#(I know this says wol but........... she counts....... she's there!!!)

[anneapocalypse]

On the Former Scions and Leadership

Something that's kind of interesting to me about the Warrior of Light, which has always been there but which Dawntrail has me thinking about in a new way, is that the WoL really isn't a leader.

(Disclaimer: Obviously everyone has their own version of the Warrior of Light and is free to headcanon over and rewrite parts of the story to suit their character, and so what I'm saying here may not apply to everyone's character! For our purposes here, I'm just talking about The Warrior of Light as written.)

(Further note: I understand that there are a variety of feelings out there about the new characters and everyone is entitled to their own opinions about that; however this post is not an invitation to trash those characters in the notes so please refrain from that here; thank you.)

The Warrior of Light is a hero, but not a leader. Thanks to the linear nature of FFXIV's storyline, the game can't really offer us the conceit of making real choices, and so pretty much everything the WoL does is a result of someone else asking them to do it. So many of our major relationships with NPCs are with leaders: Minfilia, Nanamo, Kan-E-Senna, Merlwyb, Aymeric, Raubahn, Hien, the Exarch, Vrtra, Fourchenault, Wuk Lamat and Koana, every guild leader in our job quests. The WoL is someone called upon by leaders rather than being a leader themselves.

The Scions themselves have an interesting relationship to leadership in general. I've written before about how much the Scions feel like they're living in the shadow of Louisoix, especially in ARR, and how this affects their actions. As the leader of the former Circle of Knowing, Minfilia steps into the leadership position in his absence. I love Minfilia dearly; I think she has a true gift for bringing people together, making people feel welcomed and not alone, and helping them find purpose. I think all those skills probably availed her well as the leader of her Echo support group. It's when the Scions suddenly find themselves in the spotlight on an international scale following the defeat of the Ultima Weapon that I think the cracks start to show. I think that, very understandably, Minfilia is not prepared for the weight of that situation, and that's part of the reason she allows Alphinaud to step into such a leadership role himself (and also, and I say this with all the love in the world for both Alphinaud and Minfilia, why she even kind of lets him push her around at times). For Alphinaud himself, his experience of leadership with the Scions is disastrous, for which I think some responsibility also has to be laid upon the adults around him, who might have seen the red flags but didn't stop that train.

When Minfilia disappears, I think it's so telling that no one else steps up to fill the role of the Antecedent. Alphinaud is no longer so eager to take on that burden, and no one else is jumping at it either. Certainly the Warrior of Light isn't going to do it. (They're the boots on the ground, and the Antecedent is largely an administrative job.) The Scions instead just kind of agree to keep carrying on doing what they each do best, without an official leader. If anything, the glue holding the Scions together at this point is Tataru, who keeps the books and manages the budget and does her damnedest to keep certain people from putting overpriced purchases on the company card.

And that's not to say that none of the others have leadership skills! But it's interesting how, for those who do take on leadership positions, it's generally away from the Scions. After years of hiding under her sister's identity and "Papalymo's little shadow," Lyse takes an active role in the Ala Mhigan resistance, and helps to lead her people to freedom--a journey which ultimately takes her out of the Scions as she decides to stay in Ala Mhigo.

I'm counting G'raha as a Scion here since he does become one eventually, though not until after his hundred-year stint as the Exarch. It's clear both from the community that has grown up around the Crystal Tower, and from some really great G'raha moments in Endwalker, that he has real skills both at bringing people together for a common cause, and at taking charge in a crisis to protect the vulnerable. For the most part, though, he seems quite happy to take on a sidekick role after he returns to the Source. After a hundred years, I imagine anyone might be ready for a break from being in charge.

Y'shtola is harder to analyze because she's gotten less direct character development than most of the surviving Scions, and has remained largely in a supporting role thus far (though she remains a very interesting character to me, and I am hoping for a bit more of her in the Dawntrail patches given the setup for a cross-rift-travel solution). Y'shtola has always seemed reserved and a bit of a loner, and never seemed particularly interested in leadership until she threw in her lot with the Night's Blessed in the First. By the time we meet her again, she's become a trusted figure among the Blessed and the others clearly look to her for guidance and leadership. (It's also kind of interesting to me how both of the characters who wind up in leadership positions in the First are Seeker Miqo'te, and it probably was just a coincidence, but it'd be interesting to analyze how Seeker culture might prime a capable person to be willing to rise to the occasion where they see a group of people need.) Yet Y'shtola too seems perfectly content to settle back into a support role when she returns to the Source.

Endwalker is all about standing together, working together, the necessity of hope to overcome despair not merely individually but as a collective effort. The Scions all rally, each bringing what they have to offer, and they do so without ever appointing a new leader. They go where they see a need, like Urianger choosing to stay on the moon, or Thancred watching over the Warrior of Light and the twins when things go south on the relief mission to Garlemald, or the twins later taking a personal interest in the rebuilding efforts there. They also defer to leaders within the Eorzean Alliance where appropriate, happy at this point to work alongside the nations' armies rather than attempting to command one.

And the more I look at the Scions' history this way, the more their disbanding at the end of Endwalker seems inevitable and the logical end to the organization. In a very real sense they have completed the work that Louisoix and Minfilia set out to do. They've been leaderless for some time now already and it has not stopped them from doing good where needed. They are not leaders. Their goal was never to steer the course of world events indefinitely. They've all learned a lot about applying their individual talents for the greater good and having faith in one another to do the same, without having to be directed by one charismatic leader every step of the way--a major point of growth from where they were in ARR.

And all of this makes our role in Dawntrail really interesting to me, because it's all about leadership! And the Warrior of Light and their companions are, as characters, perfectly primed to take a supporting role and take initiative in that role where needed (see: Thancred and Urianger doing what needs to be done behind the scenes during the second act crisis). What the former Scions aren't, as a whole, at this point in their story, is people inclined to step up and take over. And this is a good thing for this story. Both Wuk Lamat and Koana need to learn and grow on their own, and in the context of their own cultures. The former Scions can help, they can support, and they do, but they aren't going to take over. Sure, they have opinions! At various points, we see characters on both teams (including the Warrior of Light) make some pointed faces at one another indicating that they have some doubts about the direction in which their candidates are taking things. But they withhold direct judgment or criticism for the most part and I think that makes sense both for their characters, and for the nature of the story.

I also think it was probably intentional that the former Scion with the most extensive leadership experience, G'raha, is not one of the characters hired by the claimants and doesn't come back to the plot until later. While I love G'raha and I did miss him, I understand story-wise why he couldn't be here; his unique circumstances mean that he has had more leadership experience than most people could ever have in a single lifetime, and it's probably for the best that that doesn't overpower the experiences of our young claimants who need to learn their own lessons on their own terms.

The support role of the former Scions also makes sense in other ways, I think, in terms of allowing the Turali characters and especially Wuk Lamat, as the main character, to shine in their own right and to avoid what could otherwise have been some problematic tropes. But I also think it works pretty well as a natural outgrowth of who these characters are and have grown into over multiple expansions, the Warrior of Light included.

[imthegayone]

The Goliath

Summary: Roller coasters were never your favorite but when your girlfriend wants you to ride one, how can you say no?

Warnings: mentions of anxiety of riding roller coaster, passing out on a roller coaster, and not the best writing

Author's Notes: I'm very new to writing, but @wol-fica asked for this and tho someone said they had it covered I wanted to give it a try :) I've also never been on the Goliath but I looked up a video and its a hard no for me. But I hope you enjoy and I hope your next cup of hot coco is exacty how you like it 🩵

(p.s. I'm also kinda new to crushing on Jenna so if she's a bit ooc I'm sorry)

Word Count: 892

__________________

When you suggested a trip to Six Flags with Jenna and her sisters, you imagined odd food and maybe a ride on the Wave Swinger. Not a ride that was so tall it struck fear into you the second you laid eyes on it. The Goliath, the name alone made you wanna speed walk in the other direction. Towards the food stand with tables to share a huge plate of funnel cakes with your loving girlfriend. 

The same loving girlfriend that was leading you to the long line of people waiting to experience the thrill of having their hearts jump into their throats. Maybe you were being a little dramatic but the impending doom you felt as you listened to the people scream at the steep drop overpowered any other thought. You were terrified, but the clear excitement Jenna was feeling made you believe that you could be brave enough for her. 

However, as the line shortened and the ride grew taller, you began to question why you agreed to risk your life. “Thank you, I know rides aren’t your favorite.” Jenna whispered as she leaned closer to you so no one else could hear. She knew that you were only doing this to make her happy and the way she looked up at you made you realize just how much you’d to achieve just that. 

“I just hope your sisters don’t realize how sweating my palms are.” You whispered back earning a chuckle as you wiped your hands down your pants for the 100th time. The feeling of her hand slipping into yours brought your attention away from the ride and back to her. A smile making its way across her face that made your heart quicken from something other than fear. 

The moment was broken as the teenager controlling the ride motion for your group to get on. You were feeling confident as love for your girlfriend surged through you but as the safety bar lowered to your chest all confidence you gained disappeared. Jenna grabbed your hand again, gaining a scared but grateful smile from you. 

Creaking as the cart started its journey on the track to the steep incline and your quickened heartbeat was all you could hear. The desperate prayer that the torturous wait would be quick was never answered. The slow trek up the incline felt like hours, the suspense making you nauseous. 

Reaching the peak you closed your eyes tight, the grip on Jenna’s hand turning ironclad. “Oh, fuck.”. 

_______________

Your hands were still shaking as you entered your shared apartment. Your feet mindlessly taking you towards the couch. As you plop down onto the cushions you think you hear the sound of the kettle being put on the stove and cabinets being opened but think nothing of it. 

After a few minutes of staring blankly at the wall you see Jenna enter the living room with two mugs in hand and a hesitant smile. “Hi baby, I made you some hot chocolate.” Placing the mug into your hands she gives you a kiss on your forehead and settles in next to you. You take a sip of your drink, the warmth of her and the chocolate grounding you. 

“Thanks, J.” You sent a smile her way as her free hand played with the baby hairs at the back of your neck. All of the sudden the memories of the last hour come rushing back making you groan. 

“Do you think Aliyah will post that video of me.. passing out?” Jenna chuckles but it dies as she sees you frowning. “She won’t.” The reassurance falls flat as she tries to hide her growing smile as your checks redden. “Oh my god she will!” You place your mug down on the coffee table and cover your face with your hands even more embarrassed than the moment it happened. 

The laugh she was trying to cover up bubbled out as she gently grasped your wrist pulling your hands away. “Baby please, it’s gonna be okay, I promise.” You knew there was more by the look in her eyes. You were gonna kill Aliyah, or at least beg Natalie to give you some embarrassing baby pictures of her in revenge. 

“She might've already put it on her story, only on close friends though.” 

“Oh god. I’m never living this down am I?” The responding laugh was enough to know you were doomed to have that video haunt you for the rest of your life. 

“Look at it this way, now you're truly part of the family. We all have some embarrassing things over each other. You saw the post my mom made when she learned I smoked.” That pulled a chuckle from you, remembering just how embarrassed Jenna was when she read it. She swore she wasn’t leaving the house ever again. 

“See I made it through so everythings gonna be okay!” Jenna says with a smile, pulling you into her until your head is resting on her chest and your body lays between her legs. Your hand slips under her shirt to feel even more of her comforting warmth against you. A hum escapes you both when she wraps her arms around your shoulder and kisses the top of your head. 

“Thank you for trying the ride for me Y/n, even though the Goliath took you out.”

[httpscomexe]

Fic where reader is a mutant and she’s put in a cage fight with Logan

The Leopards Claws

Summary: You’re forced into a cage fight with a familiar face, and he recognizes your spots…

(Find what I’m currently writing by checking my pinned post)

Pairings: Logan Howlett x Hybrid!Reader

Word Count: 1411

(I might make a part two)

“You can’t cage a tiger.”

