#ardbert/reader

[owlespresso]

pollen, chapter 6 tags: fem!reader, reader has a personality, mind-fuckery, non-consensual kissing a/n: it's about 8.5k words. thank you all for your patience. read 1-5 HERE.

The thickets of the Eastern Shroud are labyrinthine. Tangles of bramble and clusters of thistle seem to dog your every move as you stumble through the brush. Whatever path you had been following is lost to you now. You’re not sure how long or how far you have wandered.

The thick canopy makes it nearly impossible to tell whether it is day or not. You have to squint to catch a few thin, silvery beams of moonlight, and they don’t even reach the forest floor. Instead, the ground is illuminated by large bulbous flowers and mushrooms which sport an unearthly glow. Some of them even seem to breathe, exhaling clouds of spores which you’re careful to keep your distance from.

The noises of the forest are suddenly cut through by a round of loud, whooping cheers. You rush towards the sound, past bundles of giant flowers, under and over stray branches and thick vines. Your heart thrums in your ears as you break through the treeline, stepping foot into a wide open clearing.

What first draws your attention is the long table, nearly large enough to touch both sides. It's draped in white, pearlescent cloth. Plentiful platters stacked sumptuously with scrumptious seeming snacks line the surface from end to end. Puffy pastries are unceremoniously snatched by Sylphs and Moogles. It’s a massive gathering of them, more than you have ever seen at once. Yet, most seem to pay you no mind, even as you gawp openly. They’re more interested in each other, their chatter already rising to a dull roar. They pour tea into mismatched cups and down olive-colored bottles of swill, lost to their own revelry.

You can’t entirely recall your reason for being here, but you are almost certain it has nothing to do with this mysterious trouvaille. 

Just as you turn to exit, however, a soft voice calls out from close by.

“Wait!” A Sylph of pinkish hue floats frantically towards you, looking awfully haggard. The disheartened slump of their posture makes them look like a puppet on limp strings. “Don’t go! This one cannot remember the last time we entertained a human guest!” They plead. “This one’s name is Lixio—delighted to make your acquaintance!

You frown. “My apologies, but I have business elsewhere.”

“And it can’t wait? Even for a few moments?” Lixio pleads. You hesitate. “Only a few seconds, even! Mixia and Xixia will not believe this one if this one tells them a human attended the party! Stay long enough for others to witness your presence, at least!”

Mixia and Xixia are this sylph’s friends, you hazard a guess. As desperately as you would like to get back on track and accomplish whatever you had come here to do, fostering amicable relations with the sylphs is crucial to keeping them peaceful. Gridania is already beset by the Ixal and the constant, looming threat of Garlemald’s invasion. You frown.

“I won’t be a very entertaining guest,” you inform them.

“It is the host’s humble duty to entertain,” Lixio chirps. “And you have already captured this one’s most vested interest!”

“You’re putting me on.” You accuse them flatly. They give a mock-gasp, pressing their hands to their cheeks in faux-astonishment.

“This one would never lie about something so important! You would have been shown the door without so much as a toodaloo if you were not so interesting!” they scold, turning around and beckoning you. “Come, come! This one spies an open seat just for you!”

For a reason beyond you, you stumble in tow, through the dark purple grasses and glowing patches of fungi. Lixio leads you to the tail end of the table, where another sylph is facing down two moogles, body shaking with rage as she shrieks.

“Such indolence! This one should banish you to the bogs! A hundred years of the mossy ones sneezing upon you!” they seethe.

“Our deepest apologies!” the moogle clad in a black, pointed hat shouts back above the noise. Several of his fellows at the table’s other end clink their bottles together. “We will replace it at the earliest convenience!”

“Meaningless! The party is happening now!” the sylph cried back in dismay. The moogles offered no response, another coming to tug the both of them into the dense crowd. Staring at where they had once been, you can’t help but take note of the way the black edges seem fuzzy and writhing in ways most mysterious. 

Towering pitcher plants of violet hue spit sparkling pollen clouds into the air above the side of the clearing where you’re seated. You’re not familiar with the species, but you know enough to not trust any of the region’s mysterious flora. You should move, but a steaming cup of tea is unceremoniously shoved in front of you. 

“Made from the best milkroot in all the Shroud!” Lixio crows with no small amount of pride. You swallow, observing the deep rosen liquid with no small amount of skepticism. Pink petals float on the liquid's surface.

“I appreciate it, but I’m not thirsty.” The corners of your lips twitch into what you hope is an appeasing smile. Is not being thirsty a good enough excuse to turn down a drink from your self-declared host? Should you have said you’re allergic? Lixio doesn’t seem to appreciate your refusal, little face scrunching up.

“It is most impolite to refuse your host’s hospitality,” Lixio fumes. Your lips press into a thin, straight line at the shrill pitch of their voice. With each moment, your tolerance rapidly dwindles. The cute charm of the sylph wares off with their newfound brattiness. It is one thing to be patronized by primals and Garlean commanding officers. It is entirely another to have this brussel sprout of a creature attempting to scold you. Why did you humor them at all? The voices around you grate your sensitive ears more with every passing moment, nose growing expeditiously agitating when combined with the bright luminescent colors which crowd every corner of your vision.

“I apologize,” you reply tersely. “But I am not comfortable—”

“Not comfortable!? What else must be done to please you?” Lixio inquires. They lean forward, into your space. One of their little arms knocks into the teacup they dropped before you. Several drops of the rosen liquid splatter onto the tablecloth. 

A shriek splits the air.

“You have ruined this one’s precious dining cloth!” the sylph who was tussling with the moogles mere moments ago turns their attention to your gracious host. They descend upon your gracious host, seizing and pushing Lixio by the shoulders. If not for their innate ability to float, they would have toppled out of their chair and onto the ground. “Ungrateful! Ungrateful, all of you are!”

“Fixia!” Lixio cries. “This one is sorry! This one will clean it—make it look all new and shiny! This one swears!”

“No! This one has had it with lies!” Fixia snaps, curling their tiny, leaflike fingers into the stained cloth. “No more! No! More!” With a strength belied by their slight frame, they pull at the cloth’s edge—and the entire table is upended. Porcelain flies into the air and shatters, drinkware clanging into sterling silver forks and spoons. Pale pastry cream slaps onto dry earth and dark dark grass, tea of scalding temperatures soaking the earth and splashing onto several, unfortunate bystanders.

They shriek and howl, the crowd thrown into immediate disarray. The fae folk dash and fly in all different directions. You slip away in the height of the panic, grateful to be seated so close to the thick treeline. The sounds of the chaos are soon in the far distance. The bright lights halo your silhouette in a smattering of kaleidoscopic color, fading in intensity the further you stray, diving back into the wood with less certainty than you had before the disastrous party. You hadn’t known Sylphs and moogles to mingle so freely. Perhaps they’ve been driven to cooperate by recent threats to the Shroud?

A matter to contemplate later, you decide. You can’t stray from your goal—which happens to be remembering what’s driven you out here in the first place.

In the distance, a river rumbles underneath a curved, wooden bridge. Vines of ivy and purplish leaves intertwine over the suspiciously thin railings. This is the deepest you’ve ever delved into the Eastern Shroud, often put off exploring by the hostile, tempered Sylphs which inhabit the wilds in great abundance. Whatever brought you here was deemed worth the trouble, but your memory remains out of your grasp. Perhaps Meteor would—

You freeze. Hardwood gives way to soft, loamy grass.

Meteor. Ardbert. Where are your teammates? How could you have forgotten them? Revulsion and white hot alarm begin to churn your stomach as you comb through the possibilities, but your thoughts come slow as molasses. Think—think, god dammit! You tap your fist into your temple as if trying to knock your head clear of whatever clogs it. It doesn’t work, of course, leaving you with a sore spot and the paralyzing dread of knowing something is amiss.

You stumble forward, rib cage throbbing dully as one urgent breath shudders out of the next. The air feels thick, like you can’t get enough of it at once—and soon you’re grasping in the dark, struggling to keep yourself upright.

It’s not a horrible place to collapse, you think through the haze. Maybe resting for a while will do you some good, maybe you’re too tired to think. 

You don’t realize you’re sliding down until your knees knock into the dirt. Surely, that too is fine. Surely, no bandit or other neerdowell would venture this deep into the Sylphlands, too terrified of fae magic and ferocious flora. From here, though, it's not too terrible. What you can see from underneath lowering eyelids is all beautiful in a strange, otherworldly manner. Dark purples coalesce with bright, pink petals and white shroom caps which glow soft in the peaceful dark. Yes, there will be plenty of light when you wake.

Someone calls your name. You huff and burrow yourself between the roots of the tree, bark scratching the thick fibre of your robes. You hardly mind the cold, damp bark on your cheek. Just a few minutes. Just a few—

Another shout, closer this time. 

