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.

warnings: none, unless you have issues with shitposting

general: the ex libris gang plays in-universe dnd

noun

• the act of rubbing together, also the act of wearing or grinding down by friction
• the act of weakening or exhausting by constant harassment, abuse, or attack
• a reduction in numbers usually as a result of resignation, retirement, or death

The twins are fighting again.

Behind his game screen Urianger rests his face in his hands with a deep groan.

Estinien plays with his drake warden minifig, ignoring the combat in progress and any other figures, tokens, and set pieces placed on the dungeon map.

Y’shtola sighs heavily and moves to the whiteboard, wet erase marker at the ready.

G’raha amuses himself by tossing peanuts into the air and catching them in his mouth.

Zenos watches G’raha catch the snacks the way a starving hawk watches a three-legged mouse scuttle through underbrush.

“You said you were gonna play a cleric this time,” complains Alphinaud, for what feels like the fiftieth time.

Y’shtola makes a mark on the board under the heading ‘CLERIC’. It is indeed the fiftieth mark.

“I am a cleric though?” Alisaie is the picture of nonchalance, hooking her foot in the legs of G’raha’s chair to yank him out from under the falling legume. It plonks him square in the forehead and changes trajectory to cross the table, where Zenos catches it in his mouth, never breaking eye contact with G’raha.

“You don’t play cleric because you never prepare healing spells. You’re playing a rogue with a divine clone so you can steal twice as much stuff.”

“Yea but I could prepare healing spells and that’s what counts.”

Y’shtola makes mark number forty-two under the heading ‘HEALING SPELLS’.

Estinien looks up from his figurines. “Was that really the plan the whole time?”

“Yup,” replies Alisaie, without a trace of shame.

Zenos laughs. “Nice.”

Urianger makes use of the break to catch up on his notes. The encounter wasn’t going in the party’s favor at all. Brows drawn tightly together he opens his battered copy of The Dungeon Master’s Guide to Crystals & Crossroads and scans the pages for some new insight.

“Can we maybe just play? Alphinaud’s bard can heal…?” asks G’raha.

Alphinaud rounds on him with uncharacteristic venom, “I don’t see you preparing any healing spells either. You should be helping me. For example, lay on hands? Or is that still ‘emergencies only’?”

G’raha tosses a nut to Alisaie, who leaps from her chair and catches it like a performing seal. “Yep, sorry, emergencies only.”

“Wha—?!“

Y’shtola, looking amused, creates a new heading ‘LAY ON HANDS’ and adds one tally mark beneath.

The red-haired miqo’te points to Zenos, “Blood Hunters can’t do anything about poisons or disease.”

Zenos responds with the ‘I’m watching you, buddy’ motion, eyes wild and threatening. Dedication to the RP was Zenos’ strong suit, the reason he played the game. He never breaks character and this blood hunter has a feud with G’raha’s paladin.

Next, G’raha gestures at Estinien, “Same with Rangers.”

He simply nods, tucking a long fall of silver hair behind one pointed ear. Estinien’s ranger, like himself, was prone to brooding silence, preferring the company of his drake companion named Orn Khai. Apparently he’d named it from some legend or other, nobody could verify the tale but it probably existed. Estinien has a dragon fixation, to put it mildly, so if anyone knew all the tiniest bits of pointless dragon lore it would be him.

Finally, G’raha flicks an ear toward Y’shtola at the whiteboard, “Surely I don’t have to remind you that of all the PC’s a warlock is the absolute—“

She does her best evil laugh, the one her PC does before the whole party is about to have a bad time. One session in particular springs to mind, wherein the warlock sold her own soul to two different buyers one after another with no discernible consequences, then managed to raffle off the bard’s soul to the highest bidder without his knowledge or permission.

“Young Alphinaud, pray locate thine seat,” comes a sonorous voice from behind the screen, “lest thee forfeit thine action this round.”

Defeated, Alphinaud sinks into his chair, shoulders hunched. “I cast healing word at second-level on Zero viator Dementious then put bardic inspiration on Meteor for my bonus action,” he monotones.

“Sweet!” chirps G’raha, adding a charge of inspiration to his character sheet.

“Just so! Rolleth a duet of yon four-faced die, and forget not to make an addition of four to thine total.”

Zenos nods in appreciation as he waits for the roll’s outcome.

Y’shtola makes one final mark under the heading ‘CRUSHING DEFEAT,’ rounding out the tallies at an even one hundred, before reclaiming her seat with a smirk.