A little something of a famous saying that your ring master also says. A lot. But it always makes you laugh, since you weren’t a tiger. God he’s so stupid.

You think to yourself as you’re pushed through a crowd, two men gripping your arms, a muzzle on your face like you’re an animal, which, you basically are.

You weren’t sure what to call yourself. A human that was diagnosed with vitiligo before she was born only to find out they were leopard spots and the deformations on your tail bone and head were actually a long tail and cat ears. So yea, you could call yourself a hybrid, mutant, whatever. But you were also a cage fighter. Not by choice, of course.

“Now for the next round, people get ready for the fast, the stunning, and the tricker of a show, Batemans pet Leopard!” You’re shoved into the large cage, and you fall to all fours, your teeth bared and your claws extracted as you hissed at the men who just tossed you in.

“Shut it kitty.” You growl deep in your throat and stand pack up, fixing the small outfit they had you wearing, they wanted as much as your skin exposed as possible to show off your leopard spots, and God was it annoying. But what was more annoying was the cheering of the crowd as you looked around the arena, some of the viewers with whiskers or spots painted on their faces. It was annoying, really. You weren’t exactly an idol.

“And for the competitor!” The announcers voice bothered you the most, and you look up at him in his seat, smirking as you see the eye patch on his left eye, covering where his eye used to be before the first time you escaped the cage. Fucking dick. “The fierce, the hated, and the worst, Wolverine!” Your ears drop immediately. Wolverine? Your head snaps to turn around at the sound of the gate opening, and people toss Wolverine into the cage, he tried to turn back around, banging his fists on the metal cage yelling profanities before turning back towards you. I thought he was dead… You tell yourself, and your lips part slightly, your fangs exposing past your bottom lip as he approaches you slowly, his own claws extracting slowly while yours retract back into normal nails. You couldn’t fight him, he saved you.

“Shit!” You scream as he lunges at you with his claws, and you avoid him like a cat avoiding a fucking cucumber. “Wolv-“

“Uh oh! Looks like we have a FUCKING pussy!” The crowd breaks into laughter, and you leap up onto a high post, looking down at where he can’t reach you.

“Fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, fuck me…” You groan as he stares at you.

“Get the fuck back down here.” He growls at you. “I don’t wanna be electrocuted and I don’t think you do either.” He shouts, and the guards press the button on their taser as a warning, little sparks jumping out of the wires. The crowd going quiet as they watch.

“Come on kitty, you’re supposed to be a leopard, not a pussy!” One of the viewers yell, and you turn to him, hissing and showing your fangs, then you feel a yank on your tail before you’re pulled back down to the cold concrete ground, Wolverine is on you in less than a second, but you crawl back out, your leopard agility making you fast.

“W-“

“Shut the fuck up and fight…” He growls, swiping his claws at you again.”

“Wol-“

“Shut the fuck up!” He shouts, lunging at you and you fall to the ground, him on top, but just as his fist is about to collide with your nose…

“Logan!” You whine, covering your face with your hands, and he freezes.

“How the fuck do you know my name…?” He growls, staying quiet so the guards don’t hear.

“You’re Logan… you don’t remember me…? You- you died, how are you here? Our daughter missed you, she…-“

“Daughter…?” His claws slowly retract, and you feel his body becoming less tense.

“You don’t remember them…?”

“Hey! You’re supposed to be fighting!” One of the guard shouts, and Logan shoots them a look.

“I’m not the Logan you know…” He growls back down at you, lowering his fist.

“Please… please don’t fight me…” You watch the way his face contorts, from anger, to confusion, to some other emotion. He didn’t wanna fight you from the beginning, and he sure as hell didn’t want to now. He confirmed it as he stood up, and helped you to your feet. “They don’t have guns, just tasers…”

“I know… stay put.” He says lowly, then moves to the wall of the cage.

“Hey, what’re you-?” His hands grip the cage, his fingers gripping it with all of his strength, then he pulls it away like nothing, bending the entire cage which snaps in some spots before he tears off a section big enough for him to walk through, and the men and women in the crowd begin screaming, but you stay put. “Shit!” The guard sticks the large taser against Logan’s chest and Logan only grumbles, his face turning into anger before he grips the device, ripping it out of the man’s hands and slamming it over his skull, creating the most bone cracking disgusting sound you’ve ever heard.

His rips through people easily, tearing open their skin with his claws and kicking their skulls in with no effort but all good results as they fall to the floor, going through them one by one before they were all dead. Except the announcer, who you’ve kept your eyes on the entire time… crouched behind his table…

You know you were told to stay put, but you couldn’t help it. You leave the cage as Logan tears through more bodies, and you creep up to the balcony where the announcer was, only standing when you were behind him, and he turns around to the sound of your claws extracting and being dragging across the wall.

“Wait no…” He chuckles in fear, putting his hands up in defense. That stupid fucking smile on his face as he tries to talk to you, but all of his words go one ear and out the other. His voice shaking only fueling you.

Then you grab him by his throat, lifting him to his feet before slowly dragging your claws from the horizon of his forehead between his skin and his scalp all the way down to between his collar bones, leaving a deep cut of your claws in place of his skin, blood leaking down your hand and his chest, seeping into his shirt.

“Fuck you…” You hiss, landing a kick on his stomach and you watch as he falls to the floor beneath you, and Logan’s eyes meet yours from below as his three claws find their way into the last man’s throat, and you hop down, of course, landing on all fours.

You’re a cat after all, but just as you’re about to say something..

“You look just like her.” He says suddenly, his hand coming up to brush hair from your face.

“Like who…?”

“Like my Leopard…”

“Your leopard…?”

“It’s a long story.” He tells you, his hand moving down to find yours, your fingers lacing. “Is her name also Charlotte…?” He asks quietly, and you nod, a tear dripping down your cheek.

“Is yours?” He nods as well, and you have the overwhelming need to hug him, and you do, throwing your arms around his neck and standing on your toes to reach him, your tail looping around his leg as much as it could. “What happened…? To her…” He takes a deep breath, his arms wrapping around your waist…

“I lost everyone… including my daughter…”

“Do you wanna stay with me?” You ask without thinking.

“Are you sure…? You don’t mean that…” He pulls back slightly, his hands moving to your shoulders.

“I mean it… I mean… You look just like my Logan…” You stare into his eyes, your own hands moving to cup his face. And you could see the hurt in his eyes.

“Your Logan…? and he?”

“Mhm…”

“Shit…” He chuckles, a little in pain but also partly at the opposite ways your lives turned out and he squeezes you a little, holding back tears.

“I’d love to come with you…”

🏷️: @malavera @brushworth

[myreia]

Polyphony at Twilight

Rating: General Characters: Jehantel, Aureia (WoL) Word Count: 3,103 Summary: A wandering minstrel and an ex-Garlean operative share a meal around a campfire where both reveal more secrets than they intend. Read on AO3

Deep in the Twelveswood, in the shadow of a hollowed out tree trunk, a campfire crackles, its flames dancing to and fro to their own rhythm as they reach for the stars.

Jehantel leans forwards, forearms on his knees, and observes the woman across from him. She sits cross-legged, brows drawn together and lips pursed with concentration as she stirs the pot strung over the fire. What was once his evening meal is now theirs to share, his simple stew bolstered by spices and meats far too fine to have come from these woods. Some Gridanians may find her half-Elezen features a novelty, but his visitor has always struck him as quite ordinary. Dark hair and ruby eyes of a kind he has seen countless times before, and a face that can blend in naturally in a crowd.

What is not ordinary is the quiet power with which she carries herself. It is not noticeable on a cursory look, but a keen eye will note what many will not—the efficacy of her movements, the precise way she surveys her surroundings, how she never quite fully relaxes even when in safe company. She’s a soldier. A warrior.

A spy.

Not anymore, perhaps, but some habits never fully die. He knows that more than most.

“I must thank you, stranger, for this gift,” he says, nodding to the pot. “You did not have to go out of your way for me.”

His guest shrugs and keeps stirring. “I was in the area,” she replies.

“That is becoming a common refrain, I see.” He chuckles, thinking back to the first time she stumbled upon his quiet camp. She was haggard and exhausted, bleeding from a cut on her cheek and drenched to the bone from a day of endless rain. She sheltered with him for the night; breaking bread and allowing him to tend to her wounds. She didn’t say much, though her gaze never strayed far from the brilliant bow she carried with her, its pulsing light a beacon in the dark.

It is a magnificent weapon, one seemingly composed entirely of aether. That she still carries it with her only confirms his suspicions—she is no ordinary archer, nor is she a member of the Gods’ Quiver. For what purpose, then, did she return? This is the third time their paths have crossed, one too many for it to be incidental.

And so it is with burning curiosity that he asks his next question. “Have you reconsidered my offer, young one?” Jehantel says, catching her eye.

Her hand slows, the wooden spoon scraping against the sides of the pot. “The answer is still no,” she replies shortly. “I’m not interested.”

“And yet you have found yourself here, in a place not easy to find, far from the roads most travelled. Nevertheless, I am grateful for the company. Rare is it for these old bones to meet new faces.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. With a shrug, she returns to the stew and absorbs herself in tending it, stirring with a little too much intention. A performance, in its own way, and a convincing one. Not all those who playact are actors, just as not all who dance are dancers.

Exhaling a long breath, Jehantel rearranges himself on his log, stretching out his long legs and tipping his hat to the sky. Evening is settling in and the Twelveswood is bristling with activity. Beyond the leafy canopy, a swath of pinkish purple sweeps across the sky like the brushstrokes of a painter, and the first few stars emerge from the haze. Insects hum in the dark, their rhythmic chitters a counterpoint to the hoots of nocturnal birds and the flutter of bat wings. The woods is a symphony in the dusk, its melodies rising and falling in harmonious rhapsody to those with the patience to hear it.

Before him, the campfire dwindles. Humming to himself, he reaches behind the log to dig through his meager belongings and withdraws his lyre. A small, battered thing, much beloved and well trusted. His constant companion. They have journeyed far and wide together, and they will do so again.

Hesitant fingers touch the strings, the familiarity of the movements at war with the stiffness in his joints that now besieges him in his later years. It has been some days since last he played, his hands and wrists requiring rest. There is always a moment’s pause when he returns after a recess, the fear that his fingers will stumble and fall as if the skill earned from years of playing has simply vanished overnight. But the fear is never long-lived, dissipating the moment he closes his eyes and plucks the first few notes.

He plays. He sings. The music soars, the ancient Gridanian battlesong resounding to the very roots of the trees. The forest quiets and even the wind holds its breath, as if the whole of the Twelveswood is listening.

But there is one in the audience who is not.

Jehantel slows, drawing out the last phrase to an aching stop in an elongated ritardando. When he cracks open his eyes, he spots her on the far side of the fire—knees drawn into her chest, head crooked into her shoulder—staring absently into the flames. The stew bubbles away, forgotten.

“You are displeased,” he says softly.

His guest looks up. “No, I…” She sighs and passes a hand across her face. “I’m sorry. It’s lovely.”

“Your countenance would say you think otherwise.”

“I don’t, I…” She loosens her grip on her knees and falls back into her cross-legged position. Though he calls her young one, it has not occurred to him until now just how young she is. Old enough to be long out of the unpredictable ebb and flow of young adulthood, but young enough that she still has much to learn, about herself and the world. Just as he did when he was her age. By the Twelve, he may have even been younger than her when his companions were lost and the course of his life was changed forever. “It’s hard for me to hear, that’s all.”

“The lyre? Its notes are not for everyone.”

“No, the…” She grimaces. “The song. All of it.”

