wolexarch — mare lamentorum

day thirteen confluence

Wed, 14 Sep 2022 15:54:12 +0000

#ffxivwrite2022 #ffxiv #shadowbringers #wolexarch #wolraha #wolzenos #stelmaria #graha #fel #zenos #nsfw #spoilers #warning

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.

day seven pawn

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

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

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

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

noun

a person used by others for their own purposes

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

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

verb

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

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

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

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

Therein lay the second mistake.

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

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

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

And thus the seed of the third mistake was planted.

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

The cowl has dropped and he is defenseless before her.

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

“How—?”

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

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

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

She reeks of Light, as sin eaters do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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