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: none

general: uhhhh. it’s not what you think it is lol.

noun

• the bed where a natural stream of water runs OR the deeper part of a river, harbor, or strait OR a strait or narrow sea between two close landmasses
• a means of communication or expression
• a way, course, or direction of thought or action
• a band of frequencies of sufficient width for a single radio or television communication

verb

• to form, cut, or wear a channel in OR to make a groove in
• to convey or direct into or through a channel
• to serve as a channeler or intermediary for

She swallows hard, every muscle tensing in anticipation as the pressure builds behind her eyes.

“Steady,” mutters Raha, lips slightly parted as if he can taste the heavy air.

He doesn’t touch her, but stands near enough she feels the heat of him on her skin.

A whimper catches in her throat, her knees press together and tremble as she fights to maintain focus on her task as a whirling maelstrom of power roars within.

Raha steps to the side, the sound of his boots and the cinnamon scent of him so distracting she almost loses control.

However the Warrior of Light is no stranger to unexpected interruption.

She holds fast against the storm and finishes the casting with a masterful stroke.

Stelmaria’s eyes flutter open. She utters a word of power, an empty structure wrought of theory, a skeleton framework of hope and desire, soon to be covered over by will manifested as magicked flesh—a vessel for the divine spark of inspiration to inhabit.

To experience both its own existence and that of all creation.

To live.

And to adventure.

The largest fragment of her shattered focus vanishes from her hand, accepted.

“You've done it! I knew you could. You should be proud, love.” G’raha folds her in a tight embrace, scattering kisses over her face and shoulders.

For him the exertions are over. The months upon months of study on esoteric topics first uncovered by ancient Allagan mages, only recently unearthed by Raha himself. Then he embarked upon the laborious work of translating these amorphous concepts into a theoretical foundation Stelmaria might then apply to real-world experimentation.

Stelmaria grins at her husband’s enthusiasm, but she has eyes only for the coalescing lump of gentle pink-tinted light nearby.

As it assumes the shape of its own choosing, she chews her lip, suddenly nervous about this first meeting between new acquaintances. What will she do if it dislikes being channeled into an incarnate form? Resents her earnest plea and her presence? Or Raha’s?

“Say hello,” he prompts.

“Hello.”

A vibration reaches across the infinite space between souls to probe her thoughts, tentative and sweet as though seeking permission.

She responds in kind with a filament of her own, gentle, slow—determined to have this first impression go well.

‘Mother?’ The creature hums, unsure. ‘Master.’

‘Stelmaria,’ she answers, thinking of herself as a concept. ‘G’raha,’ she continues, thinking of her companion.

‘Friends. Warm,’ comes the reply and the light shimmers, twisting and lengthening, pulling and folding in on itself like the taffy she’d loved as a child.

It seems to reach a decision, assuming a form with an audible ‘pop’.

It settles into the shape of a carbuncle, though it’s longer and far more lithe than any carbuncle she’s ever seen in Limsa or Idyllshire. Reminiscent of a ferret or whittret as opposed to a rabbit or kitten type creature.

“Welcome, friend!” exclaims Raha.

The carbuncle just stares, cocking its head. Its long, thin ears lay flat above the clever black eyes—almost too clever—which turn to gaze at her, ‘Where? Go?’

“Adventure,” explains Stelmaria, both aloud and in her mind.

warnings: blood ; description of a deep abdominal wound ; i be spoiling everything up in here

general: feels ; hurt/comfort kinda; this just kinda took on a life of its own ; fuck if i know

adjective

• (especially of a liquid) only slightly warm; lukewarm.
• showing little enthusiasm

Glowing logs crackle and snap, then rustle as the soft piles of ash collapse under their own weight. Flames flicker and dance, casting grotesque and outsized shadows on the walls. The heat spreading from the grate is strong and steady, yet it barely takes the edge off the omnipresent chill.

Stelmaria slouches deeper into the thick quilt, pulling her stockinged feet up off the freezing floor. This unrelenting cold weather makes her bones ache and her nose run  freely no matter how many warming tonics she forces down her throat.

Camp Dragonhead is silent as a tomb this late, or this early, depending on your point of view. These bells before the first delicate peach and gold stripes of dawn reach for the eastern sky is the best time to sift through her muddled thoughts.

“Would you like company my friend? I’ve brought you a little something.”