He frowns. “Is it perhaps the lyrics that are not to your taste? I once met a fellow who abhorred rhyming schemes. For what reason I know not, but once he learned to avoid the tavern at night, he was gifted with pleasant dreams.”

Not his best work by any stretch, but it serves its purpose. Her lips twitch—another hidden smile—and she quickly looks away, letting her hair fall across her face.

“It’s not that, either,” she says after a moment. “I don’t like… I’ve never enjoyed… I… never mind.” In the growing dim of twilight, she seems an echo of herself, as if lost in a distant memory. For someone so confident she is strangely tongue-tied, unable or unwilling to explain herself further.

A sentiment he understands well.  

“If the music does not speak to you, it does not speak to you,” Jehantel says gently. “There is no shame in that.”

She laughs darkly. “Oh, it speaks. Believe me, it speaks, like the drunkard at the tavern who doesn’t know when to shut up.” Her gaze wanders, sweeping out from their shelter in the great tree to the forest beyond. She follows the scurrying of squirrels as they dart through the underbrush, the flight of a bat as it arcs through the air, the green glow of a wind sprite dancing above tall blades of grass. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your playing again. I’m sure if you played for anyone else, they would love it. I know it’s precious to you, like it’s precious to a lot of people. But when I hear music like that, I feel like someone is stabbing me in the head. Soft or loud, it doesn’t matter. I need to scream to blot it out or walk away, otherwise I will well and truly lose my mind. That’s why I can’t accept your offer.”

Shaking her head, she returns her attention to the campfire. It is dying in earnest now, reduced to glowing embers and red hot logs. Cursing under her breath, the stranger rises to her feet and fetches kindling. She tosses it on the blackened remains and kneels down, attempting to blow life back into it. When it fails to catch, she tucks her hair back behind her ears in a businesslike manner and hovers her hand above the embers. A ball of fire-aspected aether appears in her palm, yellow-orange and bursting with energy.

The kindling sparks, the fire roars, and the stew continues to bubble.

“There,” she says happily and sits back on her haunches.

Jehantel surveys her curiously, his lyre lying heavily in his lap. “Perhaps you would find it to be a different case if you took it up on your own volition,” he continues. “There is joy to be found in music and song, yes, but as with most events in life, if it is forced upon you without invitation, then it is more anguish than delight.”

She stares at him, the glow of dancing flames reflected in her ruby eyes. “Jehantel…”

He returns her gaze. “You are no archer of the Archers’ Guild, are you?”

“No, not really. How did you know?”

“You brought foreign herbs where a Gridanian would have harvested from their local garden, you bought meat when you could have hunted your own, you just performed an exemplary example of controlled thaumaturgy without a focus, and—most important of all—your bow is attracting moths, my dear.” He nods at the gleaming weapon lying in the grass. A couple of the small creatures flit about it and bounce off its limbs. “Dare I ask where you obtained it? I imagine the story could make for quite the gallant ballad.”

“I don’t think there’s much gallantry in falling down a hole into underground ruins.”

“Perhaps there would not be, but perhaps there would. Where is your sense of imagination and wonder, young one?”

“I just don’t think it would make a good story!” She blows out a puff of air and grabs the spoon, then returns to stirring the pot. “There isn’t anything interesting about getting lost in a maze and tripping traps.”

“And yet even after your escape, you’ve returned for more.”

“I, well—” She cuts off and raises her head, looking at him sharply.

He smiles. “I am of the Twelveswood, my dear. I recognize a Padjali weapon when I see one. And I have heard more than one tale about what awaits in Gelmorra below, and the Wood Wailers’ call for adventurers.”

She falls silent for a moment. To his surprise, her expression softens and she busies herself with the bubbling stew, giving it one final stir. “Dinner’s ready,” she says quietly, scraping the bottom with the spoon. “I think it may be a little burnt… I may have overdone it when I relit the fire.”

“Dinner with company always tastes better than dinner alone. No matter how burnt.”

The stew is, all things considered, delicious. Though she has said many times she is no cook, it is clear that she knows a thing or two about cooking in the wilderness. She may not be a hunter—at least not by the Gridanian definition—but she is at home in the wilds. The mark of someone who has wandered very far indeed.

“If I may, my dear,” Jehantel ventures after some time. “You are a combatant by nature, yes? Perhaps your aversion to music is simply a dislike of the ballads spun by songsters in taverns and inns. The power of song can enchant and captivate an audience, for certain, but it can be so much more. A talent, a skill to shape the very outcome of conflict.”

He glances at her, watching her closely. Though she pretends to be more captivated by her soup than she is by his speech, she sits with a straightened back and an ear turned towards him. “The archer upon the field can shift the tide of battle. It takes a stalwart and steadfast soul to remain behind, to support the company from the rear and watch as their comrades forge ahead only to fall in bloodied soil. How he must have raged then, watching his fellows fall and unable to look away and abandon his duty lest that moment cost another his life. Such inner turmoil gave rise to action, the only action he could take. In desperation, with his bow as a makeshift instrument, he sang and by the strength of his voice, he gave the gift of spirit to his comrades.”

She scrapes the last of her stew out of the bottom of her bowl. “I know the stories of the minstrel companies,” she says flatly. “I think it’s rubbish.”

He raises an eyebrow. Clearing his throat, he sets his bowl down at his feet and clasps his hands in his lap. “By all means,” he invites, gesturing with a hand.

“You see the power of song as one that invigorates on the battlefield or gives comfort to the dying. Beautiful and well-meaning in theory, but in practice? I know something of war music, Eorzea’s not the only realm to have it. What about the war horns, signalling the moment before the charge? Or the sound of a thousand soldiers marching in formation, more important in number than they are as people. What about the klaxons blaring as a warning when your fortress is breached? Or the same damn music they play in the mess hall every night, lulling you into a stupor so you never think twice, or the processional marches when your unit is paraded on display at the capital as a reminder of the good you’re doing for your nation? The anthems sung, again and again, as a reminder of where you come from and what you are fighting for with no room to question why?”

Her eyes glint as she speaks, the words falling faster and faster until her voice rises in a crescendo. “That was the music I was raised on, Jehantel. And there may be a world of difference from the ballads you sing and the songs I heard as a child, but there is one thing that remains the same. In peace time, it may be pleasant and entertaining, but in times of war? It’s propaganda wrapped in romanticism, making you believe whatever your leaders want you to believe.”

The campfire pops, spitting sparks, the crack echoing off into the distant woods.

Jehantel meets her eyes. “Have you considered, young one, that you are a cynic?”

“Have you considered, old one, that you’re a sentimentalist?”

He chuckles. Oh, to be properly scolded by the sharp tongue of youth.

His guest sets her bowl aside. “Perhaps I can’t stand to hear music in the same way you can’t stand to pick up your bow,” she says solemnly. Her gaze passes behind him, peering through the dark to where his bow rests upright against a tree. “You live in the woods, but you’re no hunter. You have the build of an archer, and yet you can’t bring yourself to draw it. A treasured belonging you bring everywhere because you can’t bear to let go, but it makes you sick to look at it.”

Her words strike true. Guilt twists in his gut, fierce and raw, like wound that will always find a way to rip itself open long after the initial injury. He inhales a sharp breath, the pang of familiar tears stinging in his eyes. Still, he holds steadfast and true, and follows her gaze to the Artemis bow.

“When did it happen?” she asks quietly.

His shoulders sag. “Decades ago,” he replies. “I lost my companions. My comrades. My friends. All in a single night of slaughter.”

“And you left everything you knew behind because of it.”

“Aye. I did. A simple minstrel is all I am now.”

“A simple minstrel in search for lost battlesongs.” Though the remark is pointed, he can hear the soft smile behind it. “You have not forgotten who you are, Jehantel.”

His heart lurches and finally he summons the strength to tear his gaze away from the bow. He finds her watching the fire, warming her hands above the flames. The weight of old grief is plain as day, etched across her face. Were she anyone else he would consider playing her a melody, something to soothe the ache in her heart. But she cannot hear the melody for what it is. In her ears, it is corrupted and twisted, malformed from what it should be.

Just like his remembrance of his bow.

Whatever has caused her grief, it has not carried her away from the fight. If anything, it has pushed her towards it. Steeled her, tempered her. Reforged her anew. That is the adaptability of youth.

He clears his throat. “Young one, if I may,” he says hesitantly. “Why do you find the strength to press on?”

His guest exhales a breath and rises to her feet, brushing grass off her clothes. “Because there’s work to be done and a life to live,” she replies. “And if I stop now, it means that they win.”

Wind whistles through the trees, rustling the canopy above. Night has fallen in earnest now, and the Twelveswood is ever more alive.

“Thank you for the stew,” his guest says, stooping to collect her bow. It gleams in her hand, illuminating her in a soft aura of greenish white as she slings it onto her back. “And the company. I should be going now.”

Jehantel raises a hand as if to say farewell, before a new idea gets the better of him. “My dear, if I may,” he says. “Would you sing a melody of your homeland? I will admit I have a certain amount of curiosity.”

She laughs, hands falling to her sides as she finishes adjusting her bow. “No, Jehantel,” she replies. “Goodnight. And goodbye.”

Out through the clearing the former Garlean agent strides, her footfalls soft as the first spring rains. The light of her bow bobs in the distance, growing smaller and smaller until it vanishes into the darkness of the night.

“Farewell, Mistress Malathar,” Jehantel whispers to the trees, a smile on his face.

A third and final visit. He will not see her again.

[vodika-vibes]

What I Wish I Knew

Summary: When Master Yoda makes it a requirement for all Jedi Knights to take a Padawan, it means a lot of very young children end up on the front lines of a war. Plo Koon ends up with an eleven year old padawan, and he turns to Commander Wolffe to explain the realities of their situation to her.

Characters: Commander Wolffe, Plo Koon, Young F!Padawan Reader (all platonic)

Word Count: 761

Warnings: Wolffe has a heavy conversation with the reader

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: Is a lot of what Wolffe says pulled directly from this song, yes. Yes it is. But it works.

“Commander,” General Koon walks over to him, a pensive look on his face, “I’m glad to see you. I was hoping to get your advice on something.”

“My advice, General?” Wolffe is, understandably, confused at the very idea, “I’m happy to help, of course. But I’m not sure what kind of advice I can give you that you don’t already know.”

“It’s always important to get multiple opinions.” General Koon says lightly, “And this is a matter that you might be better equipped at dealing with than myself.”

“Alright,” Wolffe replies slowly, “Go ahead.”

“You might have noticed,” General Koon starts slowly, thoughtfully, “That my Padawan is very…young.”

That might very well be the understatement of the century. She’s hardly the youngest of the new Jedi Commanders, that particular honor lies at Cody’s feet, who has an 8 year old Jedi Commander and it bothers him a lot.

“She’s not terribly young, sir.” Wolffe says awkwardly.

General Koon chuckles, “True. She’s at least old enough to be a Padawan on her own merits, but she is still very young, Commander. Too young for War. Too young to understand the realities, I think.”

“General, what are you asking me to do?”

“Talk to her. Help her understand.”

“Shouldn’t that be your job?” Wolffe asks.

“I think the lesson will stick better coming from you.” General Koon replies quietly, “Can you do this?”

Wolffe sighs and rubs the back of his neck, “Yeah. Yeah, alright. Just…send her to my office when she finishes with her lessons for the day.”

“Of course…and, Commander, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Wolffe remains standing there as General Koon walks away, and then he sighs.

Great. How do you explain war to a Cadet who actually has to take part in it? His training did not cover this.

With that thought in mind, he turns on his heels and heads towards his quarters. Hopefully the short walk will make the words magically appear. He’s not hopeful, though. Odds are he’s going to be winging it.

Half an hour later, there’s a knock on his door, and then it slides open, and a small face peeks in.

She’s…young.

So young.

Too young.

