

“In danger?”, Kikipu asked a little shocked. “So something happened after all? There were rumours about turmoil in the city that day you visited the festivities at the palace.”

“I can’t explain everything now, but I promise that I will soon. Just know that whatever you heard about us is nothing but lies.”, A’viloh pleaded, holding her tiny hands tightly in his own.

“I thought so...”, she said and nodded firmly. “A few days after the festivities strange, unfriendly men in blue uniforms appeared here and started asking questions about you.”

“The Crystal Braves?”, A’viloh asked alarmed. “Did they harm you?”

“Harm me? You think I let anybody bully me?”, the Lalafell laughed. “I said you weren’t here and told them to get lost!”

A’viloh chuckled. “Yes, I can imagine that.”

“But why are you here now?”, Kikipu wondered.

“We are looking for a midlander woman, who was one of the sultana’s chambermaids. It is possible she is to blame for what happened at the palace that day.”, A’viloh explained and added, “But I promise, we only want to talk to her.”

“Meriel?”, the Lalafell asked surprised and A’viloh nodded. “Yes, that was her name!”

„I admit she seemed troubled when she returned from the city but I never would have suspected her to be involved in something bad…“, she seemed seriously unsettled by this news. „To think that maybe you got in trouble because of her… Oh, what a fool I was!“

„No, don’t blame yourself.“, the Miqo’te comforted her. „You did nothing wrong. I know you would never turn away someone needing help.“

So far Rael had only watched and it had been truly heartwarming to see the two of them reunited, but during the whole time Rael had also scanned the rest of the town, watching the others questioning some of the remaining villagers and keeping an eye out for their target. Rael preferred to find the woman in question before she noticed the unusual visitors and decided to flee.

„Can we speak to Meriel though?“, Rael asked impatiently and Kikipu hesitantly nodded and pointed towards one of the buildings. „She lives there.“

Once again A‘viloh hugged her.

„I promise we will speak later. But this matter cannot wait sadly…”

Kikipu smiled and patted his head.

“Just don’t vanish again without a word.”

[wilanserulia]

FFXIV Write 2024 - Prompt 28 - Deleterious

Just a heads-up, this one deals with early stages of depression, among other things, and gets a little dark in places. Intrusive thoughts, mostly. I blame the prompt.

The door to that quiet house opened all of a sudden. And the first thing Wilan saw from its threshold was Delen, the auri refugee from Terncliff that he was letting stay at his place, lounging around in his living room, sprawled on his couch, reading a book in not much else than her smallclothes. They noticed each other, and locked gazes for what felt like a couple of centuries of awkwardness. And then, at the same time, he slammed the door close while she jumped off the couch. From behind the door’s solid wood he could hear heels stomping on the floor as she hurried to run up the stairs, feeling his cheeks grow warmer.

A minute or so later the door’s handle clicked again, opened now by the auri woman wearing a hastily worn tunic. “H-hi.” She stammered, catching her breath from the unexpected sprint. “Hi.” he greeted back, awkwardly. He cleared his voice before speaking again. “Sorry I, uh, I should have let you know I was coming home.” She shook her head and hurried to say. “No no no, I mean, this is your house after all you don’t have to... ask permission to me or anything I was just...” Her cheeks as red as his, she looked away “I mean, you don’t really come back all that often, so I wasn’t...” “Well” he chuckled nervously “that was kind of our deal, no? We agreed I can let you stay here until you get back on your feet because I’m hardly ever home anyway.” he said, and they both chuckled awkwardly. “Look I didn’t think to let you know I was on my way back to La Noscea, and that was on me. I’ll be sure to write you a letter, next time.” She nodded. He nodded to her nodding. And then it occurred to both of them that they were still standing on the threshold.

“Uh, can I brew you a tea?” Delen asked, still not really sure of what to do with herself now that the owner of the house, the Warrior of Light himself, was back home. Wilan had just carried in a crate containing his armor, the one with the white plates and the bright blue surcoat. “Oh, no no there’s no need. I don’t really like tea, actually.” “Oh. That explains why I hadn’t found any in the pantry when I moved in.” she considered, as he joined her in the kitchen. “I figured you had just run out.”

“Speaking of which, oh man... I’m back from a journey and I have a full pantry!” Wilan instead observed, amazed by such a relatively mundane event. “Perishable food and everything. Never mind the tea, I’ll be happy to just be able to make myself a sandwich that doesn’t only have dried meat in it!”

As the au ra drank her tea and the hyur ate his morsel, he filled her in on his adventures thus far. His tales seemed to include his achievements and victories almost as an afterthought, and instead mostly focused on the places he had seen, the marvels he had witnessed, the secrets he had uncovered. So passionate was his tale that it took him a while to find the time to chew his food. “Well, what have you been up to instead?” he finally asked, friendly. His sandwich almost gone by now. “How have you been finding your new life here in Vylbrand?” “Oh, me? Uh...” Delen looked around, as if looking for something somehow equally as interesting to say. Truth was she had barely left the house, save to buy groceries. “You know, I, uh... I kept busy. I took care of the housekeeping. I read some of your books.” she said, trying to make a list out of the precious few things that occupied her time. “And, uh, I guess sometimes I go take a walk near the cliffs.”

“The cliffs?” Wilan asked, suddenly concerned, putting the remains of his sandwich down. “Yeah, uh, there’s a cliffside by the sea, I found out, to the north. You know, next to where the windmills are.” “Why, uh...” he didn’t know how to best ask this, trying to contain his alarm “Why by the cliffs?” She parted her lips, not quite catching onto his concern. She hadn’t really given it much conscious thought. “They... remind me of home.” she said finally. “Oh!” Wilan commented, a bit relieved. “Right. Terncliff. It’s built on a clifftop, isn’t it? I mean, it’s right there in the name.” She murmured in affirmative. “Even back there, I spent a lot of time there, looking out at the sea.” Wilan regarded her for a long moment. That young woman, sitting at his table in front of him, looking away, lost in thoughts. He had known that giving her a place to sleep and to call home, however temporarily, wasn’t magically solve all her problems. But he figured maybe he probably ought to try a little harder to spend more time with her. Granted, he had other worries on his mind, but... he couldn’t ignore this one, either. “Say, uh... do you want to show me these cliffs? Maybe we can go on a walk together?”

A gentle breeze blew from the sea to the east. The windmills turned lazily, in the distance. They had walked for a while in a not quite comfortable silence. He had wanted to talk to talk to her, let her know she had a friend, but he realized he realized he had no idea how to approach a serious conversation with her. He was no stranger to helping people, but he mostly dealt with immediate dangers. Getting innocents out of harm’s way, deal with what wants to hurt them, that kind of thing. That was easy. How do you even begin to tackle this... deep-seated melancholy he felt every time he looked at her?

