warnings: hurt, no comfort ; body horror ; violence ; drug abuse ; death

general: raha surfs the waves of space and time with a crystal board ; spoilers for shadowbringers and tales from the shadows (kinda?) ; feels ; hurt, no comfort—yes again quit complaining

noun

• a coming or flowing together, meeting, or gathering at one point
• the flowing together of two or more streams

The Ocular’s crystal walls fade to shining rainbows and thence to blackness. Streaks of light speed by, flashing like schools of fish dancing in the deep

The whispered goodbye dies on G'raha's lips, lost in a howl of pain as the crystal crawls ravenous over his skin. Ilm by horrifying ilm it spreads and grows, pulsing outward from his heart to methodically emtomb him, down to each finger and toe, in shining azure.

Eaten alive.

He begs for a swift end to this maddening torment, either through his own death or via his successful arrival on the First.

The tower and the river of time upon which it rides grant him no succor, nor could they. They care not who directs the tiller or why. They only ride the currents.

They simply flow.

Time's river bears him onward as he gazes transfixed and helpless at hurtling infinity, the constant undulating threads of fate, the shimmering fragments of unrealized potential mingling with painful memories.

Past, present, and future overlapping, tangling, melting into each other, merging the real and recognizable with the fantastic and strange. He sees them all, bound together like pearls on a radiant webbing, ensnaring his mind as surely as the crystal feasts upon his limbs.

His physical agony shrinks to insignificance against the weight of this knowledge. The mind, beholding the fabric of the universe, can do naught but fray; no mortal can withstand the face of god.

He breaks and the tide takes him, inhabits him, experiences him.

And he—it.

Huge golden doors slam closed, the glimmer of sealing magic over their surface punctuated by a single lament which then rises to a trembling crescendo—a thousand, thousand voices crying out for salvation.

A pitiless moon hangs gravid over a blasted horizon, stripped branches reaching corpse-like fingers to the bleeding sky. Wide fields of colorless gas grow the dead rather than flowers, each futilely gasping, desperate to prolong a meaningless existence. Death comes to claim the Warrior and she breathes her last, the violet sweep of her lashes falling closed to rest against a sallow cheek. Her armor becomes flowing cloth of silver and gold, a crown of red and purple blossoms nestled amongst her locks. The world falls apart, reality disintegrates, unmade in an instant, until her beautiful corpse is all that remains.

In a small room filled with blue haze, the Warrior lays spread-eagle on a pile of crimson silks, opalescent skin glowing and pupils blown wide. A blond man with the Garlean third eye fucks her torturously slow, broad hand switching between cupping a bouncing breast and squeezing her windpipe, his blue eyes fixed upon the ruby curve of her lips. The pale Doman woman at the Warrior's side is beautiful as the dark side of the moon, the long pipe at her lips exuding thin smoke from a tiny bowl. It smells of burning petals, sweet but not cloyingly so. She seals her mouth over the Warrior's but neglects doing the same to the Garlean.

Both have eyes only for her.

The Warrior again, but alone, her smooth skin unnaturally pale, streaked with shining gold in a grotesque mockery of veins. Ethereal wings like those of a moth wrap around narrow shoulders, burning hate like a cold sun, a majesty of blinding white emptiness behind her eyes. Where once there was life and laughter now there is only stillness and bland ennui, drained away much like the vibrant heliotrope of her hair and eyes. A goddess of gluttonous lethargy, her clawed hands and gaping jaw encrusted with blood and fouled by dripping viscera.

Flashes come faster, what is muddled with what could have been.

Himself and the Warrior in the tower and yet not, fighting back to back with sword and spell against clockwork beings nearly 8 fulms in height, their glass cores filled with a swirling magic sandstorm.

The Warrior and another miqo'te, holding hands as they watch a small dark-haired kit—doubtless their child—play in the sun. The man's slate skin bears heavy scarring save his left arm, which is not flesh but a facsimile wrought of delicate machinery. The pair share a smiling kiss, soft and sweet—the sight of it makes his heart ache.

Himself again, tangled with her in soft sheets. Hands grasping curves slicked with sweat, his mouth filled with the taste of her skin, her sex. Chests pressed close enough to feel the leaping beat of her heart as if it was his own.