Her hair is tied in twin tails. Twin tails that she needs help putting up still. And her face is still rounded with baby fat.

Wolffe knows, logically, that she’s inching towards puberty. He knows human biology after all, but he can’t help but look at her and see a cadet rather than a jedi.

“Master said that you wanted to see me, Wol-...um, Commander.” She asks as she steps into the room and shuts the door behind her, “Did I do something wrong?”

Wolffe opens his mouth, and the words start coming, “I was younger than you are now, when I was given my first command.” He says, and she turns wide, baffled eyes towards his face, “I led my men into a massacre, I witnessed their deaths first hand.”

Her hands curl around her robes…robes that are too big for her.

“I made every mistake.” Wolffe continues as he stares at her, “And even now, to this day, I lie awake knowing that history has its eyes on me.”

“Why are you telling me this?” She asks, her voice wavering slightly, her eyes even wider.

Good. She understands.

Wolffe circles his desk and kneels in front of her, “Let me tell you what I wish I knew, what I wish someone had told me.” He sets his hands on her shoulders. She’s so small, too small. “You have no control over who lives, who dies, or who tells your story at the end.”

She sniffles and her wide eyes fill with tears. 

Wolffe smiles, and tugs her into a light hug, “I know that we can win.” He says quietly, “I know that greatness lies in you. But you have to remember, from here on out, that history has its eyes on you.”

She hastily wipes her eyes, and she blinks up at him with eyes that are a little more haunted than they were moments earlier. A little less innocent. “...Yes Commander, I think I understand.”

“Good girl.”

She offers him a quick bow, and then she scurries out of the room, and Wolffe leans against his desk. Only time will tell how this chat went, but, hopefully, he got through to her.

Hopefully she’ll understand what he meant.

Hopefully General Koon won’t be too mad about what he just taught her.

His head tilts back, history has its eyes on you indeed.

[coldshrugs]

ffxivwrite - prompt 6: halcyon

characters: mikoto jinba x io laithe (wol) word count: 1412 rating: mature; sensual/sexual content summary: in their downtime between unearthing ivalician myth, io and mikoto spend an evening at kugane's hot spring.

“Is this the way it’s done?” Io looks up from the middle of the Hot Spring, large eyes seeking Mikoto’s reassurance that she is preparing their rice wine bath correctly.

Kugane’s crimson sunset catches on the rivulet of sake flowing from the bottle Io holds. The light is in her hair too, and on her skin, kissing her edges orange and red as she kneels in the water. As etiquette decrees, Io’s thin gauze wrap hangs from a pillar at the water’s edge—clothing is not allowed in the baths.

Mikoto hangs her wrap with Io’s and wades into the comfortably warm water, carrying two porcelain cups and her own bottle of sake. Hells if she knows the right way to pour it, she’s never been here either.

“It seems an appropriate technique. At least, I can think of no better way.”

Io’s laugh is light as she empties the bottle into the shallow, private pool. The steam takes on a soft aroma, honeysuckle and pear, and perhaps the proprietor was onto something when he raved about how relaxing these baths could be. Io tugs at her wrist. “Come on, sit. It’s been a long day in an even longer week. We deserve a break, and I want to hear everything you know about my friends before their accolades. And learn more about you too?”

Mikoto’s thighs break the water with a little splash. She doesn’t look at the droplets sprayed on Io’s arms. That would be inappropriate, since their acquaintanceship was founded on a professional, academic basis. And she certainly doesn’t notice the ones on her chest, collecting into tiny streams that run south until they drop from her—

“Shall I fill the cups?!” Mikoto quickly arranges the small cups on the stone lining the pool's edge, pouring each to the brim. “I can assure you, on the subject of your friends, I was little more than a hanger-on. My time at the Studium was less than exciting, which is why I am venturing farther afield for research that sparks my interest.”

Io takes up a cup. “While I’ve no formal education, I understand the desire to expand one’s horizons. Quite intimately, in fact. To venturing farther afield?”

Mikoto mirrors her, unable to stop the pull of an embarrassingly obvious smile. It must be the joyful click of their toast, that’s all. She pays no mind to the point their knees meet beneath the water. “To venturing farther afield.”

Warmed by the steam, the sake is full, sweet, and easy to sip. The flavor leaves her tongue quickly after each pull, and it is not long before they are each pouring a second cup as their conversation leaves Sharlayan, and a third as they land on relatives. They take that one as an ill-advised shot, agreeing that Kugane is a terrible place to discuss sisterhood.

It’s true these last few weeks have been tiresome. Traveling to Dalmasca, close calls in Rabanastre, and all the documentation in between. That is to say nothing of the familial melodrama of their hosts. Alma suggested they take the weekend to explore Kugane like the average tourist, even going so far as to book their lodging at the Bokaisen Inn. Mikoto thought Io’s quick acceptance was out of politeness, but she’d been in decent spirits as they took in a local theater show and toured the castle gardens yesterday. They spent today combing the markets for obscure trinkets, with Io occasionally dragging her to the next stall by the hand, an adorable rush of intrigue lighting up her face. On their way back to their rooms, Amaji, the proprietor of the Bokaisen Hot Springs, convinced them to have a bath.

When in Kugane…

Io readjusts her legs with another splash. She leans against the low stone, so close to Mikoto that Io’s leg almost overlaps her own. Ripples dampen new bits of their skin, fresh places for the last sliver of sunlight to hang on. Maybe she is imagining Io studying the molten shine on her scales, her expression filling with a soft kind of awe.

Mikoto inhales, taking this opportunity to let her gaze linger on Io’s freckled form as well. There is so much of her; lean arms and long legs, shoulders set in an effortless elegance, and (Mikoto sucks in her bottom lip) the darkened peaks of her exposed chest, stiffened by the evening air. The image flashes in her mind—her tongue on Io’s skin. Would she taste of soft, ripe fruit, like the sake they drink, or the warm water in which they soak?

Best not to let her mind wander to what is under the water…

Their eyes lock through the thin steam. Mikoto’s mouth goes dry when Io’s lips lift on one side.

“Apologies. The wine has made me rude enough to stare.”

“Well…” Mikoto joins Io in leaning on the stone. Would moving closer be unwelcome? “If you are rude then my sense of decorum is truly lost. It’s difficult to keep up formalities in the state we currently find ourselves.”

Io reaches for the bottle between them and pours the next round. “Then we should simply forget the formalities, no? I would prefer to think of us as friends after our adventure, and surely there are more to come.”

She pauses, and there is something strained in it. Despite her playful delivery, the words are not as light as they sound. “If I may be frank, after Ala Mhigo, I could use a friend’s distraction right now.”

She presses the porcelain cup into Mikoto’s hand. There is no room for guessing when Io’s fingers linger on hers longer than necessary. She traces a winding path over Mikoto’s wrist, delicately gliding along the sensitive edge of her scales.

Mikoto takes a long, final sip, savoring the flavor as she looks over Io again. Io watches her drink, lips parting slightly at the sight, and Mikoto cannot believe her luck. She feels certain about her next action.

The cup falls against stone and she shifts onto her knees. Like this, she is a few ilms taller than Io. She can easily cradle her cheek, or push the curtain of half-wet hair over her shoulder, or tilt her chin up, firmly, with her palm. She can do all these things from this angle, and Io melts at the touch. Mikoto replies, “A quick evaluation tells me you are already distracted, Io.”

“Perhaps,” Io whispers. She moves forward, one hand on Mikoto’s waist. They are slightly misaligned with Mikoto kneeling over a still-seated Io, but their bodies are pressed close now, skin to wet skin, and she learns Io’s hands roam easily.

Mikoto leans down. Io’s lips part again, wider this time, wanting. Mikoto teases them with hers, the lightest brush, and Io's reaction sends her head spinning. The quiet moan, her hands dipping past Mikoto’s hips, trying to pull her closer by her rear.

“A mutual distraction then. Between friends.”

Mikoto meets her open mouth. It might be Mikoto, or perhaps it's only this brand of touch, but Io is hungry for her. The steam around them is no match for how their kiss burns. Desperate, messy, but neither cares. The kiss travels. Mikoto pushes Io back against the stone and works down her neck, kisses across her clavicle and, finally, drags her tongue across the tight point of her nipple. Sweetwater and salt—the answer to her earlier query. Mikoto takes it into her mouth fully, driven by the sounds Io tries not to make, then gives the other side of her chest equal treatment. Her natural inclination is to move further down, but she remembers they are in water and pauses.

A softer kiss now, Io’s full lips demanding hers.

Then Mikoto asks, “Shall we go to your room, or mine?”

...

“‘oto? …you alright, Mikoto?”

She hears her name, though her sense of recognition is hazy. It takes a second or two to blink away the fog and return to the present.

To Io kneeling in the Hot Spring, holding a half-poured bottle of sake. 

“Is this the way it’s done?” Dark, wide eyes that she has already witnessed flutter shut at touches she will make tonight. 

Sometimes she hates her version of this “gift.” Generally speaking, she would rather her Echo function in the same manner as Io’s: catching glimpses of the past, unburdened by and unafraid of the future.

Tonight, however, Mikoto is grateful for the certainty.

[eemamminy-art]

hi! 5, 6, & 8 for the fandom ask game!

These are long ass answers so... under the cut they go!!

Fandom/fanfic asks

5. Favorite platonic pairing?

Okay so this might be just a thing between me and my friend, but we have this AU where Emet-selch hid away Ryne/"Minfilia" to keep her away from Hydaelyn's influence, but then he still dies as normal and Zenos is the one to find her alone and rescue her? 🥺 And long story short she's now his little sister who is single-handedly saving him from himself and all the trauma his father had inflicted upon him while trying to give her the childhood he never had. I…… am SO emotional about it!! 😭😭😭 They are THE found family siblings, I just get so soft thinking about them 🥺 Genuinely…!!!

I think the only other one that comes to mind, which idk how much this counts since one half of it is my OC, but I'm thinking very much all the time lately about the friendship between my OC Mal and Sebastian!! If you've been reading my fic you might say, "what friendship? Sebastian is a total dickhead to him!" But!! Trust me!!! It's gonna get there eventually!!!!! They are gonna be talking about their feelings and watching frogs together in no time (it will actually be. A long time. But you'll see!!) I haven't really talked about it much because I don't want someone to be like "ehehehe and maybe they are into each other? 👀" but they are strictly just friends and it is going to stay that way!! 😤 One day I'm gonna cave and draw something cute with them hanging out, just wait and see lol

6. Favorite headcanon?

I think the one I've been lingering on most lately is the one you brought up recently, of Zenos being autistic! It makes so much sense, and I already subscribed to it before but I've been thinking about it more since you brought it up! Thinking about him laying in the wol's lap in the royal menagerie, and they're counting the petals on the flowers together to calm him down. :3 Idk, little things like this!

8. Fandom you're a part of that's the most obscure?

Mmm here's where I wanna split hairs on terminology sorry haha okay so to me "fandom" is like, a community, a place of active participation with other fans: whether that's sharing fan works, looking at/reading fan works, or discussing the canon material. That to me is fandom!

So like, to me I would say something like utapri feels obscure, because I'm very passionate about it and don't really have people to talk to about it in much detail, I'm picking up little crumbs about it from pixiv or tumblr, but it feels so tiny to me. But I know it is a big series in Japan! It was popular in western spaces for a time too, like a decade ago-- is that obscure? I don't know, I don't think so, but it feels obscure in the sense of like, I don't feel as if there is all that much community for me to connect with about it.

There's also games like Omori, where the fandom is largely minors so I haven't wanted to interact with the larger fandom space and thus it feels small-- or games that I am deeply fascinated with like Dead Plate that I have no clue if there's any fandom at all and am a bit scared to look for one because it's a very small indie game and thus feels like any fandom would feel too intimate, somehow-- or games that are so old and obscure that I would love to draw art for (and even have in the past!) but finding anyone who has played them is like a needle in a haystack, like my favorite game of all time, Arcanum!