Mere a few winks of peace—

A broad pair of hands seizes your shoulders and shakes, nearly throttling you against the trunk. When your eyes snap open, it's Ardbert’s concerned countenance which greets you.

“Are you with me?” he asks, leaning close. You can count his every eyelash. Relief crashes over you, nearly hard enough to render you breathless. Ardbert. You blink several times, just to make doubly sure that this is no cruel illusion borne of Sylph magic. But you reopen your eyes and he is still crouched in front of you, familiar face wound deep with concern.

“I’m up, I’m up—” you stagger to your feet, if only to avoid another jostling. His gloved hand wraps around your forearm, carrying an alarming majority of your weight. Too often, you forget just how strong your teammates are, just how easily they could snap bone if so prompted. “Are you alright? Where have you been, this whole time?” you gather your wits enough to ask. The adrenaline shakes away the worst of your weariness. 

Ardbert releases you with a haggard sigh, dragging his hand down his face.

“I should be asking you all that,” he begins, exasperated. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to you had you actually fallen asleep?”

“No, do you?” you rub a hand down your face, bleary eyes peering over your fingers as a beat of silence passes. And then another. And then—

“Well, no—but knowing the beasts which skulk around here, it would have been nothing good!” Ardbert blusters. “Now, come on. We have to find my brother.”

“You haven’t seen him?” you inquire. You have to jog a few paces to reach his side before he mellows into a slower stride, exhaling a long suffering sigh. You’ve known him long enough to peer beneath the hardened veneer he wears in the face of all challenges. He’s playing tough, but he’s just as lost as you are. The purple under his eyes is more pronounced than usual. He hasn’t been getting enough sleep. After all of this is over and solved, you’ll procure a tea or tonic to help. And maybe something for his flushed complexion.

His cheeks are a ruddy red, a thin sheen of sweat gracing his visible skin. You could have dismissed it as exertion, likely from roaming wild and reckless around the whispering wood, but the blush has only deepened since you began walking. Petal pink lips part around semi labored breaths.

“No. I haven’t,” Ardbert admits.

“Do you know how long ago you were separated? Did you come in together? I can’t remember a thing.” you confess. You’d not admit it aloud, but having another at your side—having someone to confide in and question is a reassurance you didn’t know you would miss. He’s firm and warm at your side, not as tall as some but still made steep by his warrior’s armor. 

He doesn’t answer. You glance over at him a second time. Still flushed. Feverish. Perhaps he’s allergic to some of the local flora? All manner of suspicious plant and flower populates the darkened boughs of the Twelveswood—each bearing their own fruits and pollen. Gods only know what those spores will do to a person.

“Ardbert? Are you alright?” you press gently.

“I’m fine. I just want to get out of this hellhole,” Ardbert insists brusquely, frown deepening. “Worry about yourself, for once.”

“I’m not the one who’s red as a tomato right now,” you huff, but otherwise keep careful to curb your sass. Quarreling will serve you no purpose in a place so hostile, you remind yourself. 

“It’s as humid as Ifrit’s arse out here,” Ardbert replies in kind, face twisted into a scowl. “And you were about to pass out before I found you—that’s worth more concern than a little bit of heat.” He argues, and you feel a near nauseating wave of deja vu was over you. It’s the beginning of a familiar dance, the steps of which only you two know. You don’t have the energy for it, right now. 

“If you say so. But if you start feeling off—”

Ardbert makes a rough, irritated sound. “You always do this,” he says, exasperated and angry, voice gravelly with the intensity of the emotion. 

“Do what?”

“You always get after both of us for not licking our wounds enough—but you never take proper care of yourself!” It’s an abrupt frustration that comes out of nowhere, like a flame jolting to life on a match. It reaches beyond the routine arguments you’re so used to. It weaves into the surrounding aether, not unlike the potent rage he involves on the battlefield. Pain cracks through the passion, the bottom of his lip beginning to wobble. He stops and turns on you abruptly. 

“What!? Where is this coming from!?” You stumble backwards, nearly tripping over your own coattails in the process. “You can nag me all you want, but let’s just focus on getting out here for now!”

He scoffs. “Really? Going to lecture me on focus when I just found you curled up in the dirt?”

“Oh, come off it! I was exhausted! I’ve been through a lot today, Ardbert, I don’t need you adding onto it—”

“Why not? You seem to have no problem adding everyone else’s rubbish onto your plate!” he snaps. 

Your eyes go wide as his shadow envelops you. “How do you think that makes us feel!?” Sticks and deadened grass crunches underneath his heavy leather boots as he approaches. “We watch you wring the near life out of yourself! Constantly! You forget to eat! You refuse to sleep!” He looms close. You don’t even realize you’re backing up until you bump into a gnarled trunk.

“Useless! It makes us feel useless!” he nearly snarls, fist pummeling into the trunk.  You flinch, withering backwards. The wood splinters beneath his gauntlet, pieces spat out onto your cloak. “We can’t ever help you because you keep letting your goddamn pride get in the way!”

“I’ve never asked for your help!” you splutter, fists clenching at your sides. Animal fear and righteous anger wrestle for dominance in your churning gut. 

“And that’s the entire problem! Your head is so far up your arse that you can’t even see when you need help!” he continues, voice pitching into a desperate shout. His chest is an iron wall, heaving with each labored breath. A wall in front of you, his arms bars. He’s right, you realize, and that’s the most irritating part of it. 

You can’t muster up an adequate reply, too busy searching for an opening. This has gone too far, beyond your typical quarreling. He’s not even a film away, face close enough to note each fine indent of his scowl. The warmth of his body seeps through his armor, even though it really shouldn’t—defying all reason to your muddled senses. The cloying heat that makes it harder to think, harder to wriggle away.

Broad palms cup your jaw. His fingers spread across your cheeks as he forces you to look up—up into glowing, pink eyes. Something in you shatters, then, utterly jarred by the unnatural neon you’re faced with. Only now do you clock how wrong all of him is, how the actors of this play aren’t quite fitting their roles. You open your mouth—to say what you do not know, but the words never quite come. They die on your tongue, because—

He’s kissing you. With warm, soft lips, pressing in and drinking deep of you. A hot tongue pushes into your gasping mouth, chases your own even as you writhe and push at his chest. Faintly, you’re aware of your hand around his wrist. You claw and scramble for purchase on his leathers, attempting to pry away from him. 

The difference in strength is too great, and the air is growing too thin. You’re making noise, little whimpers and whines which he swallows, steals them alongside each dwindling breath. Your consciousness begins to fade, black crackling at the edges—and it’s that which jolts you back into shocking awareness.

You cannot fall here. This is not your Ardbert.

Blind panic surges through your veins, levin crackling underneath your skin. The atmosphere trembles, the very fabric of the cosmos beckoned to your aid. A silvery sphere of raw aether sparks into existence behind him. The nearby foliage pulses, and is drawn into it alongside your companion’s devious duplicate. The fake is torn from you with an enraged animal sound.

You turn on foot and dash madly into the woods before the spell fully triggers, blowing everything it's drawn within to smithereens. You fumble over jutting roots and fallen branches, pulling lungfuls of precious air into your howling lungs. The world flies by in shadows of green and purple and brown, fluorescent mushrooms and flowers puffing clouds of suspicious spores. Only when you are alone do you at last come to a pause—bending over to gasp for much needed air. Your sweaty palm presses up against bark, wincing at the coarse bark against your slicked skin.

The situation is more severe and incomprehensible than it initially appeared. Something in the wood plays cruel tricks on you, to wear the faces of your companions. You’ll never forgive who is responsible, whether it be the Sylphs, the Moogles or any other manner of frivolous forest creature. You’ll slay them yourself, you decide.

With that vow made, you regain your breath and stomp back into the thickets, heading towards the gaping mouth of another treeline. Halfway, you pause, a sudden thought striking you.

If Ardbert had been a doppelganger, were either of your partners ever truly here in the first place?

The panic cooled into listless paranoia as you continued to roam. Desperately, you comb through every corner of your mind for some clue, some context as to why you arrived here in the first place. Your probing turns up frighteningly little. You can recall disembarking an airship and meeting with an official at the Adders Nest. The air was tinged with ripe lilac and honeysuckle until you took the ferry east, over murky waters and through verdant masses of algae. The skiff’s bow cut through the tranquil lake like a knife through warm butter.

That’s all you’re able to discern. The finer details pull away when you reach for them. Something, or someone, has purposefully obfuscated your memories. And all you can do is lumber exhaustedly through their crafted labyrinth, out of options and tools and sapped of every after casting impulsively and without a focus.

A flicker of familiar scarlet teases at the edge of your vision. You snap your head towards it, fears temporarily forgotten. Your gaze darts around in the dark, only to find more of what surrounds you. Deadened trunks and berry purple leaves.

