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: 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: 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: 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.

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.

warnings: dubcon, animal cruelty, sadism, obsessive behavior, violence

general: touch starved, frottage, fingers in mouths, zenos is combatsexual and i love that for him

noun

• a lightning stroke, a shaft or missile designed to be shot from a crossbow or catapult
• a wood or metal bar or rod used to fasten a door, the part of a lock that is shot or withdrawn by the key
• a metal rod or pin for fastening objects together
• a roll of cloth or wallpaper of specified length

verb

• to move suddenly or nervously, to move or proceed rapidly
• to break away from control or a set course, to dart off or away
• to secure with a bolt
• to eat hastily or without chewing

Even as a boy, Zenos yae Galvus lived for the thrill of the hunt.

To catch a vermin one must first understand its way of thinking, its desires and its fears. This understanding allows for anticipation, and anticipation for preparation. Only then can the trap be sprung.

In the frozen wastes of his native Garlemald he'd spent an infinity of bells tracking the small, nervous snow hares as they fled hither and yon, his broad shoulders hunched against the endless howling wind, following the meandering, panicked paths back to secret boltholes where he dispatched them.

He would watch in rapt silence, breathing fast, pink tongue moistening dried lips as red wetness crawled over soft, white fur, the blood in his veins thrumming to a fever pitch. He observed every twitch, memorizing the signs of impending death until the final stillness reigned. The young man meditated upon the heart's fickle flutters, its frantic headlong rush through the last of its allotted beats, as though the creature was excited to die.

Between those fleeting seconds he could understand somewhat the misguided barbarian obsession with the divine. Magnificent were the violent delights which blossomed from this sort of power. His breeches would tighten, imagining what thrills might be savored if one could achieve power like unto a god.

It was the first taste of what would eventually consume his life's flame.

Many years had come and gone since Zenos found any sort of challenge in the minds and spirits of his prey. It seemed he'd reached a zenith where no other could reach or touch him. The clear path from which he had not strayed now became lost in a shroud of heavy fog, a veil separating his current state from the godhood he deserved.

An emotion sprouted within him, one he had no name for; a great gaping emptiness which chilled his blood the way the Garlean winters never had, a greedy worm festering within the ripened apple of his heart. He floundered there, lost and searching, devoid of the contentment he found only in the ringing clash of blades.

In the end she was the one to name this feeling, and in so doing she gained absolute power over him. In so doing she was named friend.

At first she cowered, crawling away on hands and knees. He put a foot on her back and pinned her to the blood-spattered soil but quickly lost interest when she retreated into herself, growing still and silent like the rabbits of his youth.

When he saw her again in Yanxia she had changed so much he did not recognize her. She looked sickly, pale and sweating, her eyes bright and pupils dilated but when her sword met his...

Fate.

It was but a matter of a few scant seconds by all accounts, however for Zenos each moment stretched onward into shining infinity. She fought with the strength of ten men and the shock of each blow ringing in his bones made his blood sing and his soul take flight.

He laughed and so did she, the wild cacophony of their joy mingling into one transcendent experience he would do anything to experience again. They danced in beauty, together, blood slinging heavy and wet from the moon bright edges of their swords with every mad swing. Her breast heaved in time with his own, the synchronized beating of their hearts bringing them closer to divinity.

To revelation.

He caught her sword hand and swung her around hard, closing his mouth over the leaping rabbit pulse at her throat to bite down and claim it as his own. The taste of her blood muddled his senses, a high better than any wine or drug he'd ever tried. She screamed in pain and stomped savagely on the arch of his foot before driving the curve of her rump against him.

The stars overhead exploded, their light reflected in her skin and hair, glinting off the fangs in her open mouth. Her wamth presses close, a being of fury whose skin smells of opium smoke. His achingly hard cock grinds into her, pulsing bliss, releasing spend, as wild as an animal in rut.

She licked her parted lips and whispered, voice strained, “Are you lonely, Zenos? Does it frighten you to know you are unloved and unwanted?”

The fog on his brain clears, the tightening pressure in his groin vanished like morning mist.

Fear. That was its name.

“Yes,” he grunted, struggling to master himself but unable to release her.

She waits, still and quiet, once more the rabbit of his childhood hunts. He buries his nose in her violet hair, redolent with the scents of starlight, spices, and sex. Her small figure is soft, just as her sword's edge is deadly sharp. A gauntleted thumb slips between the sinful curves of her generous lips, hooking the lower line of white teeth.

