warnings: death (a lot) ; illness ; grief

general: i hurt myself in my confusion

noun

• a means of solving a problem or dealing with a difficult situation
• a liquid mixture in which the minor component (the solute) is uniformly distributed within the major component (the solvent)

On the day she was born, Hydaelyn wept.

From her solitude deep within the aetherial sea she watched. Looked upon the squalling kit encircled by the mother's ghost-pale arms, her little red face squinched against the indignity of the world outside. Heard the father's earnest prayer of thanks to Menphina, coupled with a dedication that all three shall devote themselves to love in Her shining name.

In that moment Hydaelyn bequeathed the traveler's charm to this newest shard of Azem. A gift she knew the child would one day need.

One day was not now, however, and in watching the doting parents cuddle and kiss the tiny kit she was overcome by joy and hope. A sorrow most bittersweet, a sugar confection laced with wormwood. Hydaelyn sobbed at the scene and the Mothercrystal wept along with her.

This most precious daughter grew under the care and love of her blood parents. They named her Stelmaria, after the sea of stars through which Menphina sails upon her silvered boat each night. Like her mother, she was blessed with a sweet manner, alabaster skin, and delicate features, but the child's shining amaranthine locks, formidable will, and clever subtlety were her father's.

They were happy. Until the sickness came with fevers high enough to cause one endless hallucinations, headaches, vomiting, a crimson rash that grew to blisters—even inside the mouth—and finally death.

Mother died first. At her loss Father became unwell in mind and body. Then he too, flew to the aetherial sea.

The child was alone.

Hydaelyn could only watch her struggle to comprehend what happened. The confusion, the fear, the loneliness, the grief; she felt it all, as though she experienced it through the child's eyes.

Stelmaria hadn't eaten in two days. Her cheeks were flushed. She seemed tired. She lay down beside her father and grew still.

Bells passed.

A woman arrived and bore her away to safety. Hydaelyn wept again, this time from relief.

The woman, whose name was Kona, and her mate, Rhaya, nursed the child through the sickness, fed and clothed her, and raised and loved her as one of their own.

She learned to hunt by moonlight, to climb trees, swim, and fish. Kona taught her letters, numbers, and to fight with sword and dagger. Rhaya imparted cooking, sewing, and gardening. She made medicines and tanned leather and grew close with her sister Miah.

Both girls fell in love and found mates.

Stelmaria's mate disappeared without a trace.

Then Dalamud fell.

She became trapped in visions of Amaurot as the Shroud burned. The soul within her fully awakening but rendering her unable to help anyone, including herself.

Miah died alongside her mate and her unborn kit.

Hydaelyn wished with all her heart it wasn't so—but it was. Indeed it must be so in order for the woman she met in Elpis all those millenia ago to deliver Etheirys through Meteion's infinite lament.

More years passed.

Stelmaria joined the Gridanian archer's guild and started her life over again. The third time in the two decades.

She worked hard, she made friends, and she healed. She learned to mix potions and distill herbal remedies from recipes developed by Miah, the better to keep her sister's memory alive.

Yet more time passed.

The Scions take notice and her true test begins. No god or mortal could stand against her, but the pain... the rage she kept inside.

Many of Stelmaria's days were given over to grief and despair. What little comfort she managed to grasp was soon lost, whether by death, stubborn misunderstanding, or betrayal. Years upon years unceasing, both the warrior and Hydaelyn shedding tears over the deep wounds a withdrawal of love can leave behind.

Still she fought without ceasing, the hope that better days would come burning fierce and bright inside her small, delicate frame.

Finally they meet again. Here at the heart of the world. At the end of her long, long life.

Hydaelyn couldn't be more proud of her chosen successor. Forging each hurt into scales for her armor. Pushing past tears and sorrow, to bear a torch through the cthonic silence of darkness and death so others may follow. Diminished in body but never in spirit, that was the true essence of Azem.

The essence of Persephone as well, her devoted friend and student.

And of Stelmaria, the brave spark that guttered and struggled, but never died out.

“Tell me, my love, has your journey been good? Has it been worthwhile?” asks Hydaelyn.

“Yes Mother Venat, it has. I thank you. For everything,” answers the warrior, her shining star, standing on tiptoe to brush a kiss across the goddess' fading cheek.