Is a fandom just "things I like that I like"? Or "things I make fanworks for"? Or "a community where I interact with others about this shared interest"? What's obscure in one of those definitions wouldn't be in another definition! Sorry this is a total non-answer but I can't find a way to answer the question in a satisfying way because the question varies based on how you would define fandom!!

[amoebaforce]

How would you think the scions react to learning that after the final fight against Zenos in EW, the WoL had brought him back aswell for them to keep him alive, then when they also find out the reasoning behind it being that the WoL and Zenos are dating?

anon, this was a juicy one! i was immediately intrigued, then i thought... "what if they all found out at the SAME TIME?"

so that's what i wrote! enjoy! :D

characters featured: Thancred Waters, Urianger Augerelt, Y'shtola Rhul, Estinien Wyrmblood, G'raha Tia, Alphinaud & Alisaie Leveilleur, Zenos yae Galvus tags: angst, secret relationship, mention of violence/grievous injury, Endwalker spoilers!!!, gn!WoL word count: 1408

They’d really done it. Their unhinged plan — flying to the edge of the universe, bringing hope to the wellspring of despair — actually worked. When the starship landed, the sky was blue again, the sun shining bright and hot over the white-washed walls of Sharlayan. The Scions were heroes. And as such, they should have been celebrating their triumph. Or sleeping for a week. But, of course, they were doing neither.

Instead, they were crammed seven-deep into an infirmary waiting room, staring at walls and fidgeting as they waited for the Warrior of Light to emerge from one of the sick rooms. A fairly regular occurrence for them, with one exception. It was not the Warrior convalescing; it was the disgraced prince of Garlemald himself, Zenos viator Galvus. The fact that he swallowed the Mothercrystal’s power and hunted the Warrior to the edge of the universe was dramatic enough as it was, but the fact that the Warrior brought him back afterward? 

Bizarre. That was the unspoken consensus between the Scions. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, unwilling to assume but burning with curiosity all the same. As they pondered a day full of incomprehensible occurrences, the door to Room Two slid open, and the Warrior of Light emerged into the waiting room. Their comrade’s face was grimmer than befits a shard of Azem. The silence was a shell no one wished to break.

Finally, someone exhaled.

“Does he live?” Y’shtola asked, tone held taut. The Warrior merely nodded their head. “How severe are the injuries?”

“Fractured jaw,” the Warrior recited, eyes a little glazed. “One wrist and one leg are broken, and a few ribs, too. Internal bleeding. Bruises and cuts everywhere.”

“What happened out there?” Alphinaud exclaimed. He rose to his feet, and his sister followed, though her eyes were still cast to the floor. “I mean, we almost lost you, and then he teleported aboard, too, and–” 

“Zenos helped me,” the Warrior said suddenly. “We stopped the Song. Then we fought, and I… I couldn’t leave him there.”

Thancred and Urianger exchanged a look. The Warrior took another step into the room, not quite sure who to look at. A thousand emotions swirled through the Scions’ faces. 

“Listen,” Thancred said, “I trust your judgment. If you saw fit to bring him back, I can’t argue.”

“Neither can I,” G’raha interjected. He fidgeted slightly in his seat. “Though I admit I’m a little confused as to why.”

Alisaie crossed her arms. “Me, too,” she muttered. “He’s a real piece of work.”

“People can change,” the Warrior argued, tone verging on defensive. “Look at Yotsuyu. Look at Fordola.”

The Elezen girl twisted her lips, though she couldn’t argue the point. Her brother took a go at it, instead.

“But you just said he went up there to fight you again,” Alphinaud countered. “Clearly he has not grown out of his fascination with harming you.”

“He doesn’t want to harm me,” the Warrior said. “It… It wasn’t like that. He challenges me because I’m his only equal. The only person who could ever hope to be a match to him.”

“What are you saying, exactly?” G’raha asked, ears twitching. 

The Warrior hesitated. Cast their eyes around the room. A sea of faces stared back, all in various stages of bafflement. All faces the Warrior had come to know, love, and respect. They hung their head.

“I’m sorry,” they told the Scions. “I’ve been keeping a secret.” 

In an instant, the room went airless. 

“I beg your pardon?” Y’shtola demanded.

“What does that mean?” Alisaie shouted.

“Now, now,” Urianger said, stepping closer. “None of us have ever presumed to be privy to every facet of our comrade’s personal life. I am sure all of us have some intimate business we’d prefer not to air among ourselves. I cannot fault the Warrior for keeping their conversations with us work-related.”

“This is work-related,” Y’shtola shot back. “Zenos has been a thorn in our side for ages!”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” the Warrior said again. “But after that day in Garlemald, after Alisaie told him off, things changed. We talked. Came to understand each other.”

Thancred frowned. “Well, I guess if anyone could understand a guy like that, it might as well be you…” He trailed off, rubbing his chin.

“So you’ve been meeting with him in secret?” Alphinaud asked. The Warrior nodded.

“And what do you do on these rendezvous with the enemy?” Y’shtola pressed, even as Urianger lifted a brow at her tone.

The Warrior sighed. Memories flooded their mind. Soft nights in Ilsabard, splitting a loaf of rationed bread around the coals of a dying fire. Whispering into the crook of his neck as the sky turned pale.

“We just talked. Not about ‘work’ or anything like that — about life, and the past, and the future. He’s lonely. He wants to move on.”

“Tell that to the people left behind in the snow,” Alisaie snapped, and the Warrior winced, because she was right. 

His freedom wasn’t fair. For acts like his, there had to be consequences. They’d told Zenos as much the first time he showed up at their door. But he showed up again, and again, and the Warrior realized he had nowhere to go. No one to cling to. 

“He’ll atone,” the Warrior said, holding their chin high. “Just like the other architects of the war. I’ll make sure he does.”

“You speak as if you are his shepherd,” Y’shtola said.

When the Warrior did not deny it, the Scions went a little stiller. Another pause.

“Do you… care for him?” G’raha ventured. 

The Warrior’s composed facade cracked. 

“I do,” they confessed. Tears sprung to their eyes. “And I know Zenos has done a lot of bad, but so have I. I put down hordes of the tempered before there was treatment. They were innocent people. Victims. I held the dying in my arms as they told me their lives were less worthy than mine, like it was just that they died and I did not. And all of us who freed Doma and Ala Migho have Garlean blood on our hands. 

“Yes, our righteous cause prevailed, and we saved the star, but I find no peace in that knowledge. I find it only with him. Zenos was groomed for the purpose of destruction, just like I was. We merely served different masters. And now, we both find ourselves at the end of our tasks, with no instructions for our next move. Equally lost. Yes, he is impulsive, and aggressive, and arrogant, but the world isn’t ending anymore — there’s a tomorrow again. One where a man like him might grow and evolve. I have to give him the chance to see it.”

A stunned silence settled over the Scions. Alisaie’s brow knitted with astonishment; Y’shtola’s mouth fell into an ‘O’. The Warrior gritted their teeth, waiting for a wave of scolding, but it never came. Everyone’s faces softened, eyes glazed as if ruminating — everyone but Estinien. He hadn’t said a word in hours, but now the dragoon let out a low chuckle. A smirk graced his lips.

“Didn’t realize you had a thing for blondes,” Estinien said.

Thancred snorted, and with a series of eye rolls and giggles, the tension between the Scions loosened into something breathable. Somewhere deep in the Warrior’s chest, a knot came untied.

“Me, neither,” they replied, allowing themselves a half-smile.

Urianger stepped forward to lay a hand on their shoulder. “Tis plain to me that you have made up your mind,” he said gently. “And just as plain that you hold the prince dear to your heart.”

“Aye,” Y’shtola murmured. “I do not pretend to understand you, my friend, but… I can’t tell you who to love.”

The Warrior wiped their eyes with their sleeve, uttering a teary laugh. G’raha offered a handkerchief, then pulled them into an embrace.

“Whatever makes you happy,” he said, so honest that it made the Warrior cry harder.

Alphinaud smiled to himself, already making a mental checklist of all the ways he could coordinate the prince’s reparation efforts with the Ilsabard Contingent’s. If utilized correctly and led by the Warrior, he thought, Zenos might well be a boon to the reconstruction. In fairness, he didn’t have very many fans left in the area… but that was a bridge to cross later. Right now, all the Warrior should worry about was recovery. Theirs, and their love’s, too.

[elizabethrobertajones]

Frog Time

I'm so bad at tagging people so consider yourself tagged if you want to be :)

B A S I C S

Name: Bounding Frog (redacted roe language name because I forgor)

Nicknames: Frog

Age: 18-22 (ARR-EW)

Nameday: 23rd Sun of the 5th Umbral Moon

Race: Hellsguard Roegadyn

Gender: cis woman

Sexuality: Bi

Profession: She has a summer job working with the hippo riders, although that doesn't pay as well as adventuring, so she's looking forward to Dawntrail and doing more than delivery runs.

P H Y S I C A L     A S P E C T S

Hair: maroon and light pink

Eyes: maroon and light pink

Skin: brown

Tattoos/scars: I headcanon the single choice of tattoos per face for roes are meaningful somehow - I chose coming of age, getting her Adventurer Name, and leaving home, so those were fresh porple swoops over her cheekbones in ARR :D I've only known her as long as she's been Frog and looked like this.

The scar on her nose is from being underhand punted like a rugby ball by an older brother back when she was an orb shaped child. Since adventuring the regular healing has stopped her getting too scarred up from any misadventures.

F A M I L Y

Parents: Notable members of their remote mountain community, maintaining an important set of Arcanima wards around an aetherically dangerous geological fault. Of course, they're good at their jobs so this wasn't very scary as an upbringing. They're a lovely couple and make a hell of a bowl of soup. All else I know about them is they're very supportive and Frog writes to them regularly.

Siblings: like six rowdy older brothers. She was very spoiled by this squad of bodyguards tbh. (Ignore the previous comment about one of them maiming her, they DO love her even if they saw her as a cannonball under other circumstances.) A couple of them left to be mercenaries, uncertain if for Garlemald - they don't write home as thoroughly.

Grandparents: Probably, tbh. We're getting out of my limited perception of Hellguard culture and history but I think I can say the remoteness of their village is an excuse for nothing too terrible to have happened to any of them :P

In-laws and other: She was sort of starting to think of Edmont as a potential in-law and he began acting like it after Events so she's acquired some without marrying. He DID also adopt Aymeric informally, so now she's courting him it's coming back around!

Pets: Multiple, even not counting animal sanctuary beasties. Some she drops by to visit where they're being looked after once she'd raised them or sheltered them for a while (the baby hippo was donated to the hippo riders thankfully before he got too large and hungry for example). Others live at the free company house getting spoiled by the staff. The free company is named after the baby tapir who is the best and cutest. :)

S K I L L S

Abilities: In character, she has yet to find something she isn't good at after a couple of false starts. (ooc is much more of a mess depending on my ability) As an all-jobs all-crafts all-gatherers weirdo she's genuinely alarming to contemplate.

Hobbies: crafting/gathering/fishing is more of a wind down respite than a career calling for her. Canonically she's finished the fishing log... ooc I haven't by a long shot :P She also loves visiting bars and pubs across the world that she's visited to drop in on old friends, or go on foodie tours of places she's liberated. They stole G'raha being a foodie traveller in the dawntrail trailer from her actually.

Kinda always wanted to do a in character review of all the drinking establishments in game.

T R A I T S

Most positive trait: determination and everything that went into being strong enough to do the end walk, which did feel like a culmination of all the positive things they ascribe to the WoL. Since she's living the life of box art Meteor with no plot deviations or alterations except what I can put into the downtime and spaces between cutscenes, I can't argue with times when they REALLY show the admirable heart of the WoL.