He jerks. She follows, moaning.

He shoves her away roughly.

Fear.

She tumbles to the packed earth, streaked with dirt and bleeding from the mouth. Her eyes pin him, strange in color and luminosity—one onyx, the other amethyst, both giving a faint glow of reflected moonlight.

A realization strikes him as he gazes at her, the gravity of it growing larger with every passing moment; collecting certainty as a planet gathers accretions: this is his destiny.

Her.

Her face is the last he shall ever see. His demise is hers to witness. The fading thrum of his heart, the dwindling number of its alloted beats is hers to savor and hers alone.

Zenos sees his own death. He now knows its shape, the curve of her breasts, the taste of her skin, the weight of her sword. The mania that spawns from a single perfect moment gone too soon.

Only now does Zenos truly understand the frantic impatience of the rabbit's final heartbeats. How one can long for the presence of another called “friend.”

The brisk, salty sea breeze on deck banishes the last lingering tendrils of nausea. While the tonic she’d taken eased the symptoms of seasickness somewhat, Stelmaria spent much of the voyage doing all in her power to keep meals down.

In the far distance, illuminated by the soft glow of a sun rising through morning haze, lies their destination: an island covered in vibrant greenery and dotted by stately white edifices all facing a bustling harbor, in which the statue of a man kneels, pouring an endless stream of water from the pitcher balanced on one sculpted shoulder.

Sharlayan. The city of scholars.

Felcy’ra stares in the city’s direction, though his eyes are unfocused and unseeing. Perceiving something other than the ship’s rocking deck. Something that creases his brows and exposes one menacing fang.

“Fel?” she whispers, for once not worried that her last meal will make an appearance along with her words.

He blinks, the dark clouds upon his brow lightening as she crosses the creaking timbers on unsteady sea legs.

“How ya doin’, sprout? How’s ya brekky sittin’?”

“Well enough, seeing as I haven’t had any to begin with,” she quips.

Stel seizes his arm at the railing, desperate to remain on the ship in spite of a particularly large lurch of the deck and her belly.

A grin spreads across his own features at her pinched expression. Fel’s body adjusts to the ship’s movements as though he were born on the water. Additionally he’d evaded any and all symptoms of seasickness—much to Stel’s chagrin.

Not that she could stay upset with him.

Not when he’d been so gentle and conscientious of her needs since they’d left port: getting her fresh water or lighter fare, distracting her with bawdy jokes and wild tales, keeping the others from disturbing her rest with a deftness that surprised her.

“Glad ya feelin’ better, but ya a tad late developin’ ya sea legs to be honest. We’re almost to harbor and steady land.”

“Menphina is most merciful to the least of her children,” Stel replies, a wry twist to her lips.

“I’d pay a heap of good gil to see ya be what anyone migh’ consider least, sprout, an’ tha’s no lie.”

She opens her mouth to retort, but a sudden burst of spray soaks the fluttering hem of her red skirt, “Seven hells!”

Fel, dry of course, smirks at Alisaie, who has just now emerged from below deck to make an exaggerated stretch in the morning sunshine. The young woman smirks in kind—the pair of them are a menace indeed—and takes the rare opportunity to tease Stel, “Ah no. Nothing sadder than a wet cat.”

“Rude,” says Y’shtola, herding the rest of the Scions onto the deck ahead of her.

The arrival of their friends turns the topic to business, but the buzz of conversation around her is most comforting. So too is the warmth of Fel’s hand wrapped around hers and the faint stirring of her violet hair as he chuffs softly into her ear.

“What were you looking at earlier?” she murmurs, pitching her voice low so that only he could hear.

He shakes his head, shaggy ponytail swaying with the motion, and fixes his peridot eye on the others.

Very well. She would ask again later in private.

”You know there’s no need to tease G’raha like that,” she sighs.

A sharp bark of laughter rings loud in the cozy room. The air from his lungs chills the moistness where his hot mouth had been on her skin, raising goosebumps and drawing forth a shiver. “All the times to talk abou’ G’raha an’ this is when ya bring it up? Ya gone crazy?”

Fel grins, wicked, and presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh, just above the knee.

“You great beast; so what if I have? Who’s fault would that be?”

