fray — mare lamentorum

day seven pawn

Thu, 08 Sep 2022 13:30:12 +0000

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #shadowbringers #stelmaria #exarch #fray #wolexarch #nsfw #warnings

warnings: dubious consent ; blood drinking ; fucking under duress ; body horror

general: fray!stel returns and they’re mad bro, but if they can just get some exarch dick they’ll be ok ; tomra redux ; monsterfuckers ahoy!

noun

a person used by others for their own purposes

a chess piece of the smallest size and value
a pawn moves one square forward along its file if unobstructed (or two on the first move), or one square diagonally forward when making a capture

each player begins with eight pawns on the second rank, and can promote a pawn to become any other piece (typically a queen) if it reaches the opponent's end of the board

verb

deposit (an object) with a pawnbroker as security for money lent
also: an object left as security for money lent (noun)

They’d drunk too much. That was the first mistake.

Then, the dwarves neglecting to mention the sleeping arrangements until the last moment, specifically how the arrangement—singular—for two non-dwarves requires sharing.

The Exarch did not mind this so much. Stelmaria could be a light sleeper and prone to nightmares, but thankfully after a few drinks she could remain unconscious through a calamity. He’d felt confident she would close her eyes and stay that way until the morning.

Therein lay the second mistake.

Sure enough, she stretched full length on the narrow bed and immediately sank into dreams. Amused, he slipped off his leather sandals and curled up beside her, robes and cowl left in place, close enough to feel her warmth seeping into his crystal limbs but no closer.

A shining bubble in his chest bursts. Unnoticed, a low rumbling purr begins within his chest. Such an unexpected blessing and pleasure, this time spent with just the two of them, similar yet different to the adventures of their shared past. While both have changed, their connection remains strong—for which he is grateful.

Truly, Azeyma smiles upon him in these final days of his path and life.

And thus the seed of the third mistake was planted.

He swallows thickly, her claws pricking the skin of his throat as his flesh moves beneath her grip. “I—”

The cowl has dropped and he is defenseless before her.

“We tire of your pitiful subterfuge, G’raha Tia,” she growls, the harsh sound escaping past a long, thin tongue and a grotesque amount of fangs set within a monstrous gaping maw.

“How—?”

She swirls her hips and he gasps, the soft heat on his stiffening cock almost painful. “The smell. We knew you from the beginning the same way you knew us.”

The sharp claws drag down his chest, catching painfully on every facet and seam of his azure crystal, stopping in random spots to sink deep and draw forth a rivulet of crimson.

“What do you want?” He breathes fast, reeling and lightheaded at the stink of hot metal mixed with something familiar wafting from her skin—death without rot, a chemical mixture gone wrong, ageless flesh rendered hard as marble.

She reeks of Light, as sin eaters do.

Her tongue slides across the upwelling blood and he shudders violently, though not in disgust. Even like this, slipping toward the death and madness he believed he’d tricked her into he would fuck them both into oblivion without hesitation if she asked it.

His hips grind up into her as he fights to keep a whine of need trapped within his throat. The claws dip further, beneath his robes, beneath the smalls, and claim the length of him, pulsing with heat and slickened at the tip.

“I wish to help in your endeavor. But I will require your honesty and some form of compensation. You must understand, my lord, that she is not and will never be your pawn, nor shall I. We are the queen, and this game cannot be won if we are sacrificed.”

Her free hand undoes the complicated buttons on her dress, the fabric parting to reveal what seems like malms of bare skin to his hungry gaze, then settles where her naked heat presses against his hardness, stroking both at once. Slowly, oh so slowly.

He believes he may go mad, “Tell me who you are first.”

“I see why she likes you,” the creature whispers, rubbing her core against him in such a way that he might slip within that blissful heat, but he does not and each near miss causes a shower of sparks in his brain. “You may call me Fray. I exist to protect her, and though we are in some ways one and the same, she does not know I am here. That it how it must remain.”

“Fray—” he groans, unable to say more.

“I require a gift of your aether if you wish to keep her from turning at this very moment, and there is quite a simple way to acquire what we need, should you agree…”

As if to punctuate the statement, lumps appear on her shoulders and the skin there tears and bleeds. Wings. She grunts in pain and pleasure both, his hips moving against his will.

“Yes,” is all he manages to force from his lips before she places her mouth over his and the head of his cock finds its mark within her.

The harsh slap of skin on skin begins in earnest—the pact between conspirators sealed.

day one cross

Fri, 02 Sep 2022 02:53:17 +0000

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #prompt #heavensward #estinien #stelmaria #fray #warning #spoilers

warnings: murder by knife, descriptions of stabbing, blood, brief mention of torture (fingers), grief, revenge

general: fray takes the wheel, is that a motherfucking telltale heart reference?, 3.0 spoilers

noun

A mark, object, or figure formed by two short intersecting lines or pieces

verb

Go or extend across or to the other side of (a path, road, stretch of water, or area)

adjective

Annoyed.