Diamond tears fall like rain, but in this moment, just this once, Venat does not weep alone.

warnings: blood ; injury ; zenos being a creeper

general: honestly just wasn’t feeling this one ho-hum but stel/zenos is and always will be complicated

adverb

• soon; shortly

The long years of pursuit were over.

Sparkling dawn crawls over the bare horizon, reaching to caress them with gentle tendrils of golden light.

Stelmaria is beautifully lethal as ever and the picture of serenity, save the white knuckle grip on her elegant epee.

Zenos’ wide smile is pure joy, his boyish dimples making a rare appearance, though incongruous in the presence of wild azure eyes. “My dearest friend. My beast. My only. The day has dawned! The promised ‘anon’ has finally arrived.”

She watches his every move, silent, so still she might be hewn of bright marble.

“Come, let us dance together at the end of all things. Sunder not that which the gods have joined, my friend. Nay! Dream with me of blood and fire, of ringing steel and galloping hearts! Let your fangs meet in my throat to sate the gnawing worm in your belly, the one that hungers for my demise!”

He stalks closer, pulse thundering when she does not step away. The smell of her; blood and ash and myrrh and crushed petals smeared on alabaster skin. His mouth waters.

Ignoring him, her gaze cuts to the side, toward her prone companion, the blood smeared across his tunic and crystalline weapon matching his brilliant crimson hair.

Zenos continues, memorizing the effect his words have on her, “I know you have desired this day as much as I. We are two of a kind, twin flames burning bright; seeing each other for exactly what we are—no more, no less.”

She pales, brow wrinkled, clearly thinking hard. It’s not difficult to guess what’s racing through her head.

Circling behind, his lips find the pulse at her throat, whispering into the soft, warm skin there, tattooing the words with the force of his will. “I need only you, my soul. Give into our desires and I shall not harm him further. Come and dream with me. Come alive with me; relish these moments on the knife’s edge as I know you do.”

“That I cannot deny.” Her smile is wry. Smug and twisted as a crown of brambles.

“Acceptance at last! We dance in darkness, love. We dance in the rise of the moon and sun, the implosion of stars, and the dying of the light. Let us consume the flames of our lives in the pursuit of violent joy, my dear!”

She laughs; the high, wild laugh he hasn’t heard in years. Not since Yanxia and the opium.

Spirits soaring, they draw their weapons and charge.

warnings: questionable bdsm etiquette ; kink, so much kink (steppy, degradation, praise) ; femdom ; spanking ; snowballing ; consensual non-consent ; cunnilingus ; pegging

general: i just want that twink magnai destroyed ; welcome back magic diq stel ; stormblood spoilers

idiom

• to intentionally not give someone or something any attention

The stone floor’s chill sinks deep into Magnai’s flesh, his scales so cold as to burn. Uncomfortable, but manageable.

The real issue is the sharp heel pinning the soft meat ‘twixt thumb and forefinger to the floor. He isn’t quite sure how he arrived at this vantage point, but most like it’s the doing of the miqo’te woman wearing said heel. He’d made some demand which she refused. Easy enough to recall… except for the part where he’s now staring at his palace’s ceiling.

The Warrior of Light, a nondescript little creature save her shock of voluminous amaranthine hair, towers over him, mismatched eyes narrowed. Her red dress trails over his armor, the myrrh and floral scent of her throwing his nerves into a maddening buzz.

His men keep to their posts, silent, staring at the walls. “Chain her up and throw her in a cell for the desecration of Azim! She has no authority over your most radiant brother, not even after victory in the Naadam! We sit the Dawn Throne, not she!”

Magnai’s commands fall on deaf ears; the sight of him debased, on blind eyes.

“Leave us,” says the woman, soft voice edged with steel. “I shall see to the bleating of this poor, wayward sheep.”

They obey, quicker than they’ve ever moved for him.

“You are not in charge here.”

“It would seem that I am, Magnai Oronir.”

Stelmaria removes her foot from his hand, leaving a throbbing ache, then places it on his crotch instead, over the thick leather, and presses hard with her toes. The throne room goes spinning, vision going dark momentarily as every mote of his prideful xaela awareness settles on his swollen, aching cock—the well-made boot lazily drifting up and down with each throb of his veins.