His mind reels, sanity almost gone to tatters, tears streaming down his face. He screams, collapsing to the chill crystal floor and screaming more. Even after he goes hoarse. Even after the never ending tears make him retch. Even after the walls return to crystal and the tower beneath him returns to solid reality.

He screams. He dreams of screaming, though he's not sure he slept, much less dreamt.

Finally, feeling hollow as an insect's molted carapace, he falls into ringing silence, more certain than ever this plan must succeed and he must sacrifice himself to see it done.

The First awaits.

warnings: toddlerfic?

general: toddlerfic

verb

• involuntarily open one's mouth wide and inhale deeply due to tiredness or boredom
• (of an opening or space) be very large and wide

noun

• a reflex act of opening one's mouth wide and inhaling deeply due to tiredness or boredom

Rosemary Molkot, aged 4, hated bedtime.

There were very few things Rosie hated more than bedtime.

Rosie cannot yet write anything besides scribblings, however if she was capable of such a feat her greatest hates list might look something like this:

THINGS ROSIE HATES

1. Medicine

2. Vegetables

3. Bathtime

4. Worms

5. Bedtime

6. The dark

Needless to say Wee Rosie did not care for her parents calling bedtime all willy-nilly, after just one single, tiny yawn.

Not even a yawn so much as commentary on the interminable banality of her modern existence. An existence laced with indignities such as—but by no means limited to—the aforementioned bedtime, a strict limit on the amount of ginger-cinnamon cookies she's allowed to consume in a day, and the time outs she must endure on the rare occasions she succumbs to temptation and chases ma's chickens into a frenzy.

A temptation she'd indulged in today, as a matter of fact.

The long, shuddering yawn was an act of protest against these injustices and should be treated as such, but her kind, ill-informed parents failed to grasp this nuance and sentenced her to bedtime.

How dare they just assume? When conclusive proof existed to show that not only was she not tired, she had never been tired, not once, in all her one thousand five hundred some odd days of life.

If only she could better resist the heaviness of her eyelids, the weakness in her limbs as da gently scoops her up from her ~~nest of blankets~~ fort by the fire and cradles her against his chest.

No doubt her inability to fight back is the result of some wicked magic of ma's; all the neighbors called her a witch and she never denied it, just laughed as she handed them sparkling bottles of sweet-smelling liquid to treat so-and-so's fever or to help their auntie's cousin's wife's niece three times removed’s milk flow freely after her baby came early.

Whatever that means.

Still, despite her parent's treachery she loved them and looping her short arms round da's neck is a surrender she accepts, even enjoys. She nuzzles close to the warmth emanating from his dusky skin and metal prosthetic alike.

“Not sleepy,” Rosie grunts.

“Aye? What ya think ma? Can she go another quarter bell or tuck 'er in ta bed?” Da looks at ma, dragging his chin over the silken fur of a tiny, tufted ear.

“Well I'm tired, certainly, and my poor chickens are exhausted. Regardless of what she says, seeing as the Princess Rosemary's servants and playmates are all succumbing to the sleep of the just, she may have no choice but to join them.”

“I love it when ya say a buncha stuff I don' understan'.”

“So you just love anything I say then?”

“Aye. 'An not just whatcha say neither.”

Rosie grumbles to herself, eyes squinched tightly against her parents' ridiculous wordplay. She's already surrendered to their impertinent demands, must this humiliation be dragged on further?

Da takes her to her room then deposits her between the sheets of her trundle bed, tucking her in, arranging her crowd of stuffed companions just so, and—after a whine from Rosie—switches on the small device he made for her. Soft orange light radiates from backside of the insect-shaped lamp, banishing the looming shadows from corners and ceiling.

”'Night, sweetroll,” murmurs da, sliding an errant lock of the small girl's shining ebony hair out of her eyes with gentle, artificial fingers.