Heavily distracted, an awkward amount of time passes before Stelmaria realizes Haurchefant is speaking to her, much less to register what he's asking. His smile never falters, even as the silence stretches on.

“Oh,” she murmurs, scooting to make him a space beside her. “That’s very kind of you.”

He shakes his head, silver-blue hair sparkling in the firelight, “Please, think nothing of it.”

There is a gently steaming mug in each of his broad, calloused hands. They, much like everything else about the elezen, are sturdy and dependable at any time of day or night.

And Stelmaria had cause to know.

She takes one from him, chapped skin greedy for the accumulated warmth of both mug and palm.

Except it isn't as hot as she assumed it would be.

“Did I burn the milk?” His voice is concerned.

Her confusion must have been obvious. “I just assumed it would be boiling hot,” she explains, letting the wafting chocolate and cinnamon smell bolster her heart.

A single brow lifts before he chuckles, warm and sultry enough to shame the blazing fire. “Ah no... I always thought it impolite to serve a drink so hot your guest cannot enjoy it at its most delicious. As it cools the chocolate settles to the bottom. If you daub cream in top it melts right away.”

“I see,” she says, without truly seeing.

He grins, cheeks coloring as he replaces the quilt slipping down her narrow shoulder. “In my admittedly inexpert opinion, hot chocolate  should be served at a temperature just above tepid. That's when everything is in balance, the taste, the scent, even the look of it. As a host that is the moment where I can maximize my guest's enjoyment.”

“And being a true paragon of knighthood—living to serve and all that—hospitality is all about giving your best for another,” she teases.

That first sip is smooth and rich, everything a sweet drink meant to warm from the inside out should be. Heaven contained within a humble earthenware mug.

“Indeed. Though the way may be difficult and the task daunting, to be a knight is to throw yourself against the odds and succeed,” he says heartily, clinking the lip of his mug against her own.

The more of Haurchefant she sees the more she grows to like him. His flowery offers of shelter, sympathy, and friendship unnerved her at first, but with every word and deed he'd proved himself the genuine article—a true man of virtue.

Her second sip is even better than the first somehow, spreading warmth and comfort from her heart to every ilm of her tense limbs.

“You would go so far for just a friend?”

“No such thing as ‘just a friend’ my dearest Warrior. Every soul is special to someone and should be treated as such.”

Her throat tightens, “And if the someones have all gone? What then?”

He puts his mug on the side table and faces her, clear blue eyes quite serious, “They haven't gone. The missing Scions will be found in time. Alphinaud and Tataru love you like family. And...”

Hesitating, he glances away.

“And?”

“And I would care for you as well. If it's not...”

“It's not,” she says, and resettles the quilt to cover him as well. Two against the world, instead of just one.

“Stella? What’s this?” asks the innocent, bird-like voice, so very different from the imperious tone that haunts her dreams.

Dreams of opium scented smoke and sharp pinpricks of pain. Of moon-pale breasts clasped to moon-pale breasts. Crimson lips and fragrant petals.

Gunpowder and blood and castles falling into the sea.

Tsuyu’s wide, guileless eyes gaze at Stelmaria over the steaming mug, politely waiting for an answer.

Tsuyu and not Yotsuyu.

“It's called hot chocolate. Drink it before it gets cold.”

“Hot?” Tsuyu repeats, concerned.

“Well, it’s more warm than hot really,” Stel admits. “Go on. You won’t burn your mouth, I promise.”

“All right!” the Doman woman chirps, before quaffing the lot in one go like a greedy child. “Thank you!”

Stel does her best to smother a giggle. “What did you think?”

The carmine lips purse under a thin film of hot chocolate. “More, please?”

“Lyna, I beg you. Leave me to my rest.” G’raha Tia does his utmost to sound terse.

Really, he just wants a few bells of peace to catch up on his reports. He’s been shamefully behind since Stelmaria appeared in the First and his extended convalescence upon returning from The Tempest hasn’t helped matters in the slightest.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time, but the accompanying voice isn’t Lyna. “There’s no tricking me with that half hearted nonsense, and if it wouldn’t fool me you can be certain Lyna won’t believe it either.”

His crimson ears flatten, eyes darting everywhere to locate an escape only to come up empty. Every ilm of his flesh aches and the wound where Chessamile pried the flattened round from his shoulder itches like demon’s fury. He’s refused to accept help to bathe himself, neither has he finished a meal nor slept more than a bell at a time.

In short, he’s a mess and the Warrior is about to find out how low he can sink.