“We had heard rumors of your proclivities, woman, but to flaunt the evidence so shamelessly—” He muffles a yelp as the boot bears down, cock hardening further and beginning to seep fluid.

“Shameless? Says the grown man who wants me to degrade him before his men? You’d lick my boots if I asked wouldn’t you?”

He swallows hard, trying to keep the tremble of desire from his imperious tone, “No.”

“Lick.”

The offending article approaches, but she wobbles, a bit off-balance. On instinct, he steadies her at the haunch, before realizing his mistake and dropping his hands.

“Now you’ve done it, little man.” A quick turn and Stelmaria's off to the throne—his throne—which she occupies with a lazy, sprawl after delicately stepping out of her smallclothes. The dress and boots remain on. “If I am forced to retrieve you from the floor there will be consequences.”

A shiver runs through him at the idea of ‘consequences’. Deliberating for a moment, he decides to obey, joining her at the throne.

“Kneel.”

He does so, nerves taut in anticipation.

“Lick,” she repeats.

“No.” His face burns as his heartbeat quickens. Any faster and it feels as though it may burst apart at the seam.

“Why not?”

“The sun does not engage in such shameful behavior as—”

She loops her long, slim legs around his shoulders and drags him down, under the skirt, against the wet heat of her core. He wastes no time, using nose and lips to pull her swollen clit into his mouth and sucking hard. Her entire body jerks, hips rolling as she moans. The warrior's pale, calloused hands wrap around his horns and yank roughly, correcting his angle and position, and making him grunt in a wonderful mix of pleasure and pain.

Reminding him that every moment of this is subject to her whims.

She cries out under his swirling tongue, breathing heavily and pressing herself hard onto his face. He remains steady, but his arms feel empty; he wants to grasp handfuls of soft flesh, delight in this creature trembling under his power, but he does not.

He cannot do anything without a command.

“Touch yourself until you cum.” Her voice is infuriatingly steady for the amount of effort he’s putting into this.

He would make a token protest but her grip is unrelenting; he's unable to take his mouth off her. The absurdity of it, the taboo nature of stroking his own cock while still in his leathers, lips and tongue greedily slurping at the warrior of light's hot cunt makes it all the more arousing.

If he disobeyed now, stopped everything, what would she do? She might step on him again, kick him between the ribs like a filthy dog, or maybe...

A strangled cry and he cums all over the foot of his throne, hips thrusting into the stately furs he uses to soften the otherwise hard seat, palm dripping and slick.

“Clean it.” Her strange eyes gleam in amusement.

His face burns like Azim himself in midsummer, “Woman—”

Stelmaria slaps him full across the face; his horns ringing from the blow, cheek stinging, blue mouth turning purple as the taste of iron spreads across his bifurcated tongue. “Clean. It.”

“No.”

A moment passes. They both smile.

“Then strip.”

He does so, but slowly and petulantly, staring at her flushed skin and heaving breasts.

The moment he finishes she stands to shed her own clothes, “Sit.”

His throne is still warm and the furs are sticky with cum. She wanders the room fully naked, sniffing random bottles of liquid until she finds whatever she's searching for and returns.

Her skin is pale as raen scales and beautiful when flushed, body perfectly rounded in all the right places—he's already recovering his stamina, length stirring back to life.

With one hand she hooks a leg behind his knee and presses it tight to his chest. The other hand scrapes a bit of pearlescent cum off his tanned skin then mixes it with the fragrant liquid from the bottle. Pausing a moment, she takes in his parted lips and panting breaths, the tension in his limbs and the flush on his face, the hardness bobbing against his stomach and the need in his gaze.

“Relax.” She runs her hand gently down his chest, kissing his throat, squeezing his cock, rubbing circles into his sensitive sack, down farther to where only his brothers touched him before; stroking across the tight rear opening with fingers and thumb.

He trembles like a frightened lamb, gasping against his vision melting into a haze. Should he desire an end to this, he need only grasp her tattooed shoulder firmly. She would understand his unspoken request with her strange mind magicks and leave him be; pretend this never happened.

It's the last thing he wants.

The hand supporting his thigh seizes a horn and pulls. In the same moment her fingers enter, spreading him open and setting every nerve aflame. He's never been with a woman before, only unemotional, mechanical trysts with willing brothers, and her smaller, more experienced fingers are capable of reducing him to a weak-jointed, sweaty mess in a matter of moments.