They were mostly just enjoying the scenery. Which, he had to admit, was beautiful no matter how used he was to it. Especially at this hour, with the clouds over the sea tinting of a warm golden color. So, just to at least get a conversation started, he decided to point it out. “You know, living here, you start to give a lot of things for granted. Traveling halfway across the Realm when there’s such beauty even right next to home.” She listened to him talk, and sighed. A moment later she stopped, all of a sudden, and walked dangerously close to the cliffside, staring wistfully at the horizon. “Home...” she all but whispered.

Wilan noticed she had stopped walking a few paces later, and turned around. He looked at her for a long moment. “Delen...?” he called out in a low, carefully calm voice. “Hey... Isn’t that a little dangerous?” A few moments later she seemed to register he was talking to her. She glanced in his direction, and then at the cliff below, somehow a bit uninterested, as if distantly taking notice of how high up she was. “Mh. I suppose.” she commented, a bit drily. Carefully he stepped up to her and offered her his hand to step away safely from the edge. She turned to consider it, somewhat distantly, and then she took it. “Yes.” she said, stepping back toward the path, a bit disjointedly from the rest of the conversation.

After a moment of silence that seemed to stretch unnaturally, she talked again, in a more lucid voice. “In the city, back home, there were railings and balustrades everywhere.” she explained, not quite meeting his eyes. “It wasn’t really dangerous unless you did something stupid.” “I... see.” “I didn’t think about that, that’s all.” she said, her lips curling into a rapid smile as she resumed walking. Wilan looked at her go, and then hurried up to catch up with her, taking place between the girl and the cliff.

“Wilan?” she asked, as soon as they were back side to side. She hadn’t quite turned to look at him, but her voice sounded entirely like her own again now. “I’ve been thinking... Me staying at your place, isn’t it...” she seemed to chew on the words for a moment. “Isn’t it making things awkward for you and your... I don’t know, girlfriend? Boyfriend? Partner?” She exhaled through her nose, likely annoyed that the wording of that simple question was getting away from her. “I don’t want to cause any troubles in your sentimental life, is what I’m trying to say.” Wilan smiled warmly at her concern. “Nah, there’s no danger of anything like the sort.” he said. The smile still on his lips, but a little sadder. He, too, now glanced out to the sea, lost in a gnawing thought he had been trying to ignore until now, before continuing. “Somebody with, uh... with my lifestyle, with my responsibilities, well... I don’t really think I can afford the luxury of something so normal as being in a relationship.”

The words were a little stilted. It was the first time, he realized, that he had put that feeling into a sentence, but the recent events had made it very clear to him. Delen tilted her head, now looking at his face. “What do you mean?” “Well it... It would probably be kind of selfish.” he said. “And unfair. To anybody who had the misfortune of being in a relationship with me, I mean.” She looked intently at him as they walked, her eyes asking him to elaborate. “The thing is, uh...” he sighed, and looked out at the sea again “To put it plainly, I live a dangerous life. Ever since a few years ago, I’ve been traveling all the time, risking life and limb on every corner of Eorzea.” he said, the words finally flowing out of him, his eyes growing a little bright as he says them out loud. “How do you commit to a relationship, that way? How do you go out and risk your life knowing somebody’s back at home waiting for your safe return?”

She considered his words in silence. Granted, his logic seemed sound. Granted he was making a lot of sense. But... That sounded so lonely. Wilan breathed in in the silence that stretched, as if he wanted to say something else, his gaze still turned toward the sea. She stayed quiet, and listened. “There’s, uh... Speaking of which, I mean, there’s...” he stumbled a little, but she listened. “There’s another reason why I’m back in Vylbrand.” “Mh?” she asked, encouraging him to keep going. “Well...” he tried to find the right words for a few moments and, failing that, he decided to just say it like it was. “Leviathan has been summoned. And... I’ve been asked to slay it. The operation will start tomorrow.” “Leviathan?” “A... kind of deity figure to the Sahagin. It takes the shape of an enormous sea serpent.” He glanced at the thick clouds over the horizon. “That storm brewing over there, that’s probably his doing.” “An Eikon? I learned about those in school. The summoning rites of the savages.” she commented, thinking back to the Garlean-mandated education she received. “And they want you to...” “...kill it. Yeah.”

She scoffed. “Excuse me?” But one glance at his face and she instantly knew she hadn’t misheard him. “...oh.” she said, quietly, stopping in her tracks. “But... But how do they expect you to... what... How!?” He stopped as well and gave her a sad smile. “I’m, uh... a bit of a veteran when it comes to slaying Primals. You see, I’m among a very small group of people who are immune to their―” “Yes I get that but how are they expecting you to fight a sea serpent!?” Wilan’s heart sank. He had no good answers to give her. “They’re, uh... they’re coming up with this plan.” he said. “Basically load this boat up with crystals, and use them to charge an... experimental magitek shielding device, and...” “Wait, so they want to send soldiers out in the sea in a storm to... what, stab a sea serpent with a sword?” A bitter chuckle came from Wilan’s lips. “Well, no. Not quite, no.” he said. “They just want to send me.” “Are then insane!?” Delen all but shouted in outrage. She couldn’t believe her horns. “I’m probably as insane as they are for agreeing to it.” “You did what!?” she looked at him in shock. “Why!?” Wilan pursed his lips, looking away from her worried eyes. “To, uh... Well, to ignore the plights of those you can conceivably save, it’s, uh...” he stammered, clinging onto the teachings of his mentor, but his heart wasn’t in it. “well it’s... indolence. I suppose.” “Conceivably what!?” the auri girl said, growing more agitated that he had seen her since the day they had met. “Wilan there’s heroism and then there’s madness!”

Wilan listened to her protestations. He couldn’t really deny any of it. Mostly because he shared all of them. Yet, as his shoulders sagged and his chest felt heavy, a sad bitter smile appeared on his lips. He looked out at the oncoming storm once again, feeling like he had no control over his own life. “Yeah but... somebody’s got to do it, I guess.���

[sexybritishllama]

got lucky enough to win a ffxivwrite2024 participation prize so you know i jumped on the chance to get someone to draw my wol kana again

thank you so much to meri for the beautiful art and to @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast for organising such a fun event!

[furymint]

FFXIV Write 2024 | header | wc: 1,045

Elliot: Game time: Tell me who your favorite Bell is.

Nolanel: That guy.

Elliot: That was swift. Arym? Truly?

Nolanel: Weird name. Yeah. Had breakfast more than once with him, real early. I think he only knows about eighteen words in Eorzean.

Elliot: Please! Truthfully now?

Nolanel: Brave.

Elliot: Our bellwether? Not Norhi?

Nolanel: Not Norhi. Brave takes care of you folk. She's ready and straight so you can keep your finger paint straight, and ain't afraid to cut manners out of business with crows.

Elliot: Not to doubt your munificence, but I never suspected that you would forgive her for making you leave.

Nolanel: I never blamed her. She's fair. The only one of you that's fair.