She must have grown tired of waiting for his reply because she breezes into his bedroom while he’s still debating jumping out the window. “Drink this,” she commands and places a steaming mug on his bedside table, heedlessly upsetting his careful piles of notes, books, and broken quills to do so.

He identifies it by scent alone. “Hot chocolate?”

“Yes,” she replies, without elaborating. “Drink that while I run a bath for you.”

The Lord of the Crystarium nearly spits the sweet mouthful across the room. “Bath?!”

“Lyna tells me you seem uncomfortable at the idea of her assistance, but she’s worried you’ll make yourself ill.”

He tries a confident chuckle before having a nonchalant sip of the chocolate, “Lyna is—“

“A lovely sweet woman who’s put up with her beloved grandfather’s ridiculous foolishness for decades? Yes I’ve heard all about it. Leaving aside Lyna’s observations, Chessamile tells me you smell like an unwashed amaro and you’re neither eating nor sleeping.”

Her entire diatribe is delivered in bursts as she stalks between his bedside—where she oversees his hot chocolate consumption—and his adjoining bathroom, where presumably a tub full of hot water awaits.

There’s no use in further obstruction. He swallows the last of the drink like an obedient kit and accepts her help in rising from his bed.

She smells of myrrh and orange blossoms, staying close to his side in case he trips, patiently attending his plodding steps. The chocolate, much to his surprise, radiates warm contentment from his belly.

“I’m glad you came. That you’re here,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t mean the drink or the bath.

Her face relaxes, the slow smile spreading over her features the same one he remembers from their adventures in the tower, all those years ago, when things were simple and a future together wasn’t an impossible dream.

“Me too,” she replies.

They had gone to the end of the universe together, just the two of them, all the way out past the razor edge of existence where the fabric of time and space begins to unravel. A place where anything that might be imagined can and does spring into being.

An eternal new beginning, the promise of life and hope stretching across that endless expanse the way that dawn brings a new day, all color in motion and joyous to behold.

She fought Zenos to the death there. She watched him breathe his last, whispering words to speed him on his return to the aetherial sea.

She bled there. Shrapnel from her shattered rapier embedded like diamonds in her skin. The hole Zenos put in her belly oozing dark, dark blood. The smell... all wrong... He placed a spell there, for healing, but it wouldn't stick. He tried staunching the wound the old fashioned way, using the pressure of his hands.

But the hole... it was so big... he couldn't... it wouldn't... something soft... the blood...

She was dying and he could not save her.

Yet, with a miraculous series of beeps they reappeared aboard the Ragnarok, spurring a frantic rush of movement and sound. Everyone trying to heal her all at once. Alphinaud, Alisaie, Yshtola, Urianger, at one point Thancred found a potion that he tipped down her throat, and Estinien snapped commands to the Lopporits to 'get this woman to a healer and do it now.'

Sharlayan.

The best doctors the nation could claim decided some of her organs were obliterated but no one will give him details. He just can't stop thinking about how far into the hole his hands could slip.

It turns his stomach.

A hot bath in the annex. The water red as wine, red like Dalamud, circling the drain to slip away and disappear.

A comfortable bed where he won't sleep.

He can't sleep. Not until she wakes.

Exhausted but tense, he pads to the kitchen and puts milk in a pan to warm. Then finds the chocolate and cinnamon and sugar and cream.

He decides to make it exactly how she does, down to which hand she uses to stir the finished mixture—always seven times clockwise—to set the magic charm. He adds everything she likes, as though he's planning to bring it to her, extra cream, extra shavings, extra cinnamon, and extra sweet.

Extra sweet, like her.

His throat tightens, burning as if he's swallowed the sun. He breathes slow. Concentrate. Breathe again.

It's done.

He takes it to her, thinking maybe she'll wake.

The bed seems huge, or perhaps she seems smaller than usual. The gleaming violet curtain of her hair fans over the pillow like a goddess' halo. Her narrow chest rises and falls but she's so ghostly pale, the only spots of color aside from her hair are the ugly bruises from the rapier shrapnel.

Her chocolate goes on the nightstand and he sits beside her, the burst of anxious energy that carried him this far finally spent.

He takes her freezing hand and rubs it between his own, trying to ignore the insistent belief that they've come to the end of things before they had a chance to begin.

“Is that chocolate?”

His laughter turns to tears as he runs his lips greedily over the back of her hand, and “Yes. Yes it is. It should be the perfect temperature for you to drink.”

general: stel likes toppy raha ; in this house we love the twins ; patch 5.4 spoilers

warnings: none

idiom

• do something in the easiest or least expensive way; also, act illegally.