His need for release is overpowering; mind and body empty except for the heated coal smoldering low in his belly. He wants to cum hard and he doesn't particularly care how.

“Magnai.” Her fingers never stop moving, applying pressure to one particular spot over and over again, sending relentless waves of pleasure washing over him, strong enough he feels he might expire at any moment.

He stares at her flushed face, beautiful and pale, eyes star-bright yet distant.

“I'm going to fuck you now. Be a good boy,” she explains as a flash of her unholy magick sparks between them.

There's no time to gather himself before she's sliding in, stretching him to the absolute limit even after all the warm up with fingers and oil. Her fangs sink deep in his inner thigh as she bottoms out, her full length dragging across the spot inside him she'd teased to the brink only moments ago.

Hot cum spatters across them both as light explodes behind his eyes, whole body tightening around the aetheric cock inside. She moans and lowers her head to lick the mess from his chest, then kisses him, depositing it in his mouth.

Coughing and gagging, his protests are half-hearted at best—betrayed by his already re-hardening length bouncing between them—and unable to hide his amusement at seeing his blood on her lips.

The warrior fucks him mercilessly, alternating between pulling out to drive back in to the hilt and staying fully sheathed, grinding her hips at an angle that makes him whimper in delight, toned limbs shuddering uncontrollably.

He's reaching his threshold, but so is she; skin burning and sharp breaths coming fast as her gaze bores into him along with her magicked length. She slaps his ass with her free hand, setting his flesh stinging like a swarm of hornets.

That's all it takes.

Another sharp yank on his horn as she pulls out fast enough to bring tears to his eyes, magnifying his building orgasm into a full out of body experience. He floats out of himself, a mote of total delirium, a feeling he's never experienced outside of battle. She daubs his belly with dribbled liquid light, mixing with the pearl white of his own spend.

So lovely, watching her take her pleasure from him, shivering and biting back a moan. He pulls a taut nipple into his mouth just for the sake of it; damn the punishment.

The small gasp she gives chases the languid weight from his limbs and sets his heart galloping again.

“Magnai.” She tilts his face up to kiss him once more, softer and sweeter this time. “You did so good for me. So good.” More kisses. The drag of her tongue down the sweat coating his neck. “So good.”

Magnai Oronir, son of Azim, has never been so pleased to be proved wrong in his entire life. He must reconsider what he desires from his future Nhaama, but first—he requires more experimentation with the warrior of light.

warnings: none

general: fluff-ass fluff in the ex libris au setting

noun

• a long printed story about imaginary characters and events

adjective

• new and original, not like anything seen before

Her numb hands shake, the leaden serpent in her gut shifting and twisting over on itself.

Stelmaria knits and unknits her fingers, alternating between staring out the window and watching the stub-tailed tabby Tisiphone arch luxuriously in a beam of bright sunlight.

If only she was a cat too, and not a miqo’te woman, then there would be no need for anxiety about someone else’s opinion.

G’raha turns the last page of the manuscript, setting it aside to rub a hand absently over Tizzy’s sun-warmed belly.

“Well?”

“Well,” he echoes, thoughtful.

The pause drags on long enough to take up not only a substantial physical presence but fully move in and owe one-third of this month’s rent.

“G’raha please don’t leave me hanging…” Thankfully only words come out when she speaks and not what she was expecting.

“To be honest, it’s great! Like, really good.” He smiles as the smoky seal-like shape of Megara jumps into his lap, mewling for attention, but it fades when he spots her white-knuckled grip and pale face. “Why so jittery? You’ve published novels before this.”

“Yes but never under my real name, and certainly not so… “

“Personal?”

“Yes.” She chews her lips. “You have no criticisms at all?”

He pets Meg for a moment before shifting on the couch. It’s enough to send her leaping off his legs and bustling down the hall, affronted. “The only thing that bothered me was how easily the heroine fell for the hero.”

Stelmaria looks like she might cry. “What?”

“He’s an oblivious goober and a bit of nerd,” he explains, ruby eyes sparkling. “Certainly not at all a character I identify with. In my opinion, she deserved better.” He joins her on the small loveseat; it’s a tight fit, but that’s the point.

