solvina-archive

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i still have to make tags but i remade @solvitas

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i still have to make tags but i remade @solvitas

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i still have to make tags but i remade @solvitas

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im here to cause problems @constellatory

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you attack meitte???? i give u love and u attack with the catte boy??? i hate it here.

i love u ur my pogchamp my little meow meow my wife my love the light of my life

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hey besties

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i start classes on monday so im going to be low activity for awhile

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why do you have bugs in your pocket

protein

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💙 .

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I think everyone should make a post with just a ❤ and let mutuals comment on the post with nice things :’)

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@solvina​​  /   [ RELIEF ] - sender gives receiver a relieved hug. / seti @ mahjia

         how  mundane  they  must  appear  to  the  common  folk,  these  duties  done  in  the  shadow  of  their  esteemed  Warrior  of  Light,  cast  into  irrelevancy  by  grandiose  displays  of  heroism,  if  taken  notice  of  them  at  all.   but  such  is  the  cause  and  effect  of  fairytale  soldiers  placed  'pon  pedestals,  larger  than  life  until  the  novelty  wears  off  and  reality  comes  knocking,  often  with  a  heavy  brick  of  the  many  foundations  crumbled  in  their  would — be  heroes’  wake.

          j'mahjia  vanih  is  no  stranger  to  any  of  this.   starry — eyed  spectator  and  battle — hardened  soldier,  a  hero  forged  more  by  word  than  deed,  for  what  heroism  is  there  in  war ?   she  has  been  both,  though  nowhere  near  as  risen  to  a  glorious  heaven  nor  soaked  in  quite  as  thick  of  an  ichor  as  Hydaelyn’s  Chosen.   what  meager  comparison  her  pain  makes  in  the  face  of  divine  delegation,  for  who  could  ever  hope  to  reach  the  height  of  Gods ?   what  mortal  could  ever  experience  their  suffering  —  their  hope  and  love  —  and  not  be  scorched  from  the  inside  out.

         curious  ruminations  for  scholars  and  philosophers,  she  is  sure.   but  not  for  her.   j’mahjia  is  beholden  to  no  God  but  the  Sun  itself,  and  She  is  not  wont  to  puppeteer  Her  children  any  more  than  call  them  to  bed  with  Her  leave  of  the  sky  and  call  to  them  in  the  morn.   this  miqo’te,  who  has  seen  more  than  she  ever  desired  to,  cares  not  for  whom  the  blade  cuts  or  magic  flays.   in  whose  name  a  soldier  bleeds  and  a  father  looses  his  daughter.   death  comes  all  the  same.

         what  surprising  solace,  then,  has  weary  survivor  found  ‘neath  banner  of  those  who  follow  dear  crystal’s  champion  as  though  a  messiah.   and  perhaps  to  some  it  holds  true.   reclamation  of  people  and  homeland,  such  is  the  path  of  seti’hara,  ever  treading  the  river  of  fate,  be  she  its  cause  or  consequence.   a  figure  of  as  much  radiance  as  penumbra,  neither  here  nor  there  and  yet  both.   claws  of  a  feline  hidden  ‘neath  luscious  fur,  blinding  the  ignorant  with  untamed  beauty.

           and  had  this  great  hero’s  stablemaster  any  care  for  poetry  or  prose,  perhaps  she  would  have  found  herself  in  awe  like  so  many  others.    (  sometimes  she  still  does.    more  and  more  often.  )    but  when  she  who  has  slain  paragons  and  traitors  alike  envelopes  fellow  miqo’te,  shaking  tension  from  bone  and  marrow,  a  tired  soldier  almost  lets  go  of  the  reins  —  and attached chocobos  —  in either hand.   amidst  soft  plumage  and  covered  in  blooming  scarlet  from  newly  acquired  cuts,  how  mundane  it  all  feels,  surrounded  by  all  she  loves.

           ❛ I’m  fine,  snowflake, ❜    softly,  naught  but  a  hum  beside  feline  ear.   something  inside  her  calls  to  reciprocate  —  they  are  home,  she  need  not  hold  their  reins  any  longer.   (  and  certainly  not  this  tightly.  )   tired  heart  beats  against  ribcage,  demanding  to  be  heard,  but  for  all  her  sensitive  hearing,  j’mahjia  feigns  ignorance.   unspoken  remains  what  great  comfort  it  gives  to  be  graced  with  the  warmth  of  another,  to  feel  a  weight  roll  off  both  their  shoulders  ‘pon  making  contact.   subtle  is  the  forward  lean  of  her  form  —  into  beloved  champion’s  embrace  —  and  the  tilt  of  her  head  to  bury  betwixt  chin  and  shoulder  as  most  quiet  purr  vibrates  from  within  her  chest. 