Elliot: I'm pretty.

Nolanel: You're besides the point. And what answer's in your pretty head?

Elliot: I'll pretend to think about this. Norhi.

Nolanel: She babies you.

Elliot: Not more than she indulges you.

Nolanel: One day she'll need to tell you no.

Elliot: She has—but never when it matters. What's more, she despises everyone I despise with the exact amount of candor to prove it's real. Norhi never argues, either. The way she avoids confrontation could almost make one believe that bickering is unenjoyable.

Nolanel: Imagine that.

Elliot: But I like Brave too. She always lets me make a fool of myself while watching with that smile you have.

Nolanel: It's easy to wind you up and set you marching like a toy.

Elliot: Joy is always running—although often away.

Nolanel: Wyda I mostly like. Got some wrong ideas.

Elliot: About Xanadu.

Nolanel: And her bedmates.

Elliot: Oof. But she's the most intelligent person I know--even if she applies her gifts hazardously—and she's my most favorite to talk too.

Nolanel: Aye, I know you're in love with her.

Elliot: I think she'd hate that more than I, if it's possible. But if you were to fall in love with any of them, who would it be?

Nolanel: No. That's propaganda.

Elliot: I don't know what you mean. It's foolishness.

Nolanel: It's what you said about the Faithful. For naught but making oneself furious, especially when it don't make sense. Now you see—

Elliot: I think it's humorous!

Nolanel: Answer me yours, then.

Elliot: You'll loathe me.

Nolanel: Try.

Elliot: August.

Nolanel: You're the stupidest man in the world! Heavens! Fury!

Elliot: Haha!

Nolanel: Gods, lightning could strike you twice and you'd beg a third. 

Elliot: I can't help it!

Nolanel: Your no-good taste needs to be studied. Self-destruction. Self-denial. All those things you say—and you doe-eye some imperial who looks at you like he hopes your pansy tongue rots in your mouth.

Elliot: Well, if only I spoke poison!

Nolanel: What'll it take for you to love an artist? 

Elliot: I couldn't possibly love a mirror.

Nolanel: Ah—Only soldiers who want naught with knowing your happy little theories about war.

Elliot: His eyes are gorgeous.

Nolanel: Ugh! The only man with the right priority in this damned country. Let him be.

Elliot: But I have! I don't court the thought of dying here by angering him like you have.

Nolanel: It'd be one nice thought in my brain to think you'd have the sense to darling something decent when I'm killed.

Elliot: No no, there's no betterment or forgetting where I'm involved. Aren't we supposed to sigh and look wan for the rest of our lives, and pray in the monastery that love was taken too soon and shall not come again?

Nolanel: No.

Elliot: You mean if my heart gave in this moment, you'd grow past me while I spent eternity in my glowing youth? I'd be the perfect thing to worship since I wouldn't talk back—and you'd open your affection to a distraction? Who?

Nolanel: That's propaganda.

Elliot: Stop thinking and just gossip with me!

Nolanel: No!

Elliot: 'Tis August, too! Haha!

Nolanel: Oh, fuck no—I'm not so ridiculous.

Elliot: I'll go down the roster until you blush.

Nolanel: Do what you want.

Elliot: That's what life is for. Now. Hm. Not Laelia—she has that miasma about her. Max is evil. Vicky is...

Nolanel: The only among them with a decent mind. She's sturdy and patient. She listens. But get out of the Garleans.

Elliot: Wyda, then.

Nolanel: Just to sicken her more? No, she's too argumentative. Always thinks she's in mandate of the only truth.

Elliot: Norhi doesn't argue, then.

Nolanel: Norhi is married. I'm no salesman. Besides, she has ears.

Elliot: You also have ears.

Nolanel: Hm.

Elliot: What if you married Xanadu instead?

Nolanel: You'd pawn off your wife like that?

Elliot: I make a terrible husband; I'm destined for bachelorhood soon. You would be a much more admirable spouse.

Nolanel: 'Tis true I can make bread.

Elliot: Oh! Ser Basile then!

Nolanel: Don't let him hear that pun; he'll probably enjoy it and I'll never hear his name right again. He's the man people need, but not me.

Elliot: Cass?

Nolanel: You want an answer, not a conversation anymore.

Elliot: So? Cass? 

Nolanel: Closer.

Elliot: Ha!

Nolanel: But there's a dragon where anything else ought to be. A stupid dragon in looks and manner, but still one.

Elliot: I should've expected so. It treats well with the chocobos, somehow, at home in the Bell house. I also appreciate that her hair changes more often than the seasons.

Nolanel: Is it supper time yet?

Elliot: We have to consider more names! Eliane? Brave? I know Yumi and Haru are no choices for you; nor dear Sasamu. 

Nolanel: I don't know anyone else. I doubt Lady Dufresne would enjoy knowing that an industry-despising dandy and former employee was flirting with the idea of setting his dragoon paramour away to disrupt her marriage.

Elliot: That's why gossip is only shared with trusted companions who would never speak a word to anyone. Except the daily press, perhaps. However! This is for amusement! Not—

Nolanel: 'Ey! What's love in this place worth? Who should I love among the residents of Alvarium?

<< SALUTATIONS. CITIZEN (Elliot Cadieux) AND GUEST (User Unknown), I AM PREPARED TO ASSIST WITH REQUESTS. THE CITIZENS OF (Alvarium) ARE MANY AND MAY OFFER UNIQUE RESPONSES TO YOUR QUESTIONS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO CONDUCT A PUBLIC SURVEY? >>

[shadowed-vigil]

day 17: sally

noun: a sudden charge out of a besieged place against the enemy; a brief journey or sudden start into activity. characters: warrior of light, grinnaux de dzemael word count: 1926 notes/WARNINGS: noncon/consensual nonconsent if you SQUINT. set during the vault, au/not canonical for my wol

It starts with a chain cinched around her ankle. 

It shouldn’t start with anything. She’s better than this, she’s evaded worse. It’s just — 

She’s fast, but gods, she’s tired. It hasn’t exactly been an easy day; conspiratory whispers in a cleared out bar tumbling into an abrupt interruption, the sheer whiplash of watching a man launched from the top of the stairs at the Knight; the immediate understanding and sense of dread that had accompanied Ser Charibert’s face as he leered over the banister, clearly pleased with his work and eager for more. 

(At least she’d beaten the tar out of him before he’d fled. She had that much to her name, thank the gods.) 

But there was an implication with his attack in the first place; as good as a declaration of war, the walls closing in around her and hers. The confirmation as Lucia relayed the news that the Temple Knights were compromised, that they’d been seized by — 

“This isn’t right,” she’d whispered to Haurchefant, wringing her hands. “I know he’s — well, I know, but —” 

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he’d soothed, ever an anchor amidst the storm. He smiled at her and gently squeezed her hand. “One way or another.”  ———

She had no way to know for sure what was waiting for her in the Vault. She had her suspicions to be sure — knew there was a fight to be had, that they wouldn’t make it easy for her. 