Your shoulders slump, more exasperated with your own eyes for playing tricks on you than affected by the vision itself. A Warrior of Light can’t quake and crumble at the slightest of provocations. You’ve dealt with worse than this, fought stranger foes and outwitted politicians and enemy generals and gods alike. If you can’t surmount this—

A bell-like laugh echoes up and down the wood, a sound you never thought you would hear again.

“Come now, hero! Are you really going to let me run off a third time?” 

Familiar agitation sweeps through you at his mocking lilt. It feels nostalgic, in a way, but you know better than to chase a dismembered voice off in the distance. No matter how achingly familiar. You turn away, and you keep on walking—

“Really? You would ignore me after all we had together?” his voice is in your head, now, flat and disappointed. You whirl around, trembling fist clenched, but your dulled reflexes are but a moment too late. You’ev shoved backwards, and where you swore there had existed solid should is instead a slope covered in sticks which snag and leaves which crunch loud underneath your tumbling body. A pained shout wrenches from your chapped lips, flank landing hard on the dirt. 

You scrape your hands on bark and stone as you pull yourself to your feet. A mere film away is a tangle of bristling brambles. Count your blessings where you can find them, you suppose. Your hands raise to brush the clumped soil off your person. They never get that far.

The dark, still edge of a familiar blade tucks underneath your chin. You can’t remember seeing or hearing anyone approach, but you have often noticed that Meteor moves quieter and more discreetly than anyone in armor has any right to. But he’s keenly aware of that, too. He always makes noise on purpose, just to let you know he’s coming. To not scare you.

But not this time. His eyes are wide and wild, hair knocked into tangles, dirt and blood smudged across his face. The crimson is slick with its freshness. He’s a terrifying vision, hunched above you like a wolf looms over a wounded lamb.

“Meteor,” you rasp, quietest you have ever been, “It’s me—” you find the stones to continue after a long moment, spent in sheer disbelief that he would raise his weapon at you. His face twitches, but the eerie stillness there remains. There’s something anguished in his eyes.

“I’ve heard that, before,” he says ruefully, breathing heavily. “You won’t fool me. Not again.”

“You—what are you talking about—” you stammer. Realization crashes into you a moment later, fast and brutal as a Coerthan gale. “How many of me have you seen?” you can’t help but ask, swallowing against the pinprick of his blade.

He licks a bead of sweat from his lips. Mindlessly, you track the movement.

“Two, now. Ran them both through,” he admits, equal part confession and threat. There’s no wobble in his voice, though. No regret. Sympathy juts through the haze of your fear.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “That you had to—”

“No. Don’t even start.” he mutters, shifts closer.

“I’m real, Meteor. I can prove that I’m real,” you fumble backwards, pulse rumbling in your ears. Your back meets the unyielding stone of a nearby ledgeface, trapped between it and his unforgiving steel. “Ask me something only I would know!”

Meteor’s jaw ticks. “The second one said the same—and they were right,” he swallows. “—when they answered.”

“Then—Then I can just leave!” you exclaim, unable to keep the panic from your voice. You can’t even begin to fathom the implications of what he’s disclosed to you, not while the edge of his blade inches forward, kissing the column of your throat. “I won’t show my face again. I swear it!”

The space between his thick brows scrunches, for the first time breaching his glazed, wild expression. The sword wobbles against your skin, threatening to break it, before he heaves a great sigh and lowers it. You slump against the craggy wall, erupting into a series of sputtering, shaky breaths. You must make a pitiful picture, but the relief is so palpable that you can’t bring yourself to much care.

He remains there, looming and still as a statue, deadly weapon still clutched in his hand.

“I’ll—I’ll just be doing, then,” you assure him once you’ve regained your breath. It kills you to leave him here, distressed and alone, but you can’t solve this conundrum if you’re dead. You’ll have to come back for him, and in the meantime hope he isn’t visited by any other spectors wearing your face.

Though, maybe you should worry more for yourself. The phantom feeling of Ardbert’s hands sticks cold to your skin, a poignant reminder of the danger that lurks.

“There’s an Ardbert imposter running around,” you inform him, wincing as you pull yourself to your feet. A piercing ache throbs in your left side. No doubt it’ll be a nasty bruise, later. “I know you don’t believe me I’m real. I just thought you should—”

His hand cups the underside of your jaw, the cool metal of his gauntlets firm against your overheated skin. The clawed tips prick your cheeks. You blink stupidly, numbly as he seizes you, lifts your head to meet his imposing, keen gaze. He’s analyzing you, you think, searching for something you cannot quite name. Your pulse thrums against his forearm, in your throat, skin brushing against the metal with each throb of blood through the vein.

“Meteor—” you rasp, frozen in place by the weight of his attention alone. A beast brays somewhere in the far distance. The forest squirms and shivers despite a lack of wind.

His eyes shut. He exhales, trembling. He’s testing your measure, yet to what parameters you do not know. You can only linger in the space between the seconds, awaiting his judgment. 

He opens his eyes. “You’re real,” he murmurs. His thumb strokes across your lower lip, careful to mind his claw. His eyes flutter shut, brown lashes tucking against pale cheeks. “I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” you reply automatically, rising to your feet. You know full well that he would never raise arms against you unless under significant duress, unless out of his mind. 

“It isn’t,” Meteor replies coolly, raking a hand through his hair. “But now isn’t the time.”

You don’t reply nor do you give into the sweet relief his presence brings. He looks like he’s struggling with what else to say, lips pulled into a straight line.

“So, let’s pool our information,” you speak up, just to spare him the agony of his own thoughts. There’ll be plenty of time to wallow in his guilt later. You don’t need any more platitudes or pleas for forgiveness—the moment has passed and neither of you should live in it.

Meteor heaves a sigh, “After we arrived in the Shroud, a fog settled over the entire area. I could hardly see my own hands—”

“Forgive me, but why did we come to the Shroud in the first place? I…” you chew on the inside of your cheek, warmth rising to your cheeks. The idea of you forgetting the specifics of a mission is completely out of character, and horribly humiliating. The question gets stuck in your throat, stubborn pride warring with your own rampant need for context, for information. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“We…” Meteor pauses, blinking. His gaze crawls from you, eyes glazing as he stares across the empty clearing. “Came to gather milkroot.”

“...Milkroot?” your eyes narrow. This is a poor time for jokes—the notion that the Scions would send you here to do chores is laughable, but Meteor nods. Dead serious as he’s ever been.

“Over the past moon, it’s grown out of proportion. It’s making the tempered Sylphs come out from deeper in the wood.”

“Alright. So you happen to know where this particularly intrusive patch of milkroot is?” You’re still not sure if you believe him. And if you do happen to believe him, you’re still miffed at being deployed for pest control, of all things. You’ve felled three primals and beasts of equal strength. You are above getting on your knees in the dirt to clean up some random mess.

“I do,” Meteor nods. “But the thicket… It's hard to navigate. I’ve already been lost twice.”

“I can only imagine,” you mumble, sympathetic. “Well, given it's our only lead, we can head there first. Does that sound alright?”

And Meteor nods, by far the most well-behaved tank you have ever met, both in and outside of battle.

He does, taking you through winding pathways, skirting along the very edges of the darkened deepwood. In the distance, you spy purple sylphs and tall plants with wide, spikes maws. Their broad stems rise and fall as if breathing. Clouds of poison expel into the air with each breath. 

“Meteor—” you say, and then swallow. The ambient aether pulses around you—and suddenly you are in that far off distance, surrounded by them on all sides. The air is sickly sweet and sparkling ripples of bright purple glisten through the gloom in undulating waves. You stagger, boots scuffing on the dark dirt. Everything seems to breathe now. Thick trunks and brambled branches, expanding and shrinking. Your gaze lifts to the canopy.

Meteor says your name. A firm hand clasps your wrist, firm and grounding. Your lungs feel tight, throat constricted. Dazed and unfocused as you are, you manage to find his gaze among the swimming dark. Have his eyes always been so bright?

But it’s not enough. You feel yourself crumple, not all at once. one part of the body after the other. Mere moments feel stretched into minutes, your world condensing to stuttered snapshots. Meteor, distraught. An oversized log up top the slope. A lone sylph, faced away from you. Strands of green and stiff purple grass, which tickles your cheek.

And then, the eerie black.

There is no time between when you shut your eyes and reopen them. A fraction of a moment at most. Your eyelids pry open and you are back on your feet, mid-step. 

“Drowsing on the job again, are we?” G’raha Tia says. Your brain stutters, struggling to piece together his presence. It’s beyond jarring. It’s like seeing your smallclothes laid out on the Rising Stones’s Bar. A piece of you, something so close and intimate, dragged out and misplaced for all to see. 