“That appears to be our merchant.”

The odd quartet of two adult miqo'te and two elezen youths is strange enough, but the way they've attempted to hide themselves, together, in the shadow of a single column, is quite another thing entirely. They fit in a shared space the same way a square peg fits into a round hole, or a grumpy housecat goes into his carrier—which is to say they don't fit at all.

Further, all eight eyes are trained on what appears to be an everyday merchant—a blissfully unaware lalafell man some 20 yalms away—watching his every move with the sort of dour intensity far better suited to the inspection of one's shoe after treading on something foul.

“I'll talk to him,” offers Alphinaud. “I've done this sort of espionage before.”

He attempts to straighten but he's still kneeling, pinned to the ground under his sister’s weight.

Alisaie snorts at the very same moment G'raha manages to say, “Wait.”

Without even hearing the new plan Alisaie talks over her companion, “G'raha is right. You look far too genteel to be believable brother, and for that matter so do I. It'll have to be one of you two then.”

She glances at G'raha and Stelmaria, the purple haired woman leaning to rest her elbows on the Archon's shoulders, while he holds the squatting sit all miqo'te males seem to be comfortable with.

Satisfied that her opinion has been registered she removes her knee from the small of Alphinaud's back, allowing her twin to rise to his feet. Since her return from the First, Alisaie's bright blue eyes have not ceased twinkling for even a moment, so thrilled is she to be home and once more about the business of saving Eorzea.

Today is no different.

Alphinaud grimaces and rubs his back, though it's difficult to say which affront chagrins him more, his sister using him as a stepladder ('otherwise I can't see you ninny!') or everyone seemingly agreeing that he's “too genteel” to be allowed.

Rather than replying, Stelmaria heaves a great sigh and straightens. She pinches the apples of her cheeks then she rubs her lips together to plump them. That done, she unfastens the top button of her ruffled dress.

Then adjusts the neckline lower before unfastening another.

And another.

Alisaie reaches to shield her brother's eyes just as G'raha finishes dusting himself off and sees the Warrior.

“Aria!” he hisses, tugging off his scarf and throwing it slapdash around her shoulders.

Alisaie fails to smother a chuckle at hearing the rather intimate pet name.

For all their attempts to keep this relationship private, her friends are shockingly bad at subterfuge.

“Hmmm?” Stelmaria, supremely unconcerned, adjusts the scarf from where it has tangled in her hair and ears to its proper position. It fails to cover the rather substantial amount of décolletage on display.

All right. It’s not that shocking.

“They’ll know your face,” observes Alphinaud, batting his sister’s hands away and suppressing a grin.

“Yes! Yes, exact—!”

“Shhh.” Alisaie whips her head around. Thankfully, the lalafell hasn’t moved. “If we don’t get a move on we’ll be discovered—“

Stelmaria readjusts her neckline again. “We all know they won’t be looking at my face,” she says, with the same tone others might use to say ‘the sky is blue’ or perhaps ‘fire is hot.’

Alphinaud stares at the rolling hills of the La Noscean countryside, momentarily struck dumb.

Alisaie chokes on her own spit.

“The most direct method is fast and easy. Why make it more complicated than it needs to be?” asks Stelmaria, shaking her violet tresses so they frame her heart-shaped face in a most becoming fashion.

“No,” says G’raha, softly, “They’ll know you. You’re a long time Scion and you’ve been seen with the Admiral, besides. It’s too risky for you to go.”

The Warrior deliberates, chewing her ruby lip with one fang.

“Then what do you suggest?” Alphinaud raises a brow at his companion.

G’raha grins widely, a bit of the cocksure youth resurfacing, like the sun bursting from behind heavy cloud, “I’ll go. Anyone that could recognize me is in Gridania or Mor Dhona.”

“Very well,” relents Alisaie.

The miqo’te bounces off, ears and tail flagged high and shining a burnished copper in the sunlight.

“Got what you were aiming for, I take it?” Alisaie murmurs conspiratorially.

“Always,” replies Stelmaria, (not so) subtly rubbing the scarf against her cheek. “Taking charge suits him; he should do it far more often.”

An indulgent smile slides across the Warrior’s face and Alisaie finds herself reciprocating.

Happiness is infectious after all. They may be gods awful at being discreet but at least they seem to be enjoying themselves.

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