Adelphel wasn’t exactly who she’d been expecting — not so quick, not so soon. She’d assumed that maybe he was just naive enough to go along with whatever greater plot was at play rather than ask questions. He’s the youngest of them, after all.

She ignores that they’re the same age as she makes the argument in her head, had drawn her weapon all the same. It isn’t like he’d been interested in talking.

Grinnaux, however, has never learned how to shut his mouth.

She’s exhausted by the time she stumbles her way to Chapter House, bloodied and spent and —

“Alone?” he mocks, almost instantly. 

It hurts — wounds her to her core to see him so smug, so willfully mean. She bites her lip to keep it from wobbling. She thought seeing her would hurt him, too. 

(Maybe it did. Maybe, in his way —) 

“No,” she bites back — lies, poorly. “Reinforcements are on their way. It won’t be long.” 

She catches his answering smile, the sneer. 

Still, he indulges her; says, dreadfully soft, already mid-transformation, “Then let’s make this quick.”  ———

So it starts with the chain. 

Better than the gravity manipulation, she supposes — because he might play dirty but he affords her that much to start, the illusion of opportunity, like it doesn’t still paralyze her as he yanks her towards him. She supposes she deserves it for loosing an arrow directly at his head.

(Well — sort of. Because she’d pulled her shot, hope still stirring traitorously in her chest.) 

Furious tears spring to her eyes as she tries to will her limbs to move but can’t, pulse leaping fearfully as she catches the adjustment of his grip on Stampede. Confusion, when he doesn’t just swing at her outright, when he doesn’t hit her when he has her where he wants her. 

Like he’s toying with her. Prolonging the inevitable. 

The unwanted…? 

(Oh, some part of her chides, the whispers of some yet unknown shadow in the recesses of her mind. Perhaps you really are a fool.)

The paralysis doesn’t last long. The moment she feels her fingers twitch, she flings an arm back, reaching wildly for an arrow. 

He even lets her shoot it. 

How benevolent.

It finds purchase past the chainmail beneath his pauldron, breaking past the armor to sink in. It doesn’t seem to phase him in a way that matters, a brief pause as he glances down — and then he just reaches for it to rip it free, lazily snapping the fletching between thumb and forefinger.

“That one was poisoned,” she warns, already reaching for another. 

His answering chuckle comes out cruel, augmented by the aetherial distortion. 

“Is that so?” The first chain tightens, the slip of another snaking up around her other ankle, her wrist. She lifts her bow and he knocks it aside like it’s nothing, grabbing her wrist so tightly she wonders if he means to break it. “Think it’ll matter?”  ———

It doesn’t. 

She’s quick, she’s strong — she is capable, she’s dealt with worse, she — 

Hits the ground so hard it forces the air from her lungs. 

Her vision blurs as she chokes, palms pressed fast and hard against the floor — flexing into claws as she scrambles blindly, heart leaping in her throat when she feels a large, large hand settle against her back, crushing her back down. 

“Don’t,” she croaks, clawing the floor, trying to remember how to breathe properly so that she can scream, “don’t, please, this isn’t fair, this —” 

“No,” he murmurs, “I suppose it isn’t.”  

She writhes and kicks in protest, gasping — still blinking splotches from her vision as she stares bleakly up, the sunlight blinding as it spills through the courtyard windows. Beyond the bloodrush in her ears and his labored breath, she can still make out the faint babble of the fountains, the distant birdsong drifting in from the gardens. 

They’d walked there, together, just the other day. He’d taken her hand and kissed it, his mouth fever warm against her knuckles, watching with amusement as she’d blushed furiously. 

He’d given her something to be properly scandalized over once he was certain that they were alone, taking her jaw in hand and kissing her, full and deep and proper, leaving her dazed and breathless in the aftermath.

She wonders if he’s certain that they’re alone now. He must be, his other hand sliding with promise down the curve of her waist, the sharp backs of his gauntleted fingers snagging her skirts, tearing and ripping as he goes. 

“Grinnaux,” she begs, keening fearfully — can’t even kick her feet anymore, the way the chains hold her fast, “don’t, please, we can’t, you can’t —” 

He laughs like she’s said something funny, tugging her shorts down to her knees, rucking up the tattered remnants of her skirts. She hears the shift of armor, the hollow clatter as pieces hit the floor; feels the sharp nudge of his knee as he forces her legs further apart, spreading her wide. This can’t be happening. He can’t, he can’t — 

She goes very still as he settles over her fully, as she feels something dreadfully large press up against her, prodding crudely at her as he seeks out that slick, wet heat between her legs. 

“That’s — impossible,” she sputters, voice cracking, panicking. “It won’t fit.” 

“Yeah?” He grunts low, pins her down all the more mean. “I’ll make it fit.”

Oh gods, she wishes the floor would swallow her whole. “No,” she tries, “no, you won’t, it won’t —” 

His palm covers her drooling mouth, smothering the useless protest. She writhes in his grip, feels the hard length of him slide against her cunt, teasing, coating himself in her slick. It shouldn’t feel good. She shouldn’t want, doesn’t want — 

His breath fans warm over her neck, lips brushing her temple. “Will you scream, if I let you? Have the others come running — let them watch? They certainly won’t help.” 

Her snarl ends up muffled against his palm, trying desperately to bite down, anything to fight back — like there isn’t an awful, rotten warmth settling low in her stomach, like she isn’t shamefully wet. He adjusts again, cockhead sliding more insistently through her folds — a shift of his hips to notch the tip in.

Her entire body jerks on reflex, straining desperately against her bonds, against him. She claws at the air, teeth sinking into the thick leather of his glove, utterly useless — still somehow enough to have him dislodge his hand as she immediately babbles, words slurring together, “Stop, stop — please, it hurts, it’s too much, it —” 

Miraculously, he does stop. She nearly sobs with relief as he relents, blissfully sliding free from her cunt, leaving her to slump beneath him as she gasps for breath. Perhaps he was still in there, after all; he was still him, he still — 

And then he is him, again, truly — as she feels the abrupt shift behind her, a swirl of aether that leaves him as himself, truly, no distortion to his voice. No longer a primal, but a man. Still large, still heavy, as he keeps her flush between him and the floor. She shivers, his lips warm and soft and achingly familiar as they graze her temple. 

He shifts again, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “Only because you begged.” 

His hips slam forward and she finally, at last, screams. 

It’s too much, still — always a stretch with him, always an effort to work his cock fully into her snug little cunt. No effort spared at all, this time, as he just fucks into her roughly, seats himself down to the hilt as she bursts into furious tears, thrashing blindly, begging for him to stop, stop —

“When you’re this wet?” he laughs, breathless and snarling and so impossibly mean. “Little liar. Say it like you mean it.” 