˗ˋˏ * ✩  EMBRACE MEME  / ACCEPTING .

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come into bed and listen to the rain with me

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fatebrker​:

HOW agonising . she knows him too well ,  by now .  the knife twists exactly as she meant it ,  and it only twists further when lahabrea mocks him .  he suppresses the ghost ,  for now ,  despite the migraine it always gives .  he cannot know him now .  

     it hurts .  this lie .  this delicately fabricated illusion of self - reliance .  the others know him as independent :  how could he admit that wasn’t the case   ?    how could thancred lay himself bare to the slaughter  ?   to confess that he relies upon someone so full of malice ,  that he still clings to minfilia ,  that he is afraid   ?

      oh ,  twelve ,  he’s afraid .  afraid of her touch ,  of her knowing eyes .  afraid of himself .  afraid of the disapproval he offered his elezen lover ,  knowing thancred ,  too ,  was just another damned liar .  he wants to run ,  because that is what he does best .  he runs and hides .

      no .  not anymore .

      she’ll hate you .

     he’s been hated before .  thancred knows the feeling of dark eyes upon him .  but this is different ,  for he holds the feline to dearly .  in such high esteem .  envious ,  always ,  of her strength and independence .  of the way the world relies upon her and she takes the responsibility in her hands .

      in a fit of violent bravery ,  thancred reaches for her ,  and presses his hands to one of hers .  lets her drink in the cacophony that is his shattered aether ,  that is the warm thrum of hate beneath .  the sick magma that fills in his cracks .  he does not look at her as he does it .  he cannot watch her expression turn to horror and betrayal when she inevitably sees through him  ,  sees the ancient that has haunted him since ifrit ,  since the days of ala mhigo .

      he wants to explain himself .  but his words ,  for once ,  fall flat .  they stick to his tongue like toffee ,  they tighten his throat .  he cannot defend himself .  he knows not how .

     is there any way to justify who he is anymore   ?

     when he retracts his hand ,  he moves .  thancred settles upon his bed ,  still ruined from fitful sleep .  he stares at his quaking fingers ,  the endless scars .

                 (    hang himself he does ,  twisting her extended threads around his throat .  he wants to choke .  he will lose everything here ,  or he will chase it all away in the future .    )

                      ❝    …i understand ,  you know .  if you hate me .  but you must understand ,  seti .   i…    ❞  

     what a broken feeling ,  to be at a loss for words .

don’t lie,  not to me,  she wants to beg,  but it is his choice in the end.  if he will swing the axe to sever the ties,  so be it;  she has forgiven worse betrayals,  and she will firm herself to forgive this one,  too.  she can do this,  she can,  only for him.

instead,  he shocks her.  the warmth of palm to palm,  the quick surge of aether,  the way the echo winds quick around her throat and closes.  she chokes on the first plunge;  the deluge of his memories,  spilling into her.  a flood,  a cacophony that takes a moment to settle.  it makes her sick.  his own self-hatred,  the dead that hangs over his head,  and when she lands back in her body,  it is without grace  --  a gasp,  a cry as she pulls away as if he has burned her.

she takes a moment,  breathing quiet,  ears flat to her head.  her voice is very small when she asks,  “  warn me next time.  “  but it is without venom,  tone gone very soft.

so.  this is his great and terrible secret.  she wants to laugh.  she wants to cry.  instead,  she crosses the space,  this great chasm she has felt in her chest since that first moment of betrayal.  light,  spilling from her,  as she settles a hand to his jaw and lifts his face to hers.  if he wants forgiveness,  she will give it.  if he want refuge,  she can offer that too.  but only if he asks.

“  i do not hate you,  thancred.  “

she is better at this than she is at anger.  she will take it,  gladly.  with a sigh,  she settles onto the bed next to him,  tail curling in affection around one of his calves,  her head leaned to his shoulder.  to be trusted,  and trust in return.  she doesn’t know if she can manage the full breadth of that,  but she can manage weaving her hand through his.

(  those moments in the praetorium hang heavy in her mind :  how the cries had caught in her throat,  the ash on her tongue,  how heavy and lifeless he had been as she had dragged him through the rubble.  she wonders if lahabrea is listening now  ).