Comprehension dawns, all the tension leaving her in one big exhale. She traps him between her thighs, settling herself in his lap in much the same way Meg had moments ago and coyly toys with the buttons on his shirt, grin spreading.

He spreads gentle fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, greedy for soft skin under his palms, squeezing her curves and teasing the lacy edge of her bra.

“He’s such a sweetheart though—smart, funny, and sexy. It just took a while for him to trust her. That’s believable, right?”

“I suppose so… He did get better, in his defense, but he’s still a fucking idiot,” he chuckles, tilting his face up to kiss her.

She obliges. “An idiot?”

“How could he look at her and not at least try to express himself? He couldn’t just say ‘Hey. You want to get dinner sometime? We could kill a bunch of monsters beforehand, eat, then come back to my place to fu—’”

Laughter cuts him off. “—What are you saying? He did ask her to dinner,” she wheezes.

“Anyway, he should have admitted he was into her from the beginning. Way easier.”

“Not as much fun though.”

“Hmmm. Not as true either, I guess. You did say it’s based on a true story.”

“It is,” she hums, nosing at a russet ear.

“I’d hate to meet this emotionally constipated dude with a sexy librarian fetish in real life, knowing he somehow met an actual sexy librarian who was super into him, and still managed to fuck it up royal,” he murmurs, sucking small red marks on every ilm of pale skin within reach.

“He must be dying of shame, wherever he is. Do you think he’d ever be confident enough to—” She finishes her sentence by whispering the absolute most depraved filth in his ear. Her words and the lilting tease in her voice sets him ablaze, just as she knew it would.

He grins wolfishly before picking her up and carrying her off, scattering snoozing house cats and almost tripping on the wrinkled edge of a rug.

warnings: nsfw ; cunnilingus ; piv sex

general: i mean. it’s porn. also a lot of belabored religious metaphors but honestly i don’t know what you’re doing here if you weren’t expecting that

adjective

• having the form or appearance of a god; sacred or divine

To know her is to love her.

And to love her is a privilege for which he is thankful.

As a young man, no more than a silly boy really, he dreamed of heroes and great deeds. He yearned to follow in their footsteps, so the world would know his name and all he had done.

Then he met her—a true hero—with her alabaster skin, her hair spun of twilight silk, and her stubborn ways. He teased her as often as she teased him, perhaps more, but by the time the magic of ancient Allag sealed the door behind him it was obvious—even to him.

Her love was a boundless paradox. It encompassed every facet of this planet, from breathtaking vistas to small, frightened creatures huddling in their burrows. As simple as a clear blue sky, yet unknowable as the deepest, most sacred waters of the sea.

And he loved her.

He slept two hundred years, awakening in a blasted, desolate hellscape and still he loved her.

It was love that brought him across time and space. A journey that nearly broke him, mind body, and soul.

Love is the reason he did not shatter into a thousand, thousand glittering pieces.

Love is the reason the First remains whole and thriving.

Love is how he can be with her, here and now, holding her hips fast against the shuddering pleasure of his worship.

The cool stripe of metal on her left hand rests against his burning skin. He shivers with want, cock aching against his belly, but he must needs prostrate himself before her properly. Thoroughly. He is her first and most devoted follower.

“Cum for me again. I love seeing it,” he hums, nosing aside soft folds wet with sea brine nectar.

“Raha, please,” she begs, eyes star-bright and cheeks flush.

He cannot well disobey his goddess? Not when she asks so sweetly. Not when he owes everything he was, is, and will ever be to her love.

She intertwines her fingers with his, gasping when he takes her pearl into his mouth. Their wedding bands clink as he sucks, gently, and oh... how she moans and writhes. She cums like a symphony, building to a beautiful crescendo that swells the heart and brings a tear to the eye.

Divine mystery on divine mystery. How can this goddess be his wife? How can she become even more beautiful as he takes her apart?

They kiss, scented with musky incense and speaking in tongues, but understanding passes between them nonetheless.

He sheathes himself in the divine tabernacle and pauses to watch her flutter beneath him. Gouts of flame erupt from his skin as her nails sink deep, burning like brands.

“Move.” She slithers, undulating like a snake around his cock. Stars swim behind his eyes. “Hard and fast,” she moans breathlessly, before nipping the edge of his ear.

She is his goddess and he lives to worship, therefore he obeys.