She tries. She tries and tries, pleading and sobbing, shuddering so violently she fears she might break with the effort if he doesn’t somehow break her first. All her blind thrashing is for nothing, his aetherial chains holding her fast, his body weight still more than enough to keep her pinned firmly to the floor — as it settles in, all at once, that she is truly helpless. 

Her cunt tightens over him, clenching so hard she feels miserable. 

His laugh is half-groan as he tangles a fist in her hair, gripping at the root to yank her head back, twisting until she whimpers. “You’ve always liked it rough, though — haven’t you, kitten?” His pace increases, the hand on her hip bruising as he holds her steady. “Begging for me to stop like you don’t love the shame, like you won’t come — oh, yes you will, please, like I can’t feel it —” 

To her credit, she tries not to. 

(Tells herself that she tries not to.) 

She still does, though, in the end — tips over the edge as she whimpers helplessly, toes curling in her boots. He lets her shudder through it, cooing softly in her face; the wet, lewd noise with each brutal thrust telling in its own way, echoing off the stone and ringing incessantly in her ears. It isn’t long before his pace sharpens, before he buries into her, makes it impossible to not feel each twitch and spurt of his cock in her aching cunt. He just fucks his spend deeper as he grunts, panting in her ear, telling her to take it, to be still, to be good. 

Like she has a choice.

He stays locked with her, after; one last lazy roll of his hips into the sticky, warm mess he leaves behind, arm still slipped up beneath her hips to hold her flush against him. She makes no immediate effort to move, rendered boneless as she slumps beneath him, her tear-stained cheek resting against the cool marble floor. 

She blinks blearily as he settles over her, a kiss pressed to her temple as her vision swims — as it sharpens, finally, as she catches sight of her bow resting just out of reach. 

She swallows thickly.

He’s still on her. He’s still in her. 

Her hand flexes.

[crossroadsdimension]

FFXIV Write Day 3

Prompt -- Tempest

(FFXIVWrite 2024 Masterpost)

Cross didn’t know when the fights with the primals became easier. When it was that she started reading their movements backwards and forwards, and could predict their blows before they landed. At some point, they did. Even when the beast tribes managed to gather the large number of crystals they needed in order to bring the primals back at their strongest, she still knew how they fought. How they moved.

And how to take them by surprise.

It’s how she found herself today, dodging and weaving through harsh winds as Garuda did her damndest to cut down the miqo’te as she moved. The roaring tempest of winds battered and pushed against Garuda’s foe, trying to draw her into the whirling storm just beyond their battleground.

But Cross knew these winds. She knew how to dodge and roll against and with them, to keep herself moving despite the storm.

“You will not be able to keep this up for long!” Garuda taunted. The harpy’s crazed grin only grew wider as she flapped her wings, sending out more plumes to batter the battlefield and distract the miqo’te from her true goal.

A hiss escaped from Cross, and she quickly moved to dodge around the feathers. One of them clipped her cheek, leaving a thin cut that immediately began to sting from the harsh winds.

She took two steps, then let fire aether gather in her bow as a few more feathers came close.

The explosion of flames that followed took out two of the feathers at once.

“What is this?!” Garuda shrieked. “You are not armed as a mage!”

Cross brought up her bow, aimed at the primal, and fired a glowing orange arrow at Garuda’s heart. “Like I’m going to be conventional when fighting a primal!”

Garuda brought up her clawed talons and slashed forwards with shrieking laughter. “Your measly flying sticks are no match for my power over the winds! How dare you try to—”

The explosion of fire as the arrow exploded in her talons, turning Garuda’s shrieking laughter into a shriek of pained surprise.

Cross already had another arrow nocked as Garuda tried to recover from the explosion to her face. Using fire aether to coat the arrow had been a gamble in these high winds, but it was one she’d been glad to take in this instant.

“I knew there was a good reason for me to not bring my staff today.”

The miqo’te let her next arrow fly, and watched in satisfaction as it pierced through the remains of the explosion’s cloud of smoke. Garuda’s next scream turned into a caterwaul that faded into the aether as her body dissolved.

Cross didn’t lower her bow until the winds started to die and calm. The tempest, breaking apart without its creator holding it together.

There were no Ixal waiting beyond to strike. They were likely long gone, looking to carry the fight with another day, and another rendition of their primal.

Cross moved across the destroyed sacred site of the Ixal to what she knew to be an aetherial current in front of the only standing outcropping of stone at the edge of the familiar arena. One of the Ixal’s caches was sitting there — likely an offering. If she was going to get anything out of this, taking something primal “blessed” instead of letting them use it to create another Garuda was better than nothing.

The woven basket contained only a single ring with a wind-carved stone, an item carved from bone that left Cross feeling slightly uneasy, and a strange flute, humming with green wind aether.

Humming with a part of the tempest.

Cross took the flute and turned it over in her fingers, frowning. “What use would the Ixal have for this? It doesn’t seem ornamental, nor does it feel as though it summons Garuda. However….”

Her bright blue eyes went over the length of the flute again. “Perhaps I should test this in a place where the winds aren’t strong. Just in case.”

[ser-corviknight]

Day 15 - Payback (Free Day)

An ear twitched in irritation. Not only were the people massacred at Rhalgr’s Reach, his people, though he was never one of them, and forced to flee across the seas, but the leader of them seems to have some sort of unholy fascination with his cousin.

Slaughtering countless others, letting the blood flow as a river in his wake, and yet. And yet, his cousin still lived. Could still fight back another day, and help bring freedom to all their people. Those from the city his father was from, where his parents had met, to those much closer to the only home he had known. To those that his other father, that his aunt had fled from all those years ago.

X’vett knew  that he wasn’t the best fighter. Not with his weapon of choice and the power of song, but he would not pick back up the blade. He refused, even though he knew he was much more skilled with it and the magics it would allow him to wield. There had to be another way…One he would find, and payback what was dealt against his family fourfold. And yet…

Ever since he could remember, his cousin had watched out for and protected him. Kept the trouble that kept inevitably finding him from doing him harm, time and time again. Had anyone ever done the same for him? 

Who was the one who protected the protector? If he got the chance…

[alicesadventuresinffxiv]

FFxivWrite2024 Prompt #21

Title: A Different Shade

Wordcount: 564

Spoilers through: Endwalker patch quests (6.2)

Relationships & Characters: Y’shtola/Zero

Summary: Y’shtola and Zero hanging out and having a very definitely academic conversation.

(Y’shtola/Zero is another one of those pairings I like in theory, but have very little familiarity with! So most of this piece was me just trying to figure out their characters and what kind of dynamic they might have together. I will fix broken blog things tomorrow!)

.

“I do not like this color.” The enigmatic voidsent glared balefully at the lemon muffin as if it was about to bite her.

