day twelve >> miss the boat
#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #felstel #nsfw #wolship #prearr #warning
warnings: animal cruelty ; description of a corpse ; murder of a loved one ; ptsd triggered by trauma
general: that time fel missed the boat with stel ; feels ; hurt, no comfort
idiom
- to lose an opportunity to do something by being slow to act
“Stel?”
She tucks her nose beneath the line of his jaw and leaves a kiss, “Hmm?”
He runs the edge of his thumb down the soft skin of her shoulder, so pale as to glow in the moonbeams sneaking in through the fluttering curtain. “Do ya ever think abou'—”
Fel doesn't finish his question. The words seem to have gotten lost in his stomach somehow on the trip from brain to mouth. They linger there, acidic and unpleasant.
Somewhat used to his antagonistic relationship with expressing himself by now, she settles close against his side to wait. Content to explore with fingers and lips the beautiful jagged streaks and broken stripes of shiny, mother of pearl scars, scattered like constellations over his slate skin.
He struggles to wring a coherent thought from his pathetic dishrag brain for a long moment before giving up completely. Fel digs hard into her hips, dragging her atop to sheathe himself.
Her gasping giggle sets his pulse leaping wildly, blood screaming, a golden knot in his belly tightening as his words finally untangle. “Run wit' me... I wantcha ta be wit' me...”
She pulls his broad hands, calloused and scarred, up the cage of her ribs to fill his palms with her breasts. The gentle tug behind his navel is the pull of her gravity, every ilm of him alive with desire. Menphina’s beauty glows from her moonstone skin; the steady tidal rolling of her hips a slow and inevitable push toward strange, unfathomable waters.
A swirling maelstrom on the edge of an abyss.
Flush spreading over face and breasts, she smiles, soft and sweet, then kisses his fingertips, “I'll go anywhere with you, Fel.”
The maelstrom claims its spoils, wet heat pulsing from him in waves as he grinds his hips hard into her at an angle. She moans loud and long, shuddering with every twitch of his length. He fill his empty hands with every ilm of her he can reach, desperate to touch beautiful curves shivering in pleasure.
She bends to kiss him, eyelids, chin, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth that always seems to be grinning slyly, as though it keeps secrets the other corner can’t know. “Tomorrow maybe?”
Another sundown wrought of flame and dark velvet sky.
Another moonlit night to pass the bells with her. With Stel.
A fluttering over his heart, a morpho caged by ribs just by thinking of her. Soft skin, sweet laugh, and tender kisses.
Stel.
Stel who wants to run away with him.
The lightness of his soul a pleasant distraction, until he comes across the deer.
Maggot infested and rank—even the eye sockets—beautiful hide sliding into liquefaction, returning to the patch of Eorzea that gave it life. Other than missing antlers it’s whole. Poached solely for the trophy.
It turns his stomach.
When the corpse becomes a young duskwight woman he gags, stumbling back into a tree. He clings on for life, splinters embedding beneath fingernails, head spinning and pulse pounding.
Blood runs from her belly, the knife buried deeply not hindering the flow in the slightest.
Breathe. It ain’t real. Breathe. It ain’t real.
BREATHE IT AIN’T REAL.
The ravaged deer returns. He slides down the trunk of his tree to rest his ebony head in his bandaged wrapped hands, struggling to rein in his breathing and his breakfast.
Can’t do this again. Can’t protect anyone. Fifth sons ain’t good for nothing ‘cept breedin’, as his mother always said.
Does Stel really mean to come with him?
It’s only pillow talk. He’s no knight, no mate, no nothing.
What if she’s pregnant now? She must be; been cumming in her for moons there’s no way it hasn’t happened yet. Even then, it’s just a matter of time.
He’d be endangering a kit by bringing it with him, her too. That’s why men don’t hang around… they aren’t needed beyond this. This is all they’re good for.
His heart sours, the warm flutter in his chest going cold. Dalamud hangs low against the flaring stars, as if leering.
He’s been here far too long. She could be matriarch of this village one day, and he’s doing her wrong with his selfishness, spending all the nighttime bells with him rather than hunting or working.
She’s too innocent to know she deserves better.
He turns on his heel and vanishes back into the darkness, melting into shadow as if he’d never been there at all.
Stel adds her nicest dress to the half-filled travel bag, along with several clean sets of smallclothes.
After a moment, a simple set of tiny clothes, blankets, and swaddling materials join the dress and extra smallclothes.
Her cheeks color as she roams her little cottage, a hand resting low on her belly. She and Fel won’t need much, but a kit will.
“Never hurts to think ahead,” she hums.