“  is he dangerous?  “  a silly question.  of course he is dangerous.  shouldn’t she know?  she rectifies it quickly.  “  are you in control?  “

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fatebrker​:

FADING   are his dreams .  whatever new ache that troubles him ,  borne of guilt ,  borne of unwanted guests .  whatever words haunted him have long since faded ,  and he does not bother attempting to know if they were real .

     his eye barely sees her before he is brushed aside .  immediately is he worried ,  clenching the handle of his door in a fist so tight the metal would crack .  what new disaster――

     free from one nightmare ,  and onto the next .  careful is he to keep his eyes wide and confused ,  to remain tired and puzzled .  but aware is he ,  aware .  aware of the eyes burning into his ,  the two sets of him .  aware is he of the mocking scoff of laughter from across the room ,  because what does lahabrea desire most than to be audience to his own chaos    ?

     the cartridges lay upon his tired palm ,  shaking with fatigue ,  with horror .  the heavy weight on his chest presses and presses and presses ,  until it is crushing him .  but he cannot give up here .  if he does , he will lose everything and everyone ,  and he will have won .  he will have won .

                       ❝    quite early for mind games , isn’t it  ?   we both know i cannot fulfill your request ,  my dear friend .  thus does y’shtola and urianger provide me their aid ;  i am helpless in matters such as this .  i must confess i do not understand…    ❞  

     he knows he is a good liar .  he knows .  he mastered this art as a child ,  blinking brown eyes at storm captains that dared accuse him of theft .  never once was he caught ,  adept was he at his art .  and evermore has he kept this skill close ,  this careful mask and isolation .

                       (    lahabrea is singing a sick plague :   amused .  go on ,  lie to her .  to her ,  with the echo  .  she who knows me most .    )

     the ammunition is heavy in his hand .  he sets it down with the rest ,  prepped for his allies to gift him their assistance.

                        assistance you barely need .   we both know what we are capable of .  tell her ,  mortal ,  and see how much the warrior of light cares for you . 

     he wonders how she saw it .  he has always been so careful .  always .  yet he thinks to pagal’than ,  when he bared his teeth in desperation .  when his body grew warm with the flames of he who created them .  and he knows .

                      ❝    you woke me from such sweet dreams ,  you know .  if i may ask ,  why is it you remain awake  ?    aren’t cats won’t to nap  ?    ❞   

      he thrusts his foot into his own mouth ,  he knows . but he will not give up here .  thancred will not give seti nor lahabrea what they want ,  even if their goals do so align this once .

                     you need no one but me .  you will see .

a delicate dance,  which she allows only for weakness.  her fingers,  of their own accord,  brush across the scar tissue of her throat  (  she is a good liar,  not the best  ).  a finger hooked in the collar as she looks away,  so that she doesn’t have to look upon his face as he lies to her.  a privacy,  for this tender moment,  the slicing of flesh from the bone.

her hum is low and noncommittal,  snagged in her throat as she reaches to take back the casings.  her fingers hover a moment,  above his palm,  considering.  it would be easy to put his lies to face.  it would only take a touch,  and she would have all of it,  laid bare.

(  she would know not to trust him  ).

instead,  she takes his lies with the bitterness of someone used to them.  her mouth a severe line,  as she retreats to the table.  it is a kindness,  or at least her version of it  --  the dark lines under his eyes,  the softness of his throat,  like a fruit overripe,  a bruise flourishing over the skin.  she could press.  she could press until it hurt.  she doesn’t.

“  i sleep little.  “  her reply is colder than she intends,  a forgiveness she’ll beg later,  when she is not so furious.  she takes a seat atop the table,  one leg crossing over the other,  as she pulls one of those casings from the bag.  “  dreams keep me up.  i had one,  just a moment ago in fact.  “

set up to the knife at the throat,  her voice soft and mean.  “  i saw you charge your own cartridges,  mid battle,  in paglth'an.  “  she doesn’t look up.  a rope,  here;  enough to hang himself.  “  imagine.  of course,  you cannot do that,  so---  “

the cartridges glow,  one by one,  within her hands;  the aether within it replaced with her own.  the aftertaste of whoever came before is insultingly familiar.

“  dreams are so silly.  “

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im gonna go run bunker until i (hopefully) get seti’s chestpiece i 🔫 will be back

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would u guys... hate me if i remade this blog