“Oh?” Y’shtola set aside her book and turned her attention back to the guest room’s primary occupant. Prying more knowledge from the voidsent was a slow and difficult task - at least without repeatedly draining her stores of aether dry - so any information she volunteered freely was of immediate interest. “Why is that?”

To Y’shtola’s senses, the muffin looked just the same as any other. A warm, dense bit of aether. From her memories of normal sight, it was in all likelihood a light golden brown. Naught about it to offend the eyes.

“It’s the same shade as his hair.”

“‘His?’ Ah, Zenos again?” Y’shtola thoughtfully tapped her chin. “My apologies, I had not realized. If it upsets you, I shall take it myself.” She reached for the muffin, only for Zero’s hand to close over her own.

“...” The voidsent pulled her forward and stared intensely into Y’shtola’s eyes. 

“Yes?” Perhaps a lesser (or more prudent) student of the arcane might have shunned the direct touch of a voidsent, but Y’shtola’s heart merely beat more quickly. From pure academic curiosity, that is. Nothing more.

“You do not see color.”

“Not anymore.”

With great concentration, and with careful study of different aether consistencies, Y’shtola could make informed estimates. For example, much of the detailing paint on Radz-at-Han architecture contained flecks of metal that suggested it might be gold. But for her, color was a slow and intellectual puzzle to analyze, not an immediate reaction.

And Y’shtola had so very many things she wished to analyze.

“Is that why you do not fear to look at me?” Zero tilted her head. “I have been told my complexion is colorless and unpleasant. Thus the people here oft avert their eyes despite their welcoming gestures. But you do not.”

“I find you fascinating for a number of reasons.” Y’shtola said with a slight smirk. “The history you’ve witnessed, for one. Your current state, and what it implies about your world, for another.”

“Ever-focused on your goals, then.” Zero nodded. “We are not so different as I first assumed. When I look at you, I see a banquet of aether I have come to crave.”

“If this is leading to a solicitation for more, know that I am quite spent after our earlier conversation.” Y’shtola regretfully shook her hand free. Her appetite for knowledge might have been bottomless, but another drain, and she’d be navigating back to her own guest room by touch and memory alone.

“I am aware.” Sparing her the temptation, Zero sat back in her chair. “For the moment, I am simply drinking with my eyes.”

At that, Y’shtola raised an eyebrow. She was no stranger to clumsy complements and propositions, but could the voidsent truly be suggesting…? “You would prefer my taste to that of the food, then?”

“I prefer looking at you, rather than the food, yes.” She pushed away the plate and leaned across the table between them. “I have not had a chance to taste you directly yet.”

“Would such a chance be worthy of another deal?” There was Y’shtola’s heart again, beating faster, faster, faster.

“If you would be amenable.”

“I would.”

Very well. Perhaps what Y’shtola felt was not purely academic curiosity, but an altogether different shade.

[queenofnohr]

princess diaries aka my xivwrites 2024 series focused on Odeline

here are the first 6 chapters

Title: carnivore Prompt: steer Rating: T Tags/Warnings: consumption as a metaphor for lust Pairing: Guerrique/Odeline or Heavens' Ward/Odeline depending on how hard you squint Word Count: 661 Summary: Odeline is hungry.

Title: a good girl's prayer Prompt: tempest Rating: T Tags/Warnings: religious content Pairing: Gen Word Count: 837 Summary: Hermenost visits Odeline's humble church.

Title: heads, meet tails Prompt: reticent Rating: T Tags/Warnings: death, but not in a way that matters Pairing: Paulecrain/Odeline if you squint Word Count: 712 Summary: No one in this damn cathedral will admit what they want.

Title: hardly a mouthful Prompt: morsel Rating: M Tags/Warnings: horniness; an inquisitor's love Pairing: Charibert/Odeline Word Count: 696 Summary: Charibert accompanies Odeline to Gorgagne Mills.

Title: mary magdalene Prompt: lend an ear Rating: E Tags/Warnings: referenced noncon (bc tempered knights can't consent); gangbang fantasy Pairing: Heavens' Ward/Odeline Word Count: 1650 Summary: Y'shtola can see Odeline's aether.

Title: tulip mania Prompt: stable Rating: G Tags/Warnings: none worth noting Pairing: gen Word Count: 728 Summary: Odeline dreams.

[crystal-verse]

Day 9 - Lend an Ear

[this one is 2k words. oops. the post-5.0 wolgraha grabbed me by the throat i guess, oops]

Your back and hip ache, and you're sure tomorrow will leave you stuck in bed from the fatigue and pain, but for tonight -- you are free of the Light choking your chest and your veins, Emet-Selch is dead and will never haunt you again, and the Exarch (Raha, your Raha, and it feels so, so strange to think of him thus again) is alive and whole.

There's revelry, amongst the people of the Crystarium, and you cannot blame them for that -- the other Scions, too, are drawn into the revelry themselves. Mehka glances at you, concerned (it was she who had initially thought to hold the Light, but you had known, somewhere in your bones, that if either of you were to carry it, it should be you), but you wave her off, and she soon turns away to speak with Y'shtola.

Beside you, the Exarch -- G'raha Tia, that seaglass-eyed scholar with both eyes stained red, now -- shifts. You are reminded, again, that you are not the only one who will be aching -- the many layers of his robes hides much of his skin and the crystal that has consumed it, but even still you can see bruises and other cuts and gashes, and you've no idea what damage the bullet in his back did, if anything. There is some unreadable emotion in their gaze, but beneath that all -- you think that there is love, there.

It is -- difficult, still, to speak after so long, but if anyone is to hear your voice (if anyone, anyone at all) it should be them. "We should go to the Spagyrics." Your words are soft, and for a moment you wonder if the Exarch (Raha, you should call them Raha) heard you.

"I. . . would rather not." Their words are no less soft than your own, though slightly louder. "If -- if you are injured, I may spare some of my time to aid you. I do have a not insignificant amount of healing experience, as you may recall."

Indecision wars at you -- you want to make sure that he is unharmed, that his injuries are seen to, you had not even considered your own. But. . . perhaps. Perhaps there can be. . . a trade? "I. . . would like that." You say, carefully. "So long as I may spare some of my own effort to look at your own wounds?"

Raha so very visibly debates, in his head, before nodding. "Very well. Shall we?"

Together, the two of you set off to the Tower. It's a slow process -- now unhooded, it seem as though the entire Crystarium wishes to see their Exarch, wishes to speak with him. But your shared, slow progress is no less progress, and 'tis not too late into the evening by the time you are both at the doorway. The gatekeep waves you both through, and Raha leads you through the crystalline corridors, up pathways you'd never seen. Away from the Ocular, you think -- you do not recall the exact pathway, but you know that this one is different. It is a simple sort of room that Raha takes you to, small and plain and not nearly as opulent as you'd expect the keeper of the Tower to dwell in. (Though. . . remembering the G'raha Tia of some years past, the plainness begins to make sense. Even then, back at the Waking Sands, he had been one always focused on the grandure of others and yet never attempting to claim any of that himself, not truly. Fine with a simple room, fine with plain clothing, fine with simply being yet another Scion.)

