warnings: death (a lot) ; illness ; grief

general: i hurt myself in my confusion

noun

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

On the day she was born, Hydaelyn wept.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The child was alone.

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

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

Bells passed.

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

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

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

Both girls fell in love and found mates.

Stelmaria's mate disappeared without a trace.

Then Dalamud fell.

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

Miah died alongside her mate and her unborn kit.

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

More years passed.

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

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

Yet more time passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

warnings: blood ; injury ; zenos being a creeper

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

adverb

• soon; shortly

The long years of pursuit were over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spirits soaring, they draw their weapons and charge.

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

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

idiom

• to intentionally not give someone or something any attention

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are not in charge here.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Lick.”

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

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

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

“Kneel.”

He does so, nerves taut in anticipation.

“Lick,” she repeats.

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

“Why not?”

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

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

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

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

He cannot do anything without a command.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

A moment passes. They both smile.

“Then strip.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's the last thing he wants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That's all it takes.

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

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

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

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

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

warnings: none

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

noun

• a long printed story about imaginary characters and events

adjective

• new and original, not like anything seen before

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

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

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

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

“Well?”

“Well,” he echoes, thoughtful.

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

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

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

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

“Personal?”

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

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

Stelmaria looks like she might cry. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

She obliges. “An idiot?”

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

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

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

“Not as much fun though.”

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

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

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

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

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

warnings: nsfw ; cunnilingus ; piv sex

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

adjective

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

To know her is to love her.

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

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

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

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

And he loved her.

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

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

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

Love is the reason the First remains whole and thriving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

warnings: implied drug addiction ; implied sex work ; two people sacrificing themselves and not giving a shit about the long term consequences

general: me: ‘i feel like i use too many dialog tags.’ also me: ‘challenge accepted.’

verb

• to propel a boat by means of oars
• to transport in an oar-propelled boat
• to form into rows
• to engage in a quarrel

noun

• an act or instance of rowing
• a number of objects arranged in a usually straight line or the line along which such objects are arranged
• a street or area dominated by a specific kind of enterprise or occupancy
• a noisy disturbance or quarrel

“I asked for your help on this because I believed we had an understanding, but perhaps I was mistaken?”

The oars dip into the calm waters of the moat, biting clean through and leaving no ripples to disturb the moon-mirrored surface.

“You are not, though if you expected me to remain silent on the subject then perhaps you were mistaken?”

A soft splash as the oars breach the surface to greet the starry sky. Water trickles off the edge and back into the moat, tears of Menphina, shining bright.

“Thancred—”

“Stelmaria, if we lacked an understanding I most certainly would not be rowing a leaky boat to Doma Castle in the dead of night with only an expensive rug and a lingerie-clad Warrior of Light for company.”

”...Lingerie may be a tad too generous a descriptor, but then you always have been a gentleman, sweet bard.”

“A complement I shall cherish forever, I assure you.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Thancred.”

“I beg to differ. Though the glassy-eyed stare of an addict does no favors for you, my friend, nor the trembling in your limbs and the sweat on your brow.”

“So kind of you to elaborate on my flaws. Pray, what else offends you regarding my person? Is there lip stain on my fangs? Perhaps you might offer your reassurance that one day I shall regret my tattoos?”

A long silence hangs between them, strangely heavy for containing nothing at all.

“Stelmaria, I do not wish to tell you what to do with—”

“—and yet here we are—”

“—your person. We do have an understanding. I wish only to remind you…”

Another tense silence broken only by the twittering of night birds and the muffled splash of pearlescent droplets back to their rest.

“Remind me of?”

“Remind you—gently—you are not immortal. That you are never alone in bearing the grief of fallen comrades and friends. That should you fail to return upon the morrow, many will weep for the loss of Eorzea’s greatest champion.”

“Eorzea’s greatest whore, you mean. Would you be among them, I wonder?”

The boat rocks precariously at the sudden shift of his weight. Greedy, he pulls her close, reveling in her heat, the full curves of her breasts pressed hard to his chest, the scent of the drug haze clinging to her skin and the addictive flavor of her sinful mouth. “Yes,” he replies, hoarse, finding it difficult—so difficult—to pull away.

The seconds tick by, punctuated by the rustle of silk and a deep grunt, before she retreats from him to reclaim her seat, calm and regal as a queen.

“Are you jealous?”

He ignores her question. Ilm by ilm, the boat resumes its steady glide across the water.

“If only it had not come to this,” he mutters.

“Yet it has. You and I know better than most how impossible it is to change the past, so we soldier on. Though we are just a whore and a rogue at the moment, we soldier on, doing what we must to save those we can.”

“True. The methods don’t matter, my lady.”

“Indeed, my rogue. We sink low to raise others up. We see what needs doing and we refuse to turn away from things which others deny. Dignity matters little when parting with it yields such results.”

Thunk.

“We’re here.”

“Lay out the rug. Try to keep it clean.”

He obeys, then rolls the Warrior of Light up in the carpet and hefts the lot over a broad shoulder. With one hand, he slips on the centurion’s helmet before picking his way towards the castle, swift and silent.

If all goes well, Yotsuyu goe Brutus and Zenos yae Galvus shall receive an unexpected visitor shortly.

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: 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: toddlerfic?

general: toddlerfic

verb

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

noun

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

Rosemary Molkot, aged 4, hated bedtime.

There were very few things Rosie hated more than bedtime.

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

THINGS ROSIE HATES

1. Medicine

2. Vegetables

3. Bathtime

4. Worms

5. Bedtime

6. The dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever that means.

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

“Not sleepy,” Rosie grunts.

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

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

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

“So you just love anything I say then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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.”