She crosses the wide, glittering expanse as the forms of Thordan and his knights return to their original proportions. Her swift stride carries her to the far end where the Archbishop, still in his finery, crawls upon his belly like a wounded hound, keening, “Who are you? What are you?”

Estinien stops to catch his breath, watching the Warrior with curiosity, relief, and elation at discovering the battle already won and the Warrior alive and well.

Then Stelmaria speaks and every syllable buries a sliver of cold fear deep within his brain, “Retribution, your Holiness.”

Quick as the spark consumes tinder she falls to one knee and draws an unseen dagger, dark as swirling shadow save the keenly silvered edge.

It winks at him as he tries fruitlessly to goad his exhausted body into a sprint.

Her knife parts flesh, slipping neatly between ribs with nary a squeak of steel on bone. She leans, whispering into Thordan’s gnarled ear, the old man's face twisting into a hideous grimace of fear. His wide, dimming eyes slide to hers and remain, fixed, until he shudders and grows still.

The knife retreats. A torrent of steaming wet red flows to the gleaming floor, worming its way into the folds of her clothes, bold crimson smearing across her face and hands—a sharp contrast against her moon pale skin.

She rises, uncaring of her state and oblivious to his presence, then stalks toward the crumpled figure of Ser Zephirin, who scrabbles desperately at the smooth floor, trying to skitter away like a trapped rat.

Estinien steps to block her, seizing a thin wrist. “Warrior?”

An unfamiliar laugh rasps from her throat, an utterly alien sound unlike any he's heard before. “Leave us to our reward Azure Dragoon, and we shall leave you to yours in turn,” She says, turning to face him.

His mind reels in horror at this waif of a miqo'te.

Though her form is unchanged, it is most certainly not Stelmaria.

In place of the Warrior of Light is a creature wrought of hardened steel and burning coals, eyes bright and mouth aflame as if all hells' legions dwell deep within. She twists in his grasp, moving as though her flesh has separated from sinew and bone, turning the tables by wrapping her thin fingers around his forearm. The scales of his armor grind against each other like the screeching of a thousand, thousand demons.

The Azure Dragoon has faced countless wyrms in his time, emerging triumphant again and again, but now he fails against the cold sweat trickling beneath his elegant mail. “You know as well as I this is not the way, woman. The dead are gone. They do not grieve. An eye for an eye achieves naught but the death of the soul, a wound that cannot be closed.”

Again she laughs without mirth. He must bite down lest his teeth rattle loose from his jaw.

“We care not for our soul, ser; we seek justice for those condemned to silence... or worse. These liars, swindlers, and hypocrites cannot leave this place with their throats uncut.” She smiles but it’s strange and feral, all fangs and too much tongue, then sidles closer, as though imparting a great secret. Her breath tickles his cheek, her tone is sweet as birch syrup, but she reeks of clotting blood. “You would deny us the satisfaction of a foe dispatched? A true debt repaid in kind? How noble to share this sentiment with us when your own nemesis was unceremoniously cast down moons ago... Or so you believe.”

The demon's languid gaze flicks to the eyes of Nidhogg, discarded and brooding far across the room's expanse.

They call to him, even now.

A reverberation inside his skull forces him to close his eyes and swallow. He masters the urge to look again.

She continues, a virulent whisper spreading tendrils in every corner of his mind, “We know what we are about Estinien Varlineau. We are in control. Can you say the same?”

Those damnable eyes.

The great wyrm lies slain. The war is won.

Yet still they call his name in the soft velvet purr of a lover.

So long as they exist, Nidhogg lives.

Unable to resist he drops her arm and hurries toward the eyes, deaf to his ringing footsteps. The mad, feverish peals of her laughter go unnoticed. Any anger he feels at her assessment of his weakness is lost in a frantic need.

All he sees, all he knows is the eyes.

He bends to grasp them just as Ser Zephirin begins to scream in pain, the knife relieving him of his fingers one by one.

In an instant, Estinien shatters beneath the wave of Nidhogg’s overwhelming rage, a lone cork bobbing upon an eternal expanse of roiling seas.

When he claws back from the edge of nonexistence, some moments or eons later, the screaming has stopped.

There she is.

The silent Warrior, bow strung across her back, the knife shining like a crescent moon in her slim hand, her expression inscrutable beneath the streaks of blood. Rosy gold glints upon her third finger, spattered with scarlet ichor once more. He recalls seeing it smeared with Haurchefant's blood before, her hands soaked in it as he breathed his last.

The irony.

Next is the great Midgardsormr, unafraid of the monster beside him. He speaks softly, the Draconic weighted down by the millennia of grief he carries for this wayward child. Me, in a manner of speaking, muses Estinien, dimly aware of his predicament.

At their feet lie a pile of thirteen corpses, mouths and throats gaping wide as fresh caught fish, the pure white of their raiments gone red, sullied with gore.