To a bathroom you both go, and you are lucky enough that you'd taken your own healing kit with you to the Tempest -- you'd not known if you would need it, and 'tis helpful to have the physical vials and potions and bandages, even if healing magic itself in theory could eliminate their need. You do not summon your faerie, yet. You will wait for that.

Raha's hands are gentle, as he pulls upon the white magic and weaves it into you. They blush, to begin with, when you shed all but your smallclothes to allow access to the many wounds and aches, but that soon falls away into a calm, dedicated focus, that which would be seen on any medical professional. The gashes on your chest and arms are healed, and Raha coaxes your dislocated fingers (you'd forgotten about that, somehow -- the pain bleeding into everything else) back into their joints. Your tail, broken in several places, is carefully held while Raha keeps healing with that keen focus, and when he has finished, all injuries healed as much as they can and all aches soothed as much as they will be, you sigh and lean forwards to press your head against his chest.

"I. . . want to talk to you." You tell him, as softly as he had held you, is holding you. "Pray, lend an ear?"

A quiet breath. "I would be honored to hear whatever you would wish to tell me," they say, and there is reverence in their voice.

"Thank you." Then, before you forget -- you have neither your codex nor the aetherical quill that comes with it, but you are of the K tribe, and arcanima of any kind still comes easily to you. Oberon -- or. . . what is left of Oberon, is summoned, the faerie's light dimmed but Light increased (and oh, how it had broken your heart to see what had become of them, as Titania -- but that is gone, and in the past, and Oberon is still here). "Where to start. . . "

Well. You should start with actually healing Raha, to begin with. "I -- would you undress, please? At least so I can see to your chest?" You are less well-versed in any professional healing, but your battlefield healing has been well enough, and -- it is Raha. You can set aside your embarrassment for long enough to do this.

"Oh -- of course!" Raha slides his arms out of the sleeves of the robes, and -- oh, you'd forgotten just how it fit on them, didn't you? The hood being so large and spacious, enough space for them to slide their sleeves out that way, letting the fabric fall down to rest around their waist as they sit. "You were saying?"

"Right." Right, right. "I knew you were G'raha Tia." You tell them, before you can lose your courage. "For. . . a long time, I think."

Raha startles, at that. "You -- truly? How?"

"It's embarassing. . ." you're not sure you could justify yourself, were you to tell the actual reason. (Fray had certainly laughed at you, to begin with, before the agony of it had sank in.)

"I shan't judge you, if that is what stays your tongue." Raha promises, a genuine earnestness in their gaze. "Though -- neither will I judge you if you wish not to speak of it."

You fidget with a roll of bandages in your hand, and choose to keep your gaze firmly on the crystal planes of his shoulder as you speak. "I, ah. . . well. You have very memorable lips."

A beat of silence, and then -- Raha bursts into giggles, his flesh hand lifted, in vain, to stifle them. "Wicked white -- that was it, truly? My lips?"

You huff. "It's not my fault that you have pretty lips." You smack his arm in jest -- only to panic at the sudden hiss. "Sorry, sorry, sorry--"

"No, no, 'twas not your fault." Raha grits their teeth for another moment, before forcibly relaxing. "Tis not you who inflicted these wounds on me, Sae'pheli'ehva."

". . . even still." The bruises are mottled purple and black and green, a few barely-healing yellow, and while Oberon flutters about pressing bits of healing magic onto him, the various cuts and gashes and places where the crystal has pulled away from the skin and muscle is not so easily dealt with. "I. . . I missed you. Is it silly to say?"

Raha hums. "I do not think so. I certainly missed you, those many long years."

A jar of salve pulled from a pocket. You sniff at it -- ah, good. Some kind of medical glue, if you recall, so this should help with the crystal and muscle problem, once you can get the bleeding to stop. (At least it is sluggish.) "Why me, anyways. . .?"

A longer hum. "If I may be honest with you. . . "

"You may. If you want to be." You'll not be able to use the sleeves of your undershirt for anything again, not with the blood that will sink into the fibers, but that's alright. The bleeding's stopped enough for the salve, so you dip a finger into the jar and get to work. Oberon is still pressing little Whipsering Dawns into them, so you shall leave the smaller cuts to them, and focus your attention on sealing the crystal to flesh, and possibly stitching the larger gashes.

"Thank you." Raha lifts an arm at your prompting -- the right one, rough planes of crystal, so you can reach the skin and muscle beneath, the area just below where his ribs end. "To be entirely honest -- I had fallen in love with you, quite shortly after our first meeting. And, in the Eighth Umbral Era when I awoke. . .the only thing written of you was of your deeds as Warrior of Light. There was little and less of you as a person, though Mehka was granted that honor. It seemed. . . a cruel joke, for the one to capture my attention so easily to be the one to be forgotten by history as much as you were."

. . . oh. "I -- I had wanted to try loving you, I think." You set your hands in your lap. Work up the courage to look at them, meeting their eyes. "I had wanted to. I think -- I want to, still. But. . . the Scions needed me, and you were busy with whatever work you had come to Eorzea for to begin with, and. . . well. Things never worked out, is all."

Raha looks at you so very, very softly. "I am honored that you would want to try loving me." He takes your hands in his own, crystal-and-flesh upon your own mismatched hands, brown-and-black skin. "I know that love does not come easily, to you."

"Ha -- no, it really doesn't. And. . . thank you."

"For?"

"For everything. For loving me, unconditionally. For being willing to avert my death, even if it seemed an impossible dream. For making the Crystarium so full of love, and for being willing to extend that love to me. For making the Crystarium a home, and for letting the Crystarium be my home." Tears well at your eyes, but they're good ones. "So. . . thank you. For everything."

Raha has no words to give you, after that, but his watery smile, tears in his own eyes, is gift enough.

"Now -- could you turn around, please?" You ask, shaking yourself and trying to sink back into that medical mindset. "I'd like to look at your back."

Raha turns, with less pain you hope -- the larger gashes will still need to be stitched, but there are only three of them (one on his chest, from just below the right ribs across to just below his left armpit; one on his shoulder, cutting through where the remains of that vibrant vermillion tattoo is yet to be encased in crystal; and one on his left hip, disappearing below the fabric), and you will have time to get to them later. His back is -- just as bruised as his front, truly, but though there are more scratches and lacerations they are mercifully less severe than the injuries on his front. The bullet wound -- you hiss through your teeth at the sight of it. The bullet is still there, even, embedded in the flesh, and you cannot imagine the agony that it has been, for Raha.

"This is going to hurt now," you say, pulling a pair of tweezers from your toolkit. (They weren't meant to be there, but they've been irreplaceably helpful.) "I'm sorry."