Rosie is already fast asleep, one fang glinting as she dreams of chasing squawking chickens across the yard, unreprimanded.

post type:

#wordoftheday #prompt #drabble #ffxivwrite2022 #shitpost

series:

#ffxiv

• #wolshipewfic
• #exlibris
• #ffxivwrite2022

#dnd

• #threadsbetween

genre:

#horror #nsfw #kindansfw #fluff #au

universe:

#ffxiv

• #worldunsundered
• #prearr
• #arr
• #heavensward
• #stormblood
• #shadowbringers
• #endwalker
• #postmsq

#dnd

• #eberron

ship:

#felstel #hythhades #wolcred #wolexarch #wolgraha #wolmagnai #wolship #wolzenos

character:

#ffxiv

• #alisaie
• #alphinaud
• #ancients
• #estinien
• #exarch
• #fel
• #fray
• #graha
• #haurchefant
• #magnai
• #poppy
• #rosie
• #stelmaria
• #thancred
• #wol
• #yotsuyu
• #yshtola
• #zenos

#dnd

• #polly

On her knees in front of him, she gives an impressive imitation of submission.

Large, limpid eyes turned upward to catch his gaze. Ears down and tail across her lap, her hands behind her back, exactly as he'd instructed. She very nearly had him convinced.

However, he knows that there is no man or woman that could truly tame her, she simply allowed them to believe that she could be—when it suited her designs. A shadow-striped tiger prowling behind cage bars it could easily squeeze through.

But it doesn't. Won't.

He can't say exactly why, but the danger of it is just as exciting as seeing a creature so wild playing at being a housecat up close. At any moment she could bear her fangs and open his throat.

Instead, she kneels. Eager. Willing.

Ruby red lips parted wetly around the fullness of his aching cock.

She was only allowed to touch him with her mouth, but he could touch her however he liked. And touch her he does.

A soft moan escapes her as he palms the delicious weight of a milk-white breast, pinching the sensitive nipple he finds at it's apex and feeling it pebble under his touch. His slate fingers run the length of her delicate collarbones before tracing down the stark black lines inked onto her graceful shoulder. She shivers in response, a true surrendering of herself to him, and not the part she's been playing until now.

It's the reaction he's been waiting for.

Fisting his hands in the heavy silken fall of her long violet hair, he pulls gently and she obeys, sliding her hot mouth along the full length of him.

Now it is his turn to shiver.

He watches her bright eyes as he fucks into her mouth slowly, keeping the strands of her hair wrapped tight in his fingers. The expression on her face, bliss mixed with adoration and love, almost undoes him completely. Every part of her feels so good but this...

“Stel,” he growls, voice trembling at the effort it takes to keep himself still.

She looks up at him, quiet. Serene. Obedient.

Then she runs her tongue along the underside of his cock, lingering deliberately on the sensitive ridges of the head.

His mind goes blank, conscious thought blinking out before a rushing wave of desire so powerful it takes his breath away. The fists in her hair tighten involuntarily and she moans again at the pain of it, delighted at being treated roughly by the man she loves. At being desired with such ferocity that he becomes a monster of pure instinct.

Slamming himself in and out of her slick, burning mouth the tight pressure in his belly intensifies, all sensation narrowing to the slide of her soft, wet lips over his swollen girth.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck ya feel so good I want to fuck ya so bad I want ya to scream for me when I make ya cum I'm gonna make ya forget your own fuckin' name.” The debauched filth pouring from his lips spurs her to greater heights, angling her head so that he goes deeper with every sharp thrust of his hips.

It's all too much.

The knot within him unties, all the pressure it held in check suffusing his entire body with warmth, a feeling of mind-altering pleasure so powerful he shivers from head to toe, cock pulsing hot spend directly down her throat.

It feels like a lifetime and yet no time at all before his awareness widens beyond the sweet beguiling curve of her lips, which are turned upward in a self-satisfied way.

“Ya just so good at that. Should be illegal,” he whispers, breathless.

She preens at the compliment but replies, “It's only because you're so fun to tease, Fel. I love to watch you squirm when you come for me.”

He bends to kiss the top of her head to hide the pinkening skin at the bridge of his nose.

Fel is on his knees in prayer.

Making supplication to a being composed of moonlight and mystery, sweet cream and salt brine.

She overwhelms every part of him, each sense honed in on her—and only her—with mathematical precision.

The soft curves of her hips bless his scarred hands, rough calluses rasping over silken flesh. Curious, greedy, his hands wander further, climbing the delicate ladder of her rib cage. He tests the weight of a breast by giving a peaked nipple a gentle squeeze and smiling widely at the resulting catch in her trembling breath.