Most negative trait: She's not going to say no, so if you need a favour just stand near where she wanders by routinely and look forlorn and you WILL get helped to within an inch of your life.

L I K E S

Colors: royal purple, dark reds and deep blues

Smells: fresh baked anything. Probably also the fresh morning smell when she gets up at ass o'clock to do stretches or whatever gross things morning people do.

Textures: G'raha ears >:)

Drinks: black coffee, red wine, milky tea

O T H E R    D E T A I L S

Smokes: tried it with the Vath and hated it. Still has no idea if Fogweed is a drug or not.

Drinks: socially and merrily with a bottomless liver.

Drugs: nothing harder than caffeine and alcohol.

Mount Issuance: her sweet blue chocobo is called Turbulence and threw off everyone who attempted to ride him before that.

Been Arrested: not outside MSQ run ins with the law

[unionizedwizard]

alone bound and hide for Le Irma :)

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there's no one around to see them?

she's been alone (emotionally so, at least. she's never lived alone in the desert or anything like that) practically her whole life at this point, with a few notable exceptions, the main one being her time at the arcanists' guild where she felt like she truly belonged. this made her unexpected assignment as adventurer by merlwyb that much more painful, and she was by no means close to the scions for the better part of the story - she felt closest to minfilia ("and how's that worked out for you so far?"). her loneliest (and most difficult) time was when she was living with her adoptive family in ul'dah - not being part of the family or ul'dahn society as a whole, but also not fitting in with the servants or her fellow ala mhigan refugees. the twin sisters' governess/tutor was her only ally (she was the one who arranged for her to be sent at mealvaan's gate in the first place). and then of course g'raha disappearing right as she was starting to feel as if she had finally found a friend did not really help. shall we say. she tends to keep people at arms' length and tries to be as self-sufficient and independent as possible as a result

"how do they act when there's no one around to see them?" as a matter of fact, ever since her time in the first (but honestly, i think it started much earlier, and that it was always a lingering concern of hers) she's paranoid about being spied on, watched, and observed. between the exarch and his weird tricky mirror, feo ul and their dream access, emet-selch's (and arbert's) constant presence and observation.... privacy is not really something she can hope for anymore, and this is still something she struggles with to this day (is it really being paranoid if you end up being right most of the time?.......)

hide: What does your OC hide? Why do they hide it?

you know that tweet that's like "my whole life i've always been scared of being Found Out. i don't even know what i was hiding. my whole self, i guess"? that's pretty much it. that being said, she doesn't really lie actively, it's more that she doesn't volunteer information about herself and tends to conceal everything, automatically. like, for example, the fact that nobody even knew about her dramatic amnesia backstory until post SHB when g'raha asked about her childhood (concerning and surprising lack of information about it in the various wol-centered works he'd found over the years) or that she was actually from ala mhigo. ("wait, so you helped liberate your homeland?" "well i don't know about that. it's not like i remember it or anything"). it's been a really funny conversation though. "why didn't you say anything about it before??" "well i just didn't see how relevant or useful it would have been". i assume this is in great part why she was extremely irritated with gaia for the better part of the eden storyline ("well, some of us are black magic-inclined amnesiacs and aren't being unpleasant about it")

(i have to specify that i established this part of her backstory almost immediately after starting the game with her - it was how i (very consciously) created her last name too, although the details came much later, so the fact that they did it not once, but TWICE (and, arguably, three times if you count taynor) (wait. four times? on a technicality unukalhai could qualify, i guess) was UNEXPECTED. bunch of teenagers with amnesia and dark powers on account of The Inherited Soulcurse hanging about in eorzea and beyond. it's like a local species at this point)

[missrosieb]

Closing the distance

------------------------

Pairing: OC WoL x Y'shotla 

Word count: 1,415

Content/Warning: the most massive spoilers for Endwalker, the lightest of PTSD, breakdown, tenderness, sapphic 

AN: 1. The character's name was here first. No judgement. 2. There is a distinct lack of y'shotla gayness in the world and I must change that.

--------------------------

Rose Bosch, the intrepid warrior of light, laid on the bed staring into the ceiling like they had so many times before. To the rest of the world, the room was silent, naught a sound but the breeze in the curtains and the sound of the ocean in the bay. But to her, the silence was the loudest. The problem with saving the world is that there’s no major crisis to face. There’s no one in need of saving. There is no life consuming work to demand your time, energy, and attention. That means she was alone in her thoughts. The celebrations since her and the scion’s return from Ultima Thule and the defeat of Meteion, had occupied them for the past week. The world had never been shy about its never ending bid for their attention, but it felt more draining when there was nothing but praise and congratulations.

Her friends had always been her saving grace, but now it felt more than ever with feast after feast. She was thankful for dark corners with Estinen, and Alphaniud’s keen ability to take on the brunt of diplomatic conversation. She was never good with words and her neck was starting to tense and hurt from nodding. She was thankful for all her friends, G’raha and his gentle reminding her to eat, the shots she took with Thancred, Alisaie, and a begrudging Urianger to loosen up, and y’sh….she grimaced in the dark. It had been a week since their return and outside the close confines of the Ragnarok she had avoided her.

It had been difficult, if she saw Y’Shtola coming at an event she suddenly would make for the bathroom or rush to throw herself in a conversation she’d never remember. Outside of festivities had been harder, she knew the Archon would seek her out and she had to get creative with her hiding. While Y'Shtola would search the warrior’s preferred haunts, the warrior would hide in hers. She had become intimately familiar with the Noumenon, even growing so bored in her cowardice to read some. She didn’t pretend to understand 90% of what she read, she took some notes for conversation when she would be able to face her, desperate to see her rest her chin on her fingers as she explained the foreign concepts to the warrior like she had so many times over the years.

The bravest warrior in the known universe, terrified to face a single Miqo'te in basic conversation. She didn’t know where she was tonight, she had heard her in the hallway saying something about an errand to Krile in passing but she hadn’t heard or seen anything since. The warrior sighed and turned to face the wall, closing her eyes as a sea of horrors that play in her mind on nights like this. She felt on the verge of tears. Everyone, no matter where she went, would ask her what’s next? What does Eoreza’s champion want now that it's all over?

She knew the answer in her heart, yet she avoided her anyway. Suddenly knocking at her chamber door, she sat up, hair standing up, her feline ears alert, her tail coiled with a blanket covering her bare chest.

She opened her mouth to speak, to ask who, but the door opened without warning, and she entered, closing the door behind her. “Don’t even think about jumping out that window, or you’ll just make it worse for yourself.”

A warrior that faced gods and won, and this was the encounter that had her shaking. “I….” The angry Miqo’te in her doorway, cut her off “You have been avoiding me like the plague since we came back and I will know why.” She took a step forward into the moonlight, she didn’t need it, she was radiant to the warrior.

The warrior slouched, not meeting her eyes, nervous hands rubbing one another. “I……” Y’shtola crossed her arms, tapping her foot. The warrior could feel her eyes begin to well with tears, she couldn’t face her, she couldn't take her disappointment, and then the dam broke. She sobbed, folding into herself, her body shook,and her breath short and ragged as she choked on the words she wanted to say. She didn’t notice her sitting on the bed till she was wrapped in the archon’s arms.

Despite it all, despite her childish avoidance, she stood by her, she supported the warrior, the first to rush to her side no matter what may arise. The warrior sank into her chest and the tears flowed like a river, gasping for air, body shaking like the earth under titan. The warrior's hands wrapped around the archon’s waist, hands grasping her shirt in balls, unwilling to let go, afraid to let go.

Then she felt it. Her hand brushing the warrior’s hair, gently stroking, a comfort against the weight of a world crashing down. “Sssshhh….I'm here. I'm right here.” The words were brighter than any light in the darkness of her mind than hydaelyn could have ever given to the warrior. Her breath slowly came back to her, the tears slowed but still present, sniffling softly. They sat like this, for how long it did not matter, despite the circumstances it was bliss to be in her arms.

“It's been too much, hasn't it?” the archon said softly, still stroking the warrior’s hair, still wrapping them in her arms, holding them close. “You've been so strong, so steadfast in your resolve since the beginning, never giving up even when it meant you could die, even when you were dying. You who have saved worlds, countless lives without asking for anything in return. The universe carries a debt that it can never pay to you, and now as you're able to rest, it's all come down hasn't it?”

The warrior couldn't find words, so she did as she was known to do, and nodded the best she could in her current position. “What can be done to ease your soul? What would bring you peace?” And for the first time all evening, the warrior spoke softly. “...you.” She could hear the archon's heart beat faster as she said it, she could feel her arms tighten ever so slightly around her, she could sense the breath that caught in her throat as the warrior spoke.

“I have fought empires and gods and won. I have had my soul ripped from my body and seen my flesh be worn by another. I have been forced to watch loved ones die for me, to make the hardest choices to save the ones we love. I have gone to the edge of the universe and seen the expanses of time and space fold. You think it's been selfless but to me, I know it's selfish.”

“I did it for you. To be by your side just a moment longer. To have another cup of tea with you. To hear you explain magics and science I couldn't dream of comprehending. To hear your laugh after your deadpan sarcasm. I did it for you.”

“I have lost you three times. Every time I feared it was the last. I'm good at punching, or healing a wound but I don't know how to save you when you slipped into the lifestream, not once but twice mind you.” She could feel y’shotla’s cheek burn red at the comment.

“In Ultima Thule, when each of you gave yourself up to pave the way forward. I mourned every one of you but my heart broke when you left. At the end of the universe, I feared it was the end of you. I would have died with Zenos if I couldn't have rescued you and the others.”

The warrior rose up from her chest and looked the archon in the eyes, the warrior’s hands grasping hers. “People keep asking me what's next, what I'll do for my next adventure. What do I want now that it's over. And the answer is you. All I've ever wanted is you.”

The warrior opened her mouth, to say more but the archon moved first. Leaning forward and pressed her lips to the warrior’s, her arms wrapping around her neck pulling her closer, kissing her long and deep as they fell backwards into the bed. For the first time since returning, the warrior knew was next. For the first time in a long time, the warrior knew what it felt like to be at peace.

[anneapocalypse]

One thing I find so frustrating about Thancred's whole arc in Shadowbringers being about Minfilia (besides the fact that she doesn't even get to have feelings about her own death) is that even for all the angst and the flashbacks their relationship is so told and not shown. I know how they met, I know he was in and out of her life when she was a teenager, I know he gave her a knife. But like what is their relationship, to one another, on a personal level? If Thancred and Minfilia were in a room alone together, what would they talk about that isn't Scion business? If they were going to hang out for an afternoon outside of work, what would they do? If they had a personal argument, what would it be about? What would they laugh about together? Do they have any inside jokes?

I see a lot of people lament how little time we had with Moenbryda, and fairly so, but in the brief time we had her, she and Urianger have a dynamic. They have a vibe. You can count the number of scenes they have together on one hand I think, and yet I don't find it difficult to envision pieces of their history, what a private conversation between them would sound like, what they might have argued over, what they would laugh about. They have chemistry onscreen together (and I don't mean romantic chemistry though you could argue that they have that too, I simply mean the kind of chemistry where you can feel the connection between two characters). And it's not like Urianger is any better at expressing emotion than Thancred at that point; he pretty demonstrably isn't. Yet we can still feel that connection, feel that history.

Where is that for Thancred and Minfilia in all of ARR? I'm still looking, wondering if I've missed something, wondering if there was some really significant moment that just went over my head at the time. I can think of one moment: that time when we walk in on Thancred talking to Minfilia after Ifrit, where he's berating himself for letting the WoL down by arriving late, and puts up the cheerful facade again as soon as he realizes they're listening. Clearly then, she was someone he could talk to more earnestly. But it's just so thin, what we see of that connection.