He looks different then the last time you saw him. Both of his eyes are blue. His hair is longer, fastened into a thick but wild braid. A greatbow slung across his back is emblazoned with golden accents and striking blue gemstones. One half of his shirt is blue, the other black. The neckline hangs low, the fabric bunched by a red and black sash wound around his waist. Sheathed daggers and miscellaneous pouches hang off two belts slung underneath it. Another is fastened around his thigh. Some of the gold bangles tied round his arm gloves and thigh high boots sport beads in the shape of the sun and stars. A bard, you think.

“I…” you begin, tongue heavy in your mouth. What had he asked of you, again? You blink, attempting to clear away the lingering haze. 

“You know how that old saying goes—sleep late and you lose the worm and all that,” he says, eyes glimmering. Playful. “And if I’m not mistaken, this will be the third such occasion in which you’ve missed the goal.”

“The third?” your lips peel into a frown, familiar agitation sparking within you. “What are you counting as the first two?”

“If it truly mattered to you, you would have remembered by now,” his smile turns wry, blue eyes so bright and bitter. Your jaw locks, awareness washing over you like grains broken from an hourglass, sands of time settling heavy and suffocating atop your chest. The anger, the pain, the loss—it tastes coppery. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” you protest.

His gaze softens. “You don’t believe that.”

“How would you know? You’re the one who left without so much as a word! You couldn’t even be bothered to leave a note behind, G’raha!” The anger erupts from you all at once, typical restraint worn by the day’s events—the day’s events, you realize. 

This isn’t real. G’raha Tia is long gone. This is another cruel illusion conjured specifically to waste your time and demoralize you. You need to leave.

“Why would I write a note to someone who clearly couldn’t stand me? From the moment we met, you made it painfully clear that you wanted no part of me. You only tolerated my presence, as though I were a coworker’s child getting underfoot. You despised me, but you despised the fact that you needed me even more.” Every word drives into you like a rusty prong of steel, wounds just begun to close reopened and stung, skin split and stitches burst. All at once, you feel speechless and small, no better than a child.

“And you never bothered to examine why I behaved in the manner that I did! Did you not once consider that I only wanted to impress the vaunted Warriors of Light!? To prove that I was worthy to stand at your side!?”

“Stop,” you gasp, and it feels like getting sick, the back of your throat for some reason rubbed raw—like you’ve been running a marathon or screaming out your bedraggled soul. 

“Perhaps, if I felt I could confide in you, I would have told you. Perhaps you could have convinced me to stay.” G’raha continues, voice soft again. The anger and agony is gone, now. Only the stillness of a soul lost or given up, looking out across the short tale of his life in pensive reflection.

 “Perhaps I could have gone on to be an adventurer, too.” His voice is nearly smothered by the sound of wildlife, groans and chirps and howls and clicks erupting around you. The shadows reach out like spindly fingers. Every hair on your body stands on end. Your instincts scream for you to rush forward and shield him from the malignant presence which haunts this horrible, wild place.

Not this time, though. Not for this delusion. Your jaw clenches as the bleak, empty dark encloses on him like a flower’s petals. You stand there, and comfort yourself with the knowledge that this is too a phantasm, a vision spun for the sole sake of your distress.

You blink, and the murky depths disappear. Meteor is standing in front of you, eyes bright and face hard with concern.

“I’m alright,” the words are out of your mouth before you can even think. Automatic, at this point. “We can keep going.”

“I can carry you, if you’re tired.” he informs you. His barely flat delivery makes you wonder whether he’s offering or simply telling you a fun fact. 

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” you sound weaker than you would like, reedier. “And we should both be concerned about the doppelgangers running around. They’re likely Sylph illusions, but simple magicks cannot explain how they knew such intimate details about us.” And about your relationships. The illusory Ardbert’s words had been weighed by honest, clear agony. 

“Perhaps the culprit is no mere Sylph,” he suggests.

“Who would it be, then?” you scoff, kicking a large brand off the path, which has started to thin. Up ahead lay another dark bridge, the river churning below. The area leading up to it is no larger than three films across, and populated by several tangles of bramble. It’s little wonder that the tempered Sylphs of the deepwood don’t make their own fortresses. Nature is more than willing to supply it for them.

Meteor provides you with an informative shrug, leaving you to stew with the possibilities. Frankly, you cannot name a single person who would be privy to the innermost workings of your troublesome trio. Most enemies don’t get close enough for a chance at conversation, and most allies are kept at a strict arm’s length. By you, at least.

You shut your eyes for a moment as your mounting headache returns full force, but a moment is all it takes for you to stub your toe on a stray root. You curse, voice echoing up and down the misty boughs.

Meteor looks at you pointedly, head tilting. You glare.

“No.” you say. 

He takes a step closer. Into your personal space. It takes all of your healer’s patience not to unleash a volley of crass curses directly into his face.

“No, I’m fine,” you firmly insist. “I don’t need any coddling.”

Meteor looks remarkably unimpressed. “What’s your plan, then? Please, enlighten me.” he says, completely flat. “Wander aimlessly through the woods until you twist your ankle on another vine?”

Your face crinkles like you’ve just eaten a serving of Archon Loaf. Since when has he been… so sassy? So prone to backtalk?

No—it makes sense. Being forced to slay even an illusion wearing his face and speaking in his voice would shake you, likely leave you rattled for weeks. So of course he’s on edge, snappier than usual. You take in another deep breath, count to three, and exhale, willing your tempestuous temper away.

“I won’t lie. I am… unsure of the specifics of our situation. However, I have a few theories,” you lean up against the closest tree trunk and roll your head back, shutting your tired eyes. G’raha Tia comes to you in flashes, blue eyes deep and haunted. You settle for staring at the dark canopy instead. 

“We could be inside a sealed space which repeats itself, where elements of terrain are randomly placed to give the illusion that we are genuinely traversing the forest. Such a complex spell requires a skilled caster and a bevy of aether at their disposal. The Sylphs are, for the most part, natural born casters and obtaining the crystals required could be as simple as leading a few unlucky merchants astray from the trodden path.” you finished with a grimace. “A likelier theory is that we’ve been trapped in some kind of dream.

“All three of us together?” Meteor inquires, placid mien betraying no skepticism. It’s a relief that your hypothesis hasn’t been met with immediate disbelief. Some of the tension melts from your body as you open your mouth. 

Before you can speak, someone calls to you from across the clearing.

Meteor shifts into a defensive stance, clean steel of his greatsword aimed at the approaching, darkly dressed figure. It takes you a moment to see it, to genuinely sew the embellished black plate, the eyes deep and wide and hauntingly blue. The tips of his ruffled hair kisses the space where his stubble begins.

No, oh gods, no—the forest fades into black nothingness, silent but it must be laughing. Laughing, because you were foolish enough to not anticipate this. The air struggles to stay in your lungs. Your ears pound, your chest thuds with white hot panic, rolling up your spine and forking into the base of your skull. You can’t handle this, right now. You stare numbly at the approaching form of a second Meteor.

You should have expected this. If the mastermind was able to so seamlessly replicate Ardbert, then it is only reasonable to expect the same of Meteor.

“Stay behind me,” Meteor says, quiet yet uncompromising. As if you plan to step in front of the hulking slab of metal he calls a sword. “Leave us alone. We know you’re an imposter.”

His doppelganger, rather than responding to him directly, looks at you instead, concern writ plain across his furrowed brow. Meteor stands taller to block his view of you, black pauldon sheltering you from that pained, beseeching stare.

“You’re as bold as I expected a Sylph-borne simulacrum to be,” the doppelganger begins. He calls your name, then. 

“Bold accusations from a shade with no proof.” Meteor rebuffs. “I’ll not warn you a second time. Leave, or your Sylph masters will receive what remains of you in hand baskets.”

Traveling together begets familiarity. Yet, you would never claim to know Meteor’s every facet. Yet, you cannot suppress the wave of wrongness that sweeps through you. It’s a sudden chill. In all the times he has stood firm between you and the enemy, he has never been so verbose. No, he cuts down the enemy before they can even spit a word. The sprout of dread burgeons within you, renders you near breathless as you stare at his back, desperate to get a closer look at his eyes.

The other Meteor calls your name a second time.

“I lack the time to bother with paltry words. You know that.” he says, desperate to be known, to be believed. And it’s true. It’s completely true. An idiosyncrasy that only he would be aware of. You step back, instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn’t there. Your boots scuff the dark dirt, and the Meteor who you’ve been accompanying whirls around. He looks like you’ve knocked the wind out of him, staring at you in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you believe him,” he says. His eyes are wild and wide with horror.

“I—I—” It’s much more difficult to defend your position when he’s looking at you like that. It’s a look he only fixes you with on the rare occasions that you get a scrape or cut in battle. Scrutinizing and perhaps annoyed, but feral with concern. Like he’d reach his hands inside of you to fix any misaligned inners. Like he’d sink his teeth into the throat of those responsible. All gnashing fangs and frayed bangs, blood and soot and dirt smudged on his cheeks.