Her shivering moonstone skin is slick with sweat. He allows his large hands to glide down to her sides to better bring the searing heat of her firmly against his lips.

In his experience, prayers are better received the more fervently they are whispered. He intends to engage in very fervent worship indeed.

Lazily, he swipes of the flat of his tongue across that most sacred part of her, filling his mouth with the taste of starlight, sin, and sea salt. She whimpers sweetly in the back of her throat, tightening her grip in the wild tangle of his ebony hair.

Oh how he loves that sound.

He wants to hear it again. To make her lose control, to cause her to gasp his name in the throes of pleasure. A pleasure that she only experiences because of him.

More than half mad with desire, he lifts one lean, pale leg over his shoulder, glad for the solid presence of the wall behind her. Running his steady hand up the smooth, warm flesh of her inner thigh he's rewarded with a low moan, that soon becomes a sharp intake of breath when he presses two clever fingers gently into the dripping heat at her center.

“Fel...” she whispers, eyes closed in ecstasy.

He works his fingers in and out with a slow rhythm, as steady and deliberate as the tide. The thumb of the same hand rubs circles on her pearl, slick from his attentions and her own arousal.

“Ya so beautiful, Moonbeam,” he murmurs, punctuating each word by sucking a small, vivid red mark into her perfect pale skin.

“Ya smell so good,” he says, inhaling the scent of the lavender perfume she always wears.

The pressure of his thumb increases slightly and she rocks her hips against him, moaning.

“Ya feel so good,” he growls, gripping her haunch tighter to keep her still while his slick finger move faster. She's so wet that each sheathing of his digits causes an obscene squelching sound. His cock swells to an almost painful hardness against his belly.

He ignores it, concentrating instead on bringing her to the very peak of pleasure.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Inside, she flutters. Her eyes open and meet his for a long, lingering moment before, grinning, he lowers his mouth over her pearl again and gently sucks.

“Oh” she breathes, almost a whisper.

But he hears it.

Pressing his lips harder against the sweet wetness between her thighs he continues to fuck her with his fingers. His free hand reaches up to roll a pebbled nipple between thumb and forefinger.

“Oh Fel...” her voice begins to break as her breathing grows wild and unsteady.

The grip on his hair and ears tightens again. Desperate for relief from the building tension, Fel rubs his aching cock against the  silk of her trembling calf.

Circling, sucking, brushing, and rubbing, his clever tongue samples every part of her irresistible heat. She rocks her hips hard into his face but he keeps going, thoroughly undeterred.

The pressure in his belly builds past where thrusting against her leg provides any assistance; he wraps his free hand around his length and pumps experimentally.

A thick haze settles over his brain.

He wants to make her come apart shivering.

He needs to stroke himself until he comes with her, for her, spattering his offering of liquid pearls at her feet.

Frantic, he increases his pace once more, fingers and tongue working in feverish tandem to shatter her, reduce her to a sobbing mess. His hand slides easily up and down his cock, slick with pre cum.

She trembles, stiffening, involuntarily pressing his mouth into her petals with the hand tangled in his hair. Releasing a strained, wordless cry her hips fie an involuntary buck as the fire and silk of her inner walls clench rhythmically on his fingers.

He imagines that it's his length inside her instead of his digits. He pictures burying himself to the hilt inside her tightness before pumping his release into in the heavenly wet depths of her body, then tattooing languid kiss after kiss on her beloved heart shaped face, her pale shoulders, and the delicate column of her throat.

With a grunt he comes, spend pulsing out between his fingers to land in shining white puddles and spatters across the floor, the wall, and up her silken limb as far as her hip.

Her trembling travels the full length of her body, skin of coalesced moonlight shivering, raising goosebumps as though she's chilled.   The motion passes from her into him, magnifying with each kiss he burns on the canvas of her hips and thighs.

Absently, her gentle hand traces the velvet edge of his notched ear.

He shivers again with a laugh, catching her fingers to kiss them, “Can't seem to stop shaking, sprout.”

“Maybe we should go to bed then? Get some rest,” she says, wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

He has a sudden irrational desire to kiss her precisely there. “We're not gonna rest, are we?”

She shakes her head in the negative, the violet curtain of her hair swaying with the motion.

“Good,” says Fel, rising to his feet and moving to pick her up.