You know that it must be painful, but Raha does no more than twitch once, when you reach to pull out the bullet, but you can see some layers of tension slough off once the bullet is out. Adloquium and Excogitation are cast quickly -- these spells are most familiar to you, and so you cast them with your hands pressed against their back, you can feel even more clearly how the last of the tension leaves Raha's body. "Is this better?"

"Yes. Much." With the pain mostly gone, you can now see how the exhaustion weighs on Raha. You finish the healing as quickly as you can without sacrificing any quality (helping to pull the robes entirely off of Raha, when you need to see to his legs), and then dismiss Oberon, with a sigh. "Is there somewhere I can rest, for tonight?"

"Mmh." Raha stretches in a very cat-like way, then stands, both their clothing and yours gathered in their arms. "If it would not be presumptuous of me -- I could lend you my own rooms?"

Hm. "Cuddle me like you let me do back at the Waking Sands, and it'll be fine. If that's alright with you?"

Raha's ears wiggle in a very cute way, and though the both of you are exhausted, you feel a surge of victory. It's not quite love, yet, but you still want, and even as the Exarch trying to keep his distance Raha had still been so kind and so loving, and -- this is a good first step, you think. Laying together, sleeping in each other's arms as you both heal from the struggles of the times before. (You would like to get used to this, you think, as you settle into the bedding. Raha's arms around you, protective but not caging, a gentle embrace. It's more than you'd hoped for, all those years ago.)

[bagroft]

oops naked moody with a sky background salad portrait numBER THREE but with some new shiny scars I guess :D

[avirael]

FFxivWrite 2024

Day 29 - Keepsake

They attacked at night. When everyone was asleep, when no one expected it. The women and children they could have easily subdued as soon as they were out of side of the settlement. But the men? The men may have been naive and tired but they also were angry from all the years they spent on the run and then in the hellhole of a town that had been Little Ala Mhigo.

They were afraid the men would give them trouble, so of course - like the cowards they were - they attacked them when they least expected it. In their sleep with spears pointed at their faces or blades at their throats. Torn from their dreams of a better future in the blink of an eye. The motivation and promises - it had all been a devious game of lies from the very beginning.

A’viloh was awoken by a sharp scream. And so was Laqa who had slept close beside him, arms wrapped around each other to keep one another warm in this cold winter night. Startled by the horrible scream A‘viloh had tried to sit up but Laqa had instinctively held him back and pulled him closer, trying to protect him.

„Shhh…“, he had whispered almost silently and signaled for A‘viloh to stay still. Laqa did not move but his eyes and ears scanned their environment. With one hand he steadied himself on the ground while the other reached for the dagger at his belt. Then as one of the armed men stepped closer, still thinking them asleep, Laqa leapt up like a snake that had waited for the right moment to strike.

A‘viloh, still with no clue what was happening at all, turned around to get a better look at the small makeshift camp they had set up for the night. Shocked he pressed a hand to his mouth, to keep himself from screaming as he saw the chaos unfolding in front of him.

He did not immediately recognise the people attacking them as the same ones who had promised to bring them into the city and give them work there, so they wouldn’t have to live in one of the slums outside of Ul‘dah’s gates. But he recognised the people that were pressed to the ground crying and screaming, while armed men tied them up. He recognised an ala mhigan man that had reached for his sword and tried to fight the attackers off, only to be hopelessly outnumbered. He was too proud to give up and threw all he had at his opponents, only to be struck down by a sword striking him from behind.

With a sudden burst of panic A‘viloh‘s eyes searched for Laqa, finding him only a few yalms away, still fighting against one of the men. Swiftly he swung his dagger at his opponent but his range just wasn’t good enough, at least fighting against a much taller enemy with a sword. Defensively he leapt back a little as the sword swung down towards him, trying to block the hit with his dagger. It slowed down the blow but his opponent was a lot stronger than him and kept pushing. Ilm by ilm the blade moved closer to his face and A‘viloh felt too petrified to do anything but watch in horror.

Then with an angry growl Laqa brought up his other hand, and grabbed the sharp blade of the sword, pushing against it with both arms, to keep the man at a distance. For a moment this duel of strength almost seemed equal, if not for the blood dripping off of Laqa‘s hand and running down his opponent’s sword. Then suddenly another man stepped closer and used the pommel of his weapon to hit Laqa against the side of his head.

With a scared shriek A‘viloh rushed forward to the other Miqo’te, who had instantly collapsed to the ground and now lay there unconscious. Protectively A‘viloh threw his body over Laqa‘s and, lacking any other means of denfense, hissed at the attackers. But the two men simply laughed about such a weak attempt of resistance. Roughly one of them grabbed A‘viloh by his arms and pulled him away, and in no time both of them had their hands tied up just like all the other innocent people who had traveled with them.

By the time the attackers had secured all of them and checked everyone for hidden weapons the sun already began to rise. A‘viloh shivered, lying curled up by Laqa‘s side, as the other Miqo’te slowly regained his consciousness and groaned in pain.

„Laqa!“, A‘viloh exclaimed silently and helped him sit up as good as he could with both his own hands tied up too.

„Vi?…“, the other Miqo’te said dazed. „Are you alright?“

A‘viloh nodded and looked down at Laqa’s tied wrists with worry. „Better than you at least…“

With a quiet hiss of pain Laqa unfurled his hand and looked at the deep red cut inside his palm. Carefully he tried to move his fingers, which fortunately still worked, but at the same time the movement made the wound start bleeding again.

„Hold still!“, A’viloh demanded and with his tied up hands needed a moment to awkwardly peel a soft deep-green scarf from his own neck. „Let me bandage that up.“

But Laqa pulled back his palm, knowing fully well how important that piece of clothing was to A‘viloh - the only keepsake he had of his dead mother. „No! Not with this! It will only get dirty…“

With a sad smile A‘viloh nodded, took Laqa’s hand and pulled it closer again. „It will, but this is more important. The cut will only keep on bleeding otherwise and you shouldn’t get dust and sand into it. I can try to clean the scarf if we make it out of this alive, but I cannot heal your hand…“

„I am so sorry…“, Laqa murmured while A‘viloh bandaged his hand but it sounded like more than just an apology for ruining A’viloh’s precious scarf.

„It‘s not your fault…“, A’viloh insisted, wrapping the thin, light fabric around Laqa‘s hand a few times, before making a knot and wrapping the rest of it around his lower arm.

With a guilty expression Laqa looked to the ground and stayed silent. Still slightly shaking, A‘viloh shifted to sit closely beside him and rested his head on Laqa‘s shoulder. With a sigh the blonde Miqo’te tilted his head to rest on A’viloh’s. „I am sorry, Vi… You have to be so scared...“

„I am.“, A‘viloh admitted and closed his eyes. „But I was more scared about you…“

[potassium-pilot]

FFXIVWrite 2024, Prompt 19: Taken

(Fics that make me change my rating from M to E. Whoops lol)