And I think the way Thancred acts in Shadowbringer would be easier for me to swallow on some level if I just had a stronger sense of what he's lost, what he's still holding out hope of getting back, on a tangible level. A sister, he says. Okay. But what did that look like really? It's a lot easier to understand a character's grief when you have a strong frame of reference for what they lost.

[shadowed-vigil]

day 17: sally

noun: a sudden charge out of a besieged place against the enemy; a brief journey or sudden start into activity. characters: warrior of light, grinnaux de dzemael word count: 1926 notes/WARNINGS: noncon/consensual nonconsent if you SQUINT. set during the vault, au/not canonical for my wol

It starts with a chain cinched around her ankle. 

It shouldn’t start with anything. She’s better than this, she’s evaded worse. It’s just — 

She’s fast, but gods, she’s tired. It hasn’t exactly been an easy day; conspiratory whispers in a cleared out bar tumbling into an abrupt interruption, the sheer whiplash of watching a man launched from the top of the stairs at the Knight; the immediate understanding and sense of dread that had accompanied Ser Charibert’s face as he leered over the banister, clearly pleased with his work and eager for more. 

(At least she’d beaten the tar out of him before he’d fled. She had that much to her name, thank the gods.) 

But there was an implication with his attack in the first place; as good as a declaration of war, the walls closing in around her and hers. The confirmation as Lucia relayed the news that the Temple Knights were compromised, that they’d been seized by — 

“This isn’t right,” she’d whispered to Haurchefant, wringing her hands. “I know he’s — well, I know, but —” 

“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he’d soothed, ever an anchor amidst the storm. He smiled at her and gently squeezed her hand. “One way or another.”  ———

She had no way to know for sure what was waiting for her in the Vault. She had her suspicions to be sure — knew there was a fight to be had, that they wouldn’t make it easy for her. 

Adelphel wasn’t exactly who she’d been expecting — not so quick, not so soon. She’d assumed that maybe he was just naive enough to go along with whatever greater plot was at play rather than ask questions. He’s the youngest of them, after all.

She ignores that they’re the same age as she makes the argument in her head, had drawn her weapon all the same. It isn’t like he’d been interested in talking.

Grinnaux, however, has never learned how to shut his mouth.

She’s exhausted by the time she stumbles her way to Chapter House, bloodied and spent and —

“Alone?” he mocks, almost instantly. 

It hurts — wounds her to her core to see him so smug, so willfully mean. She bites her lip to keep it from wobbling. She thought seeing her would hurt him, too. 

(Maybe it did. Maybe, in his way —) 

“No,” she bites back — lies, poorly. “Reinforcements are on their way. It won’t be long.” 

She catches his answering smile, the sneer. 

Still, he indulges her; says, dreadfully soft, already mid-transformation, “Then let’s make this quick.”  ———

So it starts with the chain. 

Better than the gravity manipulation, she supposes — because he might play dirty but he affords her that much to start, the illusion of opportunity, like it doesn’t still paralyze her as he yanks her towards him. She supposes she deserves it for loosing an arrow directly at his head.

(Well — sort of. Because she’d pulled her shot, hope still stirring traitorously in her chest.) 

Furious tears spring to her eyes as she tries to will her limbs to move but can’t, pulse leaping fearfully as she catches the adjustment of his grip on Stampede. Confusion, when he doesn’t just swing at her outright, when he doesn’t hit her when he has her where he wants her. 

Like he’s toying with her. Prolonging the inevitable. 

The unwanted…? 

(Oh, some part of her chides, the whispers of some yet unknown shadow in the recesses of her mind. Perhaps you really are a fool.)

The paralysis doesn’t last long. The moment she feels her fingers twitch, she flings an arm back, reaching wildly for an arrow. 

He even lets her shoot it. 

How benevolent.

It finds purchase past the chainmail beneath his pauldron, breaking past the armor to sink in. It doesn’t seem to phase him in a way that matters, a brief pause as he glances down — and then he just reaches for it to rip it free, lazily snapping the fletching between thumb and forefinger.

“That one was poisoned,” she warns, already reaching for another. 

His answering chuckle comes out cruel, augmented by the aetherial distortion. 

“Is that so?” The first chain tightens, the slip of another snaking up around her other ankle, her wrist. She lifts her bow and he knocks it aside like it’s nothing, grabbing her wrist so tightly she wonders if he means to break it. “Think it’ll matter?”  ———

It doesn’t. 

She’s quick, she’s strong — she is capable, she’s dealt with worse, she — 

Hits the ground so hard it forces the air from her lungs. 

Her vision blurs as she chokes, palms pressed fast and hard against the floor — flexing into claws as she scrambles blindly, heart leaping in her throat when she feels a large, large hand settle against her back, crushing her back down. 

“Don’t,” she croaks, clawing the floor, trying to remember how to breathe properly so that she can scream, “don’t, please, this isn’t fair, this —” 

“No,” he murmurs, “I suppose it isn’t.”  

She writhes and kicks in protest, gasping — still blinking splotches from her vision as she stares bleakly up, the sunlight blinding as it spills through the courtyard windows. Beyond the bloodrush in her ears and his labored breath, she can still make out the faint babble of the fountains, the distant birdsong drifting in from the gardens. 

They’d walked there, together, just the other day. He’d taken her hand and kissed it, his mouth fever warm against her knuckles, watching with amusement as she’d blushed furiously. 

He’d given her something to be properly scandalized over once he was certain that they were alone, taking her jaw in hand and kissing her, full and deep and proper, leaving her dazed and breathless in the aftermath.

She wonders if he’s certain that they’re alone now. He must be, his other hand sliding with promise down the curve of her waist, the sharp backs of his gauntleted fingers snagging her skirts, tearing and ripping as he goes. 

“Grinnaux,” she begs, keening fearfully — can’t even kick her feet anymore, the way the chains hold her fast, “don’t, please, we can’t, you can’t —” 

He laughs like she’s said something funny, tugging her shorts down to her knees, rucking up the tattered remnants of her skirts. She hears the shift of armor, the hollow clatter as pieces hit the floor; feels the sharp nudge of his knee as he forces her legs further apart, spreading her wide. This can’t be happening. He can’t, he can’t — 

She goes very still as he settles over her fully, as she feels something dreadfully large press up against her, prodding crudely at her as he seeks out that slick, wet heat between her legs. 

“That’s — impossible,” she sputters, voice cracking, panicking. “It won’t fit.” 

“Yeah?” He grunts low, pins her down all the more mean. “I’ll make it fit.”

Oh gods, she wishes the floor would swallow her whole. “No,” she tries, “no, you won’t, it won’t —” 

His palm covers her drooling mouth, smothering the useless protest. She writhes in his grip, feels the hard length of him slide against her cunt, teasing, coating himself in her slick. It shouldn’t feel good. She shouldn’t want, doesn’t want — 

His breath fans warm over her neck, lips brushing her temple. “Will you scream, if I let you? Have the others come running — let them watch? They certainly won’t help.” 

Her snarl ends up muffled against his palm, trying desperately to bite down, anything to fight back — like there isn’t an awful, rotten warmth settling low in her stomach, like she isn’t shamefully wet. He adjusts again, cockhead sliding more insistently through her folds — a shift of his hips to notch the tip in.

Her entire body jerks on reflex, straining desperately against her bonds, against him. She claws at the air, teeth sinking into the thick leather of his glove, utterly useless — still somehow enough to have him dislodge his hand as she immediately babbles, words slurring together, “Stop, stop — please, it hurts, it’s too much, it —” 

Miraculously, he does stop. She nearly sobs with relief as he relents, blissfully sliding free from her cunt, leaving her to slump beneath him as she gasps for breath. Perhaps he was still in there, after all; he was still him, he still — 

And then he is him, again, truly — as she feels the abrupt shift behind her, a swirl of aether that leaves him as himself, truly, no distortion to his voice. No longer a primal, but a man. Still large, still heavy, as he keeps her flush between him and the floor. She shivers, his lips warm and soft and achingly familiar as they graze her temple. 

He shifts again, nuzzling into the crook of her neck. “Only because you begged.” 

His hips slam forward and she finally, at last, screams. 

It’s too much, still — always a stretch with him, always an effort to work his cock fully into her snug little cunt. No effort spared at all, this time, as he just fucks into her roughly, seats himself down to the hilt as she bursts into furious tears, thrashing blindly, begging for him to stop, stop —

“When you’re this wet?” he laughs, breathless and snarling and so impossibly mean. “Little liar. Say it like you mean it.” 

She tries. She tries and tries, pleading and sobbing, shuddering so violently she fears she might break with the effort if he doesn’t somehow break her first. All her blind thrashing is for nothing, his aetherial chains holding her fast, his body weight still more than enough to keep her pinned firmly to the floor — as it settles in, all at once, that she is truly helpless. 

Her cunt tightens over him, clenching so hard she feels miserable. 

His laugh is half-groan as he tangles a fist in her hair, gripping at the root to yank her head back, twisting until she whimpers. “You’ve always liked it rough, though — haven’t you, kitten?” His pace increases, the hand on her hip bruising as he holds her steady. “Begging for me to stop like you don’t love the shame, like you won’t come — oh, yes you will, please, like I can’t feel it —” 

To her credit, she tries not to. 

(Tells herself that she tries not to.) 

She still does, though, in the end — tips over the edge as she whimpers helplessly, toes curling in her boots. He lets her shudder through it, cooing softly in her face; the wet, lewd noise with each brutal thrust telling in its own way, echoing off the stone and ringing incessantly in her ears. It isn’t long before his pace sharpens, before he buries into her, makes it impossible to not feel each twitch and spurt of his cock in her aching cunt. He just fucks his spend deeper as he grunts, panting in her ear, telling her to take it, to be still, to be good. 

Like she has a choice.

He stays locked with her, after; one last lazy roll of his hips into the sticky, warm mess he leaves behind, arm still slipped up beneath her hips to hold her flush against him. She makes no immediate effort to move, rendered boneless as she slumps beneath him, her tear-stained cheek resting against the cool marble floor. 

She blinks blearily as he settles over her, a kiss pressed to her temple as her vision swims — as it sharpens, finally, as she catches sight of her bow resting just out of reach. 

She swallows thickly.

He’s still on her. He’s still in her. 

Her hand flexes.

[trauma-official]

OKAY SO, I had this "brilliant" idea of ranting about my experiences with aromanticism 'cause I realised I was trying to push my characters to be together/not live alone and I started to question myself why. There might be some personal stuff, but nothing that could put in danger, so, be aware of that!

Ps: Inglish is not my first language, I WILL try to make it readeble, but every mistake I made is either 'cause I'm stupid or 'cause I'm dyslexic af.

So, I have this book of mine, where there are a lot of aro and ace characters, and I realised that I really disliked the idea of one them not having a romantic relationship(or a qpr), or at least a very strong friendship with someone.

So, as I always do, I start questioning why, why do these characters would need to have 'romantic' relationships. I've always being a big shipper(and a Multishipper!), so maybe I was just doing what I always did, but with MY characters.

So I questioned that, ans I realised that I really dislike the idea of living alone. Because to me living alone equals not having anyone to help you.

Whitch is NOT TRUE! then, why? Why I think like that?

The only possible explanation, my childhood. Of course... so I started thinking, and thinking. And it a made a lot of sense.

I was raised christian, not by my mother(she's atheist), but by my grandmother, and even tho my mother don't believe in god, she still raised me like my oma wanted. Well behaved, capable of cooking from a young age, take care of house and kids... I was expected to find a nice husband and have kids. And I remember that when I was 08(the age my father died), I keep daydreaming about my future husband and house, and I once said that I wanted one thousand kids!