You take another step back. Where there was once a blank dirt road, there is—something, something which slithers around your ankle and pulls, sending you tumbling to the earth. You wince at the initial impact, earlier injuries sent spasming.

A few fulms away, you can see him start in your direction, outline of a curse on his lips. He’s lowered his greatsword by a hair, head craned to snatch a brief look at you. But that’s all it takes.

Sabled steel slices clean through his middle. Blood gushes onto the ground. His armor dents where it’s been cut through, gnarled metal groaning as he crashes to the floor—spasming. Bile rises in the back of your throat as you watch his lips open around strained wheezes. Here, in the dim dark, you are forced to confront your worst fear. The life bleeds out of him, the wound too gaping for your feeble aether to mend. You try, anyway, crawling over dirt and twigs to reach him. A clammy palm presses against the cold, cold curve of his chestplate.

The aether sparks feebly at your fingertips. The skin stings and burns but you push through—it is a mere fraction of the rest of the pain you have been put through today, after all. Beaten and bruised, you try and pour everything which remains into his shuddering body. His torso twitches like a fish brought to land. Fervent even now, in the throes of death. 

His eyes glaze. He stops moving. He’s looking at you, still. 

You choke back a scream.

The body explodes into a sparkling cloud of purple aether, before vanishing altogether. Another imposter, this entire time. Twice now, you have been so thoroughly fooled. You cannot claim to be close friends of either brother, but you know them. You know Ardbert leaves extra tips for bar keepers and inn maids and checks the doors and windows twice each before retiring to bed. You know Meteor only ever haggles in Ul’dah, and that he runs errands for the folk of every settlement and city which you visit. You know when Ardbert is close to lashing out because his jaw locks and he gets this little line on his chin. You know when something is troubling Meteor because he fidgets, most often with his gauntlet straps.

All of that, and still you readily believed their imposters, even made excuses for them! Your hands curl into fists, strands of grass crushed between them. Your eyes stay wide open, the imposter’s last few moments ingrained in your mind’s eye. You will see it every time you blink.

It was a fake, sure, but it still wore his face. It looked at you with his eyes and called out to you in his voice.

Much like the voice that calls to you know. Meteor is wearing a grimace as he makes his way over to you, no doubt disconcerted at having to bring his own doppelganger to the sword.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lips pulled into a disgusted frown. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.” He doesn’t bother asking if you’re alright, because you’re not and you know that much is obvious. You have faith that you look as much of a wreck as you feel. 

You swallow, and do not take his hand, because even this too feels wrong. If you were an ilm less wise, you would reason that paranoia from today’s ordeals has set in. But you now know that nothing in this horrible, labyrinthine place adheres to reason or empathy.

A nearby cluster of tall, bulbous flowers glows bright yellow. The light catches on his armor, his sword and his eyes—which gleam that horrible, acidic violet.

“Stay away from me!” you push yourself to your feet and scramble backwards. “I know what you are, now! Stop hiding behind someone else’s face, you spineless wretch!”

It inhales deeply. Patiently.

“You’re afraid, and it’s affecting how you see things,” he coaxes, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “There’s no need to be afraid. If you would just let me—” His eyes flash a hot pink. He goes silent, arms dropping back to his sides. His expression loses his desperate candor, glazed and empty. You don’t stick around to wonder why. A searing ache burns at your walk-weary legs, exhausted muscles crying out for sweet reprieve. You heave yourself to your feet regardless, ignoring the stubborn pain. The myriad cuts and bruises you’ve amassed since this all began sting and throb. 

You still don’t know what “this” is. You’re still at square one, without a clue or a hope to get you by. All that matters now is getting as far from this newfound imposter as possible. You rush across the clearing, gritting your teeth through the agony.

The imposter says something, then. You’re too distracted to hear, but you can clearly make out the sound of his boots thudding as he gives chase. Animal fear sets your body aflame, bolts of levin dancing up and down your spine. Every heaving gasp burns the back of your dry throat, eyes watering against  a sudden gust of wind. You cannot die here.If you were in better shape, if you hadn’t been run so ragged, perhaps you’d be able to claw your way out of this. But he bridges the distance between you with pathetic ease.

“This a terrible shame to lose someone so skilled,” he says. He shoves an elbow into your mid-back, harsh plate slamming into your spine. “You could have served on His Majesty’s court.”

You crash to the ground for what feels like the thirtieth time today, shuddering and clawing at the dirt, feet kicking out as you attempt to delay the inevitable. Oh god, you realize belatedly, deliriously, that this is where you die. In the dark and alone, covered in sweat and grime, last moments spent wriggling in filth like a pig. This is how they will find you—if anyone even does, rumpled and beaten and bloody—no partners to lend you aid or shield you. No one to fret over your wounds or nag you to rest. 

Ardbert  was right. Black spots swim at the edges of your vision. Behind you, the whoosh of a blade winds through the air.  May it be swift, you pray, and shut your eyes.

The blow never reaches you. 

The sound of a thousand windows shattering nearly blows out your eardrums. The noise is almost a physical force, erupting from the space only a few fulms ahead of you. Tendrils of blinding daylight reach in as the darkened skies seem to fall to pieces, starlit canopy cracking and crumbling to the earth in crystalline shards.

A blur of brown streaks past your left side, but the enraged roar it makes is familiar enough to make your eyes water with tears unshed. Steel screams against steel. In that instant, you drop. All fight leaves your body, head thunking into the soil. You turn your face to the side to avoid a mouthful of dirt. 

You cannot see the full scope of the fight, because a pair of arms circle around your prone body. You’re lifted fast enough to make your head spin, nausea churning in your gut. All you can do is swallow down the acid bile, lest you stain Meteor’s dark plate and leathers. 

Instead you let loose a dry, rasping sob. The nightmare is over. You have nothing else to fear. All of the mysteries you have agonized over will be explained in due time. 

You fall to pieces. Above you, Meteor’s lips are moving, but you can’t make out a word over the shattering and screaming and thrumming of your traitorous heart. He looks down at you, and you would feel guilty at the abject horror and concern written plain across his face if you were not so, so relieved. You cry, and cry, and cry, not even caring when the points and hard flats of his armor jostle your wounds because he is here and he is real. He is so achingly, endlessly and utterly real.

It is relief, not fear, which blurs your vision and runs down your cheeks. Relief deeper than you ever thought you could feel. So deep that you submerge into it, sinking into the merciful empty of a well-deserved sleep.

[buoyfriend]

The WoL Catches A Cold *a-choo* - feat. The Ishgard Elf Husbands, G'raha Tia, Ardbert, Hien & Zenos

@eidechsejaspis asked:

Hello again:)

As new season of coughs ans sneezes approaches I have a question of how would Scions (choose any you like), Aymeric and Zenos (where would we go without him?) react on WoL catching serious cold? Time period is at your liking from Heavenward to adventures in Garlemald:)

Thank you in advance:)

It is sniffles season again! Thank you for asking, this was a really fun one to get back into HC writing with!

Aymeric

In moments you think he's not watching, he is. He adores the way you wince when reading an unpleasant part of a book, how you fidget in Alliance meetings, even the little whistle of your snore. Aymeric notices your first sneeze. It's hard to get allergies in Coerthas, and he recognizes the hacking from your lungs a few days later. This comes for everyone sooner or later, and politely asks you to quarantine yourself for a few days.

He isn't one to miss work to care for a sick partner or spouse but has a very attentive nurse stationed nearby

He has given his full itinerary for the next several days so he can be alerted as soon as you wake up from a much needed, multi-day sleep

Aymeric wouldn't argue that he knows cooking well, but he does make a point to assist in the kitchen after work to make sure that you have soup recommended by the best chirugeon available

He will dodge kisses from you for days to avoid becoming sick himself, but it's too late anyways

When Aymeric finds himself bedridden for a few days, he decides that it was worthwhile to give you that forehead kiss as you slept

Estinien

Estinien is familiar with sickness. Long campaigns through the newly snowy Coerthas as a young knight taught him much of seasonal illnesses. He's seen many a friend drink their weight in bitter root soups, gnaw on wild herbs, and the like to push through it until they can get home. He's seen you sick before. Still, he has some lingering anxiety. You looked far worse than a little aetheryte sickness. He's lost much and more, the thought nags at him that more concern might be warranted.