Again, a kiss, although higher this time—perhaps halfway to her hip. She reaches to grip a velvet ear in anticipation but he bats her hands away.

“Mine, o’ course, ‘cause I been teasing ya. Wasn’ teasing him though—just ya.”

Another kiss, but this one is not anywhere on her thigh.

Nor is it a kiss so much as it is a slow, deliberate drag of clever tongue across wildly sensitive parts, before closing his mouth over the prize to apply suction.

“Twelve preserve,” she breathes, seeing stars.

Tease indeed.

The pair of them were supposed to be resting, but several long days and nights spent at sea with zero privacy and…

Well…

There was very little sleeping going on.

“You were teasing him though.” Trying to put a sentence together while he amuses her is like digging a hole in the mud—as soon as two words link properly another pair slips apart.

“Nah. Wouldn’ dream of it,” he replies smoothly, with all the innocence of a kit with a hand in the cookie jar. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’ think of anything to tease him about—”

Stel laughs at the chuckle rumbling from his chest, “You putting your needy hands round my waist at every opportunity during Krile’s tour was not teasing?”

He props up on elbows and meets her gaze, the unruly flop of bang covering the golden eye he disliked—but she loved, “Nah. Didn’ want ya to fall off the pier or into any of the fountains. Ya was a little discombobulated maybe? What with all the blushing an’ gigglin’ ya were doin’.”

Her pulse rises in her pale cheeks, higher than it already was, “That was because you would kiss me every time Krile turned her back to us?!”

“Ya had some crumbs left from lunch on ya face. I was jus’ takin’ care of it for ya, like a gentleman.”

Incredulous, her mouth falls open, “Crumbs?!”

“Aye, crumbs.”

“Just because you are a horrible, evil man who can’t eat without a bib does not mean that I—” she begins, eyes twinkling.

Quick as a wink, Fel slithers up the length of her languid body to kiss her into silence. His skin is scented with the green wildness of deep forests and smeared in her own musky slick. She moans at the throb low in her belly, the blaze within growing brighter at every touch of his scarred hands.

He turns his head to taste the skin of her shoulder and whispers, “Crumbs.”

With rather more force than strictly necessary she manages to pin the laughing male keeper to the mattress, straddling him and ignoring the hot hardness pressed against her belly and mound.

“And the pinching? Was it absolutely critical for you to repeatedly squeeze my bottom out in public?”

“Aye, the future of Eorzea depends on it.” His grin is so wide she is quite sure she can see every one of his pure white teeth.

Not the answer she expected.

Fel continues, “‘Cause I don’ wanna save a world where G’raha ain’t spittin’ jealous of how I got ya all to myself.”

“So it was teasing?” she clarifies in mock seriousness.

He says nothing, only rubs his thumbs across the soft flesh of her ribs, tracing the curve of bone beneath. The smile fades and his eyes glitter, becoming sharp enough to cleave her open with just a glance.

“How cruel. I shall have to punish you.”

His eyes bore into her, “Aye.”

She wraps a hand around him and cocks her hips, rubbing her soft, sensitive nether lips against his throbbing length. Looking for all the world like a mad coeurl in heat.

”What did you see earlier? You never said.”

Her voice is muffled with both sleep and the pillow where she’s buried her head, but he reasons well enough what she’s asked.

“The lady of light,” he replies, drawing idle shapes over the beautiful curves of her naked back. “She said to seek light in darkness—that I was gonna be tested.”

She shifts to take in his face, gazing at him tenderly with eyes muzzy from sleep, “We’ll make it. We’re together.”

He nods, leaning down to press his mouth to the raised scar at her shoulder, “Aye.”

This thing between them was new and somewhat strange: at times delicate and fragile as spun glass; at other times as strong as forged adamantite. It was different from all the other times they’d tried to be together—some fundamental shift in attitudes and desires occurred somewhere along the line. Where exactly he couldn’t say, and he suspected that neither could she, but the fact of the matter was she gave him life, her daily presence brought a steady glow of joy to his soul. It felt right.

“Aye,” she echoes, raising herself on her elbows to kiss him softly, like the ephemeral brush of a morpho’s wings. “Now sleep before Krile charges in and beats us to death for not following her direction to rest.”

Sprawling next to her, he relaxes without even trying, able to drift off to the steady rhythm of her breathing close by. The lavender and myrrh scent of her skin perfumes his dreams.

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.