I didn't one thousand kids... I was more interested in math than in either boys or girls. And before I was 11 I didn't even know about lgbtq+ or anything related to non-binary, or lesbian or anything like that. Yet, I still had "crushes" on my friends(mostly girls, but also some boys).

It was weird, to me I thought that if I wanted to spend my time, and energy to know so much about my friends and to keep them happy if I never talked to them, than I must have a crush.. right? But It never goes away, my "crushes" never stop, but also never grow as I talk to them. Now I see it like that: I am a very devouted person to anything I like, and living in a such horrible home, anything that is slightly nice and kind become a new 'obssession', I like to know everything about my friends, and I even try to keep notes sometimes. Some of my friends even say that I look like a stalker, whitch hurt a bit, I'm just trying to be the BEST friend I can, I focus on being good for you, 'cause I never had anyone be nice to me and stay before.

That's why I can't say I have a "best friend" now, 'cause to me they're all the best at being themselfs, and being my friends, simply because they're trying. If a friend come at me and say: "I like you, let's date! for real"(I doubt anyone else besides my gf would want to date me knowing all my conditions lol, but) I would, cause to me, a boyfriend or a girlfriend are basically the same as a friend. I can't see or feel the difference.

That's why started disliking valentines. As a child I believed it was a say of love, but as a grew up, I started being disgusted at how much of it was just "hey, you love your partner so buy them this!", like, I'm the kind of person that would always give my friends chocolate in valentines because I wanted to feel happy and loved, even if, I couldn't give them the kind of love they wanted.

I'm a ambivert, but like. People are nice, give nice people nice rewards. Like a friend who they can count on, a lover, a child, a parent... just don't let them be alone(this doesn't mean harassing or forcing your introverted friend out of their shell, just- "hey, we're here when you want to hang out!")

So, what I wanted to say with all of that is- not very clear, but I realised something about me and the wolrd I live in. About how I write and think about relationships, and- though is not the next...idk, romeo and juliet? Lol. Is stil important, both for me and for my characters. I can now see them with a new light, and I'll try to make what's best for them, and not only what I want, because in the end, I want my characters to be happy...

Thanks for reading✨🎀✨

[demonio-fleurs]

I've decided to start posting some of my WIP's or fics I don't think I'll ever actually finish-- just so that even if I don't post it to ao3 people can still enjoy it.

So here is my first "fic i will never finish" from FFXIV. A

bit of context-- my WoL, Sumire, is from Hingashi, and doesn't worship the Twelve but instead worships the kami. Given Ishgard's xenophobia in ARR thru HW, I've been interested in exploring how Sumire feels in Ishgard during Heavensward, and how the Ishgardians react to her. One idea that came to mind was Edmont questioning her a bit over supper their first night in Foundation, and how she responds to his questioning without revealing anything that could be used against her, or House Fortemps.

It is. Heavily unedited. And unfinished! But I actually am quite proud of it, and wish I could finish it.

“So!” Count Edmont’s voice rung out across the dining room table, breaking the silence that was only occasionally interrupted by the sounds of silverware clinking, or glasses being moved. “Sumire Hanamitsu. The vaunted Warrior of Light. Pray, forgive my curiosity but I cannot help but wonder with a name such as yours… You are from the Far East, are you not?”

Sumire glanced up at the Count, who was seated across the table from her. It was by his own insistence that she had been sat there, and though she knew not the full meaning of it, given the jealous looks both of the fullblood sons had given her, it had some significance. She wondered, briefly, if this was why. To make it easier to direct his questions to her, putting her as the center of the evening’s suppertime show.

Still, his question bothered her, if only slightly. Ser Aymeric himself had directly challenged Alphinaud’s insistence on Ishgard joining the Alliance with her status as a former citizen of Hingashi, and their isolationist policy. There was no way Count Edmont was not aware of that, not when he was risking the status of his own house by taking the Scions in.

Setting down her fork, Sumire gave him her full attention. If she was to be questioned for valuable information, she’d rather it come from a man to whom she owed, and not men who could hardly be bothered to lift a finger to help her. To help them, the Scions. “I am indeed. Hingashi, though I have not been since I first came to Eorzea some six years ago.”

“I see.” Count Edmont said as he lifted his glass of wine, swirling the liquid contents inside before taking a sip. Her glass sat untouched.

“Well I must say, Old Girl, your speech is impeccable! One might hardly tell that you are from the Far East.” Emmanellain proclaimed, and out of the corner of her eye Sumire watched as Alphinaud winced, and heard the other brother, Artoriel, groan.

“Emmanellain.” Count Edmont warned, his tone strict, but Sumire simply smiled, and turned to address Emmanellain herself.

“I could speak in Hingan, should you like. But do not blame me if you get accused of heresy.” She teased, enjoying the way his eyes widened in shock before she continued, looking back at Edmont. “You would be surprised how common it has become, for us. It is only when you are outside of Kugane that you hear our native language being used more frequently.”

It was as though the table breathed a sigh of relief, so sudden was the mood change between all of them. Out of the corner of her eye, Sumire noticed Alphinaud give her a smile, which she happily returned.

“I will admit, it is rare to hear you speak Hingan, my friend.” He said, to which she shrugged in response. She had no interest in going into great detail while she avoided speaking in her native language. Too many memories from when she first arrived in Eorzea that she would rather forget.

“My apologies.” Edmont said, drawing the attention back to himself. “You do not often meet someone from the Far East here in Ishgard, let alone one who might be willing to share information about themselves. Though I know you have spoken briefly to Ser Aymeric of your experiences, I would hear them for myself.”

She paused, head tilted to one side as she considered his words. She hadn’t really spoken to Aymeric too much about Hingashi. In fact, the only thing she could recall saying was that her family had suffered when they spoke out against the bakufu and their isolationist policy as Garlemald marched upon Doma. She wondered what had been inferred from that.

“What would you like to know?” Though willing to answer, Sumire was still wary. Her initial experiences with Ishgard, and it’s High Houses, had taught her that the four houses wielded their pawns against each other in political games without care for how it affected those involved. And she was loathe to reveal anything that could be used against her, or the Scions, should a member of a rival house decide to declare heresy.

Edmont took his time, sipping from his glass of wine before setting it down. “A woman such as you does not just learn how to fight in the manner in which you do so easily. Surely you must have learned the art of combat long before you came to Eorzea. I am curious what spurred you into that path.”

Of course, he asked her the question that was the hardest for her to answer first.

“My grandfather was a martial arts expert.” A diluted truth was what he would get. “My grandmother a dance instructor. Given that they had no other grandchildren, they both taught me that I might carry on their legacy.” And run their shrine…

“Is that why you have such a unique way of fighting, friend?” Haurchefant asked, from her other side. That she was flanked by him and Alphinaud had not been lost to her.

“Unique?” Emmanellain asked, and Artoriel shook his head with a sigh.

“You fool, have you not read any of the reports as you were told?” He asked, his voice dripping with frustration.

Count Edmont stayed quiet though, his piercing eyes staying on her.

How was she to respond? The truth was one she could not just say easily. While most Eorzeans struggled to grasp the concept of the kami, she feared how Ishgard and it’s citizens would react. That she claimed to worship a member of the Twelve that was not their own was enough for them to glare at her.

“My grandparents passed away after I left for Eorzea.” That she paused would not be lost on anyone, she knew, but she hoped it would not lead to further questions, and instead be brushed off as her grieving. “They left me with nothing but their legacy, and their teachings. So I chose to honor them, by taking example from the Dancers of Thavnair.”

[coldshrugs]

mustering

characters: estinien varlineau; io laithe (wol) | pre-relationship word count: 900 note: i'm having a lot of feelings about siblings, accidental family, and the way men love. [divider credit]

“Have you noticed our little shadow? He's been following us since we left the city.”

Io’s ears shift a degree, but Estinien suspects she doesn’t have to apply much focus to pick out the clumsy footsteps in the brush. She grins, eyes trained forward so she doesn’t disturb their company.

“And here I was thinking you'd taken the long way round for my benefit,” she says, and his skin tingles with the shy mischief in her voice.

He turns to her, strafing sideways, then walking backward down the well-worn path that slithers beneath the canopy. He takes stock of both his companions. The boy–in shaggy hair and tattered clothes, creeping through tangled plants several feet behind them–still thinks he’s unseen. And Io–in the dappled green light, she is more beautiful than the image he’s kept in his mind these past months, and looking far more healthy–is only teasing him

Are they back here? In the place they can laugh together, or make jokes that almost touch the heart of the thing that goes unspoken between them?

Noted.

“Two birds and all that.”

That makes her eyes widen, and makes her smile. Estinien is unable to resist joining her, even if he has to look away.

He continues, “I am worried for him, though. One needn’t have a scholar’s wit to see that the merchant has the boy leashed. He’s being used.”

Her ear twitches again when their follower snaps a branch, but they are careful not to give him away.

“You do this often, you know?”

“Hm?”

“You have a knack for finding wayward souls. Little lambs.” Her laugh is a familiar melody, quiet but uncouth. Something he didn’t realize he missed. “It’s like you call to them, or they to you… Like you can’t help but care for them.”

“Hm.” He returns to her side, an arm’s length away. Both too close and too far.

Estinien thinks of his brother, as he often does. A little thing, wiry but tough. He liked to chase the sheep to try to rile them up, to rile Estinien up when it was his watch, but they would simply follow him, as sheep are wont to do. It wasn’t long before he’d made friends of the entire flock and took as much pride in their care as Estinien had. Even with so few years between them, their parents trusted Hamignant to watch over the flock, and Estinien to watch over Hamignant.

He thinks of the first time he saw Alphinaud. Never mind the ghost he saw in the lad’s face… there was something else there. He was lonely and lost, carrying the weight of a sin he could not have predicted. A haunting, and a mirror. In the end, he became a source of inspiration, though it took him far too long to realize it.

Vrtra and Aymeric, too. As alone when he met them as he has been at one point in his life or another. Wanting for company, for connection. Wanting to be chosen based on fondness and merit. Wishing for family.

Lost lambs…

Hamignant’s name hasn’t left his mouth in years.

He wonders if Io would care to learn about him. She is a shepherd too, of a kind. He thinks they might’ve liked each other, or that he would have found a way to make her laugh if nothing else.

“Hami…” he begins. The pause lasts too long. Maybe this is stupid. Why dig up the past when he is only so recently able to see a future?

Io smiles patiently.

“Your brother?”

His eyes fall to the leaf-covered ground and he nods. “He would walk our sheep into the fold from pasture. He named them all. Even if they already had one, he’d change them to something he liked better–insufferable, really. Anyway… when one went missing, he’d beg me to join him in the search, make me scour the fields and nearby forest with him until we found whichever young, or old, or lame sheep had wandered off alone, staring up at us with that look of relief. And I was a bit bigger than him, so I would carry it home while he doted on Flopsy, or Custard, or whatever the fuck he’d named them–” he feels his smile spreading as he shakes his head, and the vacuum in his heart surrounding Hamignant shrinks, just a little. “I suppose what I mean is, he still holds me accountable.”

They walk on in silence–Io looking faraway and wistful, and himself feeling lighter having breathed life into the memory–until the trees spread out and give way to the Perfumed Rise. A mile away, the jewel-green sea meets the pink shore, but the wind carries its roar up the hill.

Io’s steps bring her closer. Out of interest in his story, perhaps. “What will you do with this lamb, then? I presume he intends to follow us to Akyaali… We can’t expect him to find his way back to the city alone.”

Estinien sighs. He already knows how this will play out.

You see, being a brother is much like being a shepherd: watch the horizon for danger, be willing to fight it off, carry home the lost and the hurt. The roles are inseparable for him, because he learned them at the same time, with the same person.

“Focus on convincing Matsya to put in a good word with the locals for our boat. Leave the boy to me.”