Estinien has his hands full with travel these days and assures you that he will indeed make it to tea with Vritra tomorrow afternoon

He does not make it to tea with Vritra

Estinien deftly slips into the bedroom but there was no need, you had been out cold for hours by then

He would like to keep his friend from waiting, but not until he's sure that your breathing is steady and your temperature not too high

What a sight to see! Had you been awake, you might have heard Estinien's dress shoes pacing along the floor, his hand nearly to his linkpearl while paralyzed by indecision on whether to cancel or not

He cautiously leaves a glass of water and your linkpearl on the bedside table, just in case, though he may never admit that it was he who placed both there

When he does return home, perhaps an hour earlier than expected, he denies all concern as he settles into bed beside you

Haurchefant

While he's not a sadist, Haurchefant absolutely loves the sight of you ill. You're always off somewhere, but for this small bubble of time, you're here. You're sipping hot chocolate and letting him read poetry to you rather than mailing it off to some distant locale. He can watch your tired face grin and sigh rather than imagining it alone from Camp Dragonhead.

His favorite thing to make for you, of course. Hot chocolate, every day you're sick. No matter how hard it is to get chocolate in Coerthas, no matter how many tall tales he must tell to provision it, you wake up to hot chocolate beside your bed every morning.

"You don't need caffeine, anyways, you need something calming and a smile."

He knows he'll get sick if he sleeps next to you every night, but he's forewarned Camp Dragonhead. Emmanellain can hold his seat for a fortnight, it could be good practice for him.

Haurchefant watches you sleep, sliding his hand under the covers to grasp yours. For once, the cuts and bruises all over you are starting to heal. Days off the road, finally given rest. He wishes you both had more days like this.

G'raha Tia

Just as your new adventures together have begun, you fail to keep up. You run a little slower, stopping after a few paces to lean into a cough, heavy sneezes punctuating the blows you attempt to land on monsters. G'raha is quick to notice but slow to bring it up.

He frets, wringing his hands beside you as you ready yourself for the day, struggling to put on your clothes. As you sigh in failure, dropping yourself onto the bed, G'raha can't help himself.

"You can admit you're sick. I know you've been on the road for a long time. Even with the help of your friends, the path you walk is a lonely one. But you're not alone this time. Let yourself rest and let me take care of the other things that come along?"

G'raha fields the many requests sent your way, trying his best to fulfill them, wondering how you do it all at full health.

In quieter moments, he finds his way to The Last Stand to get your favorite dinner, absolutely purring as he watches your sleepy smile. Alas, your sense of smell is back! You knew exactly what he'd brought you as soon as he opened the bag!

He can't help but laugh to himself as you find yourself exhausted from the walk from your bed to the dining table, cracking jokes about his hero losing the greatest battle thus far.

G'raha's excitement knows no bounds when you announce that you're well enough to continue your travels together. The ruddy cheeks, the soft ear wiggle. No sickness can stop his hero for long.

Ardbert

(Assuming Ardbert is no longer a ghost!)

Ardbert is restless. He hasn't seen an open field, a forest, an ocean in days. He wonders if it's unsupportive to ask if you'd mind if he pops out for a fishing trip tomorrow. Perhaps if you're a little better in the morning?

He's not heartless, he left some hot tea beside your bed and made sure your medicines were in reach.

Though he did have some guilt by the third hour of his fishing adventure. The pangs of guilt grew until an idea sprouted from them.

He racked his mind as he navigated the markets. He had enough fish, but the right peppers...which peppers were correct. Tomatoes. Cream. Potatoes. Something was missing, some spice.

Ardbert has made a mess of things. He has put out the kitchen fire, somehow there are no more clean pots and pans. Yet, the soup is complete! It was his mother's recipe, it always had him right as rain after a day or so.

Though you tried your best to hold a straight face, the soup was...I don't know if it's fair to call it a soup. He looks absolutely crushed.

You fall asleep while he strokes your hair, his head pressed against yours as he told you stories. About Kholusia, fishing for cod with his father, his mother's miracle soup. He asks what they made where you're from, but it's too late. You've already drifted off, dreaming about magic fish.

Oddly enough, from a couple of sips of Ardbert's attempted soup, you feel some measure better. He, on the other hand, has the same horrible wheezing cough you had a day before.

Hien

Hien is not the biggest believer in staying bedridden in a sealed room while sick. He frowns, hating to see you suffer, but a thought springs to mind as he twirls your lank, sweaty hair between his fingers.

The clean air of the Azim Steppe is just as promised. During the day, he haggles in the markets for the best Dzo to make stews, the best leaves to make tea. All while you watch the clouds pass from the hammock outside of your yurt.

It's hard to leave the hammock, not only for the comfort. Where else could you see so many stars? Hien points to his favorites, the brightest, the funniest shapes some constellations make.

There wasn't much for entertainment, but watching Hien in the distance sparring with friends was a welcome sight.

After a few days, he encourages you to come with him. On a little walk, at least. Another day, just a little spar. How do you know you're well if you don't test your skills?

The break from all the noise, the responsibilities, becomes intoxicating to you after some time. Hien never has to rush to some meeting, you never need to leave to be flung at a new problem.

You've been better for a week now, finding yourself testing your sharpness with Hien and his friends every morning. Though you may have been hesitant to travel while sick, the time spent together was precious. Perhaps next time you won't have to be sick to convince yourself to take a break.

Zenos

He's seen you weakened before, brought to your knees by your own frailty. It disappoints him and yet, he's fascinated by it in a way he doesn't quite understand. How could someone so pitiful occupy every hour of his day?

Zenos doesn't agree with the chirugeon, you could power through this with sheer force of will and merely shrugs as the medicines are set on the table.

This could not be what ends the object of his obsession, his first friend. He regularly checks that you're still breathing. He leans in too close to hear that your heart is still beating, only to be rewarded by a wheezing cough into his hair.

His size is quite the advantage, it's not a challenge for him to carry you from place to place. He leans low to the ground, scooping you up as the sight of you exhausted from standing up only leaves him with disgust.

Still, when you fall asleep each night, he leans his head to your chest. Your heart still beats, your skin glittering with sweat. He knew he would see you like this on another day, performing the great feats that brought him to you in the first place. Though he never understood your reasons, he knew you'd be back to fighting the mesmerizing fights that led the two of you here. To share a bed, a home, a life.

[roegadynroost]

FFXIVwrite 2023 - 26 Last

You could feel the light everywhere. Behind your eyes, in your brain, pumping painfully through your veins. It pulsed like fire, burning like frostbite a horrid sting cloying in every fiber of your being.

You've come so far, fought so hard, and yet it had all been for naught. 

The Ascian, Emet-Selch taunted and mocked you still. 

"The gulf between us is a reflection of the disparity between the world as it was...and what it has become."

You wanted to stand, you wanted to fight, but you couldn't. The light was too much. It choked you, it drowned you. You could hear your friends take stand, but you could not, you'd bee brought to your knees. It was too heavy.

"You are a mistake." The Ascian chided "For we who have known perfection, the shattered Source and these shards are ghastly mockeries of the true world. The ephemeral lives you exalt are pale imitations, utterly devoid of meaning."

You'd given it all and for what? You would all die here, on this light flooded reflection. You could not fight. 

How could you let them down now, when your all come so far?

The voices were damped as if you were in water, you could not hear, you could not see, not taste. All that there was, was the light. It surged in you, pushing to get free.

"Why waste your final moments in futile defiance?" Where you moving closer? You could almost make out the Ascian, you could almost hear him. "Weary wanderer─you've no fight left to fight! No life left to live!"

Too much, it was too much, it was in your throat, coating your tongue, you gagged.

There was a commotion around you, but you couldn't make it out.

And then just like that, it stopped. 

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, squinting into the white abyss. The light was still there but something was holding it back. The fog of the unforgiving resplendence had lifted.

"If you had the strength to take another step, could you do it?" Ardbert, it it was Ardbert beside you, your eyes were wide as you looked at him. He was so clear you could swear you could touch him if you just reached out. He peered ahead, unblinking, unflinching in the light. "Could you save our worlds?" he asked.

"You know I could!" You gritted out desperately, hopefully.

Finally the man, no longer a shade, looked at you. In his hand he held out his axe, his intense eyes peering down at you through the glaring incandescent. A plea there, for you to save his world. This was it, this was why he'd been denied his final rest.

"Take it. We fight as one!" Ardbert's voice echoed into the aether. You could feel him as he joined with you, the aether felt strong, it felt familiar. You could feel your strength return to you. You could feel the light shrink as it paled to your own radiance.

"This world is not yours to end. This is our future. Our story." The words fell from your lips, like unto your own, but it was not you alone. Ardbert had granted you a boon and you would not see it squandered. 

You would fight, as you always did. 

To the end. 

To your last breath.

[cinnabun-faerie]

FFXIV HCs & Reactions by Race/Job Masterlist

A/N: I figured I would make one for class/job that way I have a place to put them!

Note: As of right now, I mostly write for Miqo'te!WoL & Viera!WoL, but I am not opposed to writing others. For jobs, I mostly write what I play, but again, I can try to write any! ^-^

Class

Hyur

x

Elezen

x

Lalafell

Thancred with a Lalafell s/o HCs

Miqo'te

Miqo'te!WoL & G'raha Tia getting into catnip for the first time

Miqo'te!WOL being affectionate (Emet-Selch, Erenville, Fandaniel, Hythlodaeus, G'raha Tia)

React to WoL being a Miqo'te (Emet-Selch, Hermes, Hythlodaeus)

Encouraging Miqo'te!WoL who is nervous to show their cat-like behavior (Aymeric, Estinien, Haurchefant, Urianger, Y'shtola)

Miqo'te WoL bunting them (Alisaie, Alphinaud, Estinien, Exarch, Post Reveal-G'raha Tia, Thancred, Urianger, Y'shtola)

Thancred & a Miqo'te HCs

Miqo'te!WoL who bunts & purrs subconsciously when they’re around (Ardbert, Artoirel, Erenville, Gaius)

G’raha with a Miqo’te WoL S/O

Whenever Miqo'te!WoL and Y'shtola sit together, their tails unconsciously wrap around the other’s

WoL loves petting the Miqo'te Scions’ ears (G'raha Tia, Y'shtola)

Miqo'te!WoL & G'raha Tia getting into catnip for the first time

Female Specific Reader

Scions Reaction: Pregnant-Miqo'te!WoL deciding to hide her child in Gridania with her tribe (Alphinaud, Krile, Tataru, Y'shtola) (Part 2 with Thancred)

Roegadyn

x

Au Ra

Reaction to an Au Ra!Reader curling up to them as Ishgard is so cold it makes them want to hibernate (Alphinaud, Aymeric, Haurchefant, Tataru)

Hrothgar

x

Viera

Scions thinking that Viera!WoL is in their 20s and finding out that they’re actually about a century older than that (Alisaie, Alphinaud, Estinien, G'raha Tia, Thancred, Urianger, Y'shtola)

Viera!WoL having their bunny tail (Erenville, Urianger, Zenos)

Scions thinking that Viera!WoL is in their 20s and finding out that they’re actually about a century older than that (Alisaie, Alphinaud, Estinien, G'raha Tia, Thancred, Urianger, Y'shtola)

Gaius who is fond of a Viera WoL

Job

Tank!WoL is reckless yet protective of their S/O (Alphinaud, Urianger)

Reaction: The first time they see the WoL switch from one class to another - each job bringing out a different personality (Alisaie, Alphinaud, Estinien, G'raha Tia, Thancred, Urianger, Y'shtola)

HC: Short-Healer!WoL deadlifting them & carrying them out of danger (Aymeric, Estinien, G'raha Tia, Haurchefant, Thancred, Urianger)

Dragoon

Reaction: Dragoon!WoL Getting possessed by Nidhogg instead of Estinien (Alphinaud, Aymeric, Cid, Edmont, Estinien, Thancred, Y'shtola)

Dragoon!WoL going off the theory of Alberic gave the them and Estinien actual dragon blood without their knowledge of what it was at the time

Bard

Bard!WoL performing music (Artoirel, Aymeric, Estinien, G'raha Tia, Haurchefant, Thancred, Urianger)

[mosthuggableffxiv]

As Promised: The Ardbert Essay

(specifically the one that didn't come from a wiki)

Full text below

Alright, fine, 8 paragraphs? Honestly, I should've seen this coming. But here's the thing, mod. My original Ardbert submission was just his Wikipedia article copied and pasted. I mean, what more could I say? His story and pain speaks for itself, and for that reason, I thought there was no better propaganda for Ardbert than who he is. But I see that is not enough, and so, I am responding with a fully fleshed out essay of at least 10 paragraphs.I hope it goes to show the lengths to which I, @teridani, believe that Ardbert Hylfyst needs a hug. (Or, depending on your interpretation, "is the most huggable". More on that later.)

When Ardbert first appeared in patch 3.1, it was a mysterious hook meant to drawn us players in. Who is this guy? Why is he speaking with the Ascians? The Warriors of Darkness appear as a threat. When Ardbert first introduces his group, dear mods, I laughed. I was playing through the game with a friend and I found it hilarious that they would be called "warriors of darkness". It's not really any sillier than "warriors of light", but the idea that our enemies, our RIVALS, would just use that name was... so silly. I did like their style, though.

I was a bit frustrated at the return of the Ascians once again. You must remember, dear mods, that I was playing through the entirely of ARR just recently! I was binging the story! And the early Ascian characterization left a lot to be desired. So, here I was, believing Ardbert and his crew were nothing more than Sunday cartoon villians-of-the-week, here to end the world just because. This initial reaction is important for you to understand how big of a switch first impressions were to where I'm at now.

Ardbert himself seemed to relish in this role early-on. He fell into the role of a villain easily, casting aside any doubts towards his goal. He had to. Look what being a hero had brought him and his friends. Still, a degree of hesitation persisted. Ardbert didn't really want to hurt anyone. He never did. He says himself, "We were just adventurers trying to make our way. An odd job here, a favor there—we never aspired to be Warriors of Light." His feelings towards being a hero, I believe, mirror his feelings towards being a villain. Swept up in the tides of fate and tragedy, there were no other paths left for him.

Urianger was the one who brought up the idea of luring out the Warrior of Light, casting the realm into chaos with their death. Of course we have the blessing of hindsight to understand that Urianger never wanted them to come to harm, but Ardbert steeled his resolve and set forth. All he said was that he would make it quick. A mercy in its own right. There is no way Ardbert didn't see a reflection of himself in the WoL, an echo of the same unsundured soul. Through his eyes, eventually any hero who espouses the virtues of *one* element, be it Light or Dark, would doom their world. It seemed a choice between two paths with the same end: doom the Source now, or later. The only difference is how many he could save by doing the former.

Over the course of the finale to his Heavensward arc, Ardbert reveals the missing pieces to the puzzle to us. How he and his friends took their lives just to have a chance at saving their world. As heroes to their world to the very last, they participated in the ultimate sacrifice. I believe I do not need to remind readers of this line. "We did everything right, everything that was asked of us, and still—still it came to this!" How could you not want to give this man a hug? When you think of the pain, regret, grief, and anger he must be feeling? When you see the blind unfairness of the world rest entirely upon him?

In the end, the most heartbreaking thing was when the Warriors of Darkness placed their trust in Minfilia and Ardbert simply asked if she could take them home. They had failed, it was all up to someone else, and at the very end without any other choice... They chose to go back to their home that they destroyed. If only Ardbert could've passed on with his friends, at the very time, perhaps he would have felt some degree of finality. Some measure of redemption. But instead, they were gone along with Minfilia, and he was left for a hundred years alone.

Whether he whispered or screamed, not a soul could hear his voice. His body and mind were barely held together by the time the WoL came to the First. Devoid of hope, he still followed the WoL and watched as piece by piece, sky by sky, night returned to the Norvrandt that he alone beared as his mistake. Ardbert was denied, again and again, any chance of redemption. The only person who could bring hope and joy back to him was the WoL. Of course he was more than willing to sacrifice himself once again at the end of it all—for such a person, he would be willing to do that and more.

I also promised to speak more on his huggability, so I will do so here. First, we look at his height. As an average height Hume, Ardbert comes in around 5ft 9in, or 175cm. I can't attached a picture here, I don't think, but if you find a height comparison tracker and input the 50% height data of each race, I believe it will be of use to you. I used the Male 50% sliders because I'm nonbinary and I get to make the rules here. Au'Ra: Ardbert comes up to shoulder height, a perfect height to rest his head upon your clavicle and wrap his arms around your waist. Roegadyn: Oh baby! How couldn't you hug him? Ardbert comes up to a Roegadyn's tit- I mean chest. There's a reaction image somewhere on the internet about this very thing. I'll leave it up to you to find. Miqo'te: At 5ft 5, Ardbert is slightly taller than the average Miqo'te, and you can rest your head extremely easily on his shoulders. As he wears traditionally Warrior attire, this means nice, high quality leathers and soft furs. Of course, he'd take off his shoulder pauldrons for you. Elezen: The average Elezen can rest their chin perfectly atop his head. I believe that says all I need to say. Viera: A Viera is slightly taller than Ardbert, and but not overtly so. At this height, neither person would have to bend or stretch too far: they would fit like puzzle pieces. Lalafell: For this, not only will I note that a Lalafell could be completely wrapped up in Ardbert's arms, but I ask you to remember one of the other best characters of Shadowbringers. Lamitt wouldn't fall for ANY person who wasn't extremely huggable. Her endorsement says it all. Hrothgar: A Hrothgar and Au'ra are only 2 inches apart, but ther's something more I would like to note. Ardbert has both scruffy hair and facial hair! Like whiskers and fur of his own, he would be a perfect nuzzling companion.

So! For the true hero of the First, for one who gave us the push we needed at the end, who has suffered more than any person should ever have to, I believe we owe it to Ardbert to give him a hug. And also, we owe it to ourselves to hug him, regardless of our height, because as proven time and time again in the story... Ardbert loves you. Thank you for reading.

[amoebaforce]

FFXIV ass-slapping head canons, part 2!

a dear reader sent me a DM asking for a sequel to this post, featuring Ardbert and some of the Ancients. of course, I couldn't say no! enjoy! :)

characters featured: Ardbert, Hades, Venat, Hythlodaeus, Hermes tags: fluff, Shadowbringers and Endwalker spoilers, gn!WoL

Ardbert hasn’t been really, truly touched in a very long time — so if the WoL opened with an ass-slap, he might actually black out. No matter how slow they start, though, he sputters for a long moment, and by the time he’s recovered, the WoL is long gone. Even hours later, Ardbert’s head won’t stop spinning. He has too many questions… Questions he stumbles through when he gets the WoL alone at the end of the night, silently praying he doesn’t sound like a complete fool when he asks why, exactly, they have decided to focus on his rear. The answer doesn’t help his confusion, really, but Ardbert is flattered nonetheless.

Hades knows he can’t encourage them. Encouraging them will only make things worse. The problem is, the WoL interprets every reaction as encouragement. It doesn’t matter if he yells, threatens, glares… even a lack of reaction is a reaction to them! They run away laughing every time, frolicking like a giddy foal, and he can do nothing to stop them. It’s maddening. Hades’ only respite is the knowledge that his stored animosity can be redirected into his revenge. And what sweet vengeance it shall be…

Venat is thoroughly amused by the WoL’s antics, but don’t get it twisted — she will be getting even. Sure, she might laugh while they scurry off, having successfully landed a blow on her behind, but she knows it’s only a matter of time before the Warrior tries it again. And when they do, Venat will be ready. She’ll catch them by the wrist and spin them around, pinning them in place before they even realize she’s moved, relishing the way their eyes widen when their fate comes into focus. “What fun,” she’ll say. “Now it is my turn.”

Hythlodaeus is confused at first. Where he’s from, people aren’t quite so handsy in public, so it takes him a while to grasp the concept. However, once he realizes what’s going on, Hythlodaeus finds it endearingly fun. So fun, in fact, that he’d like to get in on the action. He’ll try to catch the WoL in the act, spinning on his heels when he hears the crack of a twig or the creak of a floorboard. If they’re especially good at hiding, they might be able to avoid detection. If not, the WoL had better start running. Hythlodaeus is faster than he lets on, and if he catches them, it’s going to leave a mark.

At the first strike of the Warrior’s hand, Hermes is taken aback. He spins and watches the WoL flit away, and promptly loses himself in a series of ponderings. What was the meaning of such an act, and why would they choose him as the target of this strange behavior? Was it some kind of posturing? Were they… making fun of him? Hermes must know! He tracks the WoL down and interrogates them until the truth is revealed. They did it because they liked him? What sort of sense does that make? Hermes shakes his head, rubbing his jaw with one thumb. “I suppose I still have much to learn about you,” he mutters.

[inkveined]

my n/sfw ffxiv x (gender neutral or fem) wol/reader writing and headcanon requests are: OPEN !!

i am willing to write for the following characters (bolded is preferred): aymeric, estinien, haurchefant, artoirel, thancred, urianger, g’raha, cid, ardbert

i’ve only gotten to post-hw msq wise so please do not request characters beyond that point for i will not be able to write them well enough! 3 characters max per ask. 🕊️🪦 also welcome.

⚠️ DISCLAIMER: i reserve the right to refuse any request for personal reasons or otherwise.

[svenituse]

Ah thanks for the tag! I don't really know anybody on tumblr since I'm mainly on twitter, but I'll just answer for fun :3

Lout of Count's Family - Alver Crossman

Final Fantasy XIV - Ardbert

Fullmetal Alchemist - Roy Mustang

Mob Psycho 100 - Serizawa Katsuya

Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint - Yoo Joonghyuk

Hades - Hermes

Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle - Kurogane

One Piece - Smoker

Eyeshield 21 - Hiruma Yoichi

NU: Carnival 🔞 - Topper 😂

waugh! @solcarow got my ass 10 fandoms/10 characters/10 tags

ty for the tag beloved <3333

1) orv - gotta be han sooyoung my evil terrible wife with her big horrible evil heart

2) dc - hiiiii minhkhoa khan helloooo horrible awful emotionally repressed man get his as in therapy stat!!!! i want to put him in a microwave

3) star wars - anakin skywalker <3 little tragic figure babygirl i would like to make him commit more crimes actually i think he didnt do enough

4) ace attorney - PENIS WRITE!!! FREAKZOID OF A MAN

5) jjba - basic bitch answer but kujo jotaro!!! marine biology loser boy he is my princess i put him through incalculable horrors

6) fmab - edward elric my darling boy. my son. i miss him i need to watch fmab again (<-watched fmab not three months ago)

7) gekkan shoujo nozaki kun - its gotta be hori masayuki man. believes hes the most hinged but is in fact perhaps the most freak of them all. but tbh you could say that about any of the main cast, ,,

8) great pretender - LAURENT THIERRY HORRIBLE HORRIBLE TRASH MAN I HATE HIM HE SUCKS HE OCCUPIES INCALCULABLE TIME IN MY THOUGHTS

9) sandman - (i am aware this overlaps w dc shhhhh it counts i swear) death. i rewatch ep 6 of the show like once a week minimum.

10) hxh - gon! love that lil guy im putting him in a petri dish and studying him with a microscope

gyeaugh 10 tags. uh. @buqbite @controlaltdelete-my-existence @toast-of-eden @kuroko99 @harpieisthecarpie @rusquared @clockwards @noparg @not-a-kelpie @macaronijail06 dont feel obligated to participate it is merely A Game beloveds

[miss-tc-nova]

Beach Date - Ardbert, Estinien, Thancred

Eheh...I’m not exactly a beach gal myself, but I’ll fucking try! Regardless, hell yeah they need it!

I also apologize a bit for Ardbert and Estinien, I’ve never written them before. 

~~~~~

Beach Date

Ardbert:

Don’t even need to ask twice. You ask him to go to the beach and he says, “Alright. When?”

He’ll happily recount some other adventures he’s had with the ocean on your way, giving you the idea that perhaps this may not have been the best plan.

Who knows what kind of adventure he’ll turn this into…Oh well. He seems happy.

The man stays back to help you set up a comfortable little spot on the beach, but you can tell he can’t wait to get in the water by the frequent glances.

But if you give him any indication that you’ll be fine to set up alone, he’ll take you up on that and shed his shirt to hop the hot sand towards the water.

He’s almost like a child, enjoying the water, splashing around.

It’s been too long since he had a moment to be that care-free adventurer he used to be.

If you wait too long to join him, Ardbert will come for you. He’ll throw you in himself if he has to, consequences be damned not that he wouldn’t mind a bit of cat and mouse.

Because of course he’s not going to enjoy his brief freedom without you.

But if you’re not up to a lot of water, he’d easily be captivated by you playing in the sand.

Soon enough, it becomes a sand castle contest, until he gets a bit too ambitious and it crumbles.

So his efforts turn to yours until you two quickly have the most expansive sand village with an enormous moat. It’s not pretty, but it’s still impressive.

Until high tide drowns all your sand villagers.

Water polo, sand castles, drawing hearts in the sand: he’ll do all those little clichés with you just because he can.

It may be a bit high energy with Ardbert, but it’s a day he needed to be the man you know he really is.

 Estinien:

Estinien has never felt so exposed in his life except maybe that one time you…never mind.

Here he is, running around in shorts and a simple shirt, sitting beneath the hot sun in the sand—exactly the opposite of everything he’s used to.

And he’ll grumble about the whole ordeal the entire time but, in reality, he’ll suffer anything if it’s you who asked for it.

But he’ll die before he tells you that.

Put an umbrella over this man. He burns.

You’re also going to have to coerce him into putting on sunscreen. Though he may be able to be bribed if you offer to put it on for him.

Because he’s secretly a sucker for your every touch.

He’s entirely content to sit under the umbrella and watch you play in the water. Which is entirely no fun.

So, to get him into the water, if you’re nice, a few “pretty please” coupled with puppy eyes will get him to cave.

If you’re not, a bucket of water thrown on him will definitely get him racing after you into the waves. Just be prepared to be launched across the water should he catch you.

Once in the water, he’s a floater—an observant buoy as you swim circles around him.

He particularly enjoys when you latch onto him, just floating together in the waves, no heavy armor, no stress, no burdens.

Just the two of you together in a weightless peace.

But he still misses his armor.

Still, in the end, he enjoyed himself, if only because it was a day with you.

Good luck getting him to admit that though.

 Thancred:

Look, Thancred doesn’t initially agree to your offer of a day at the beach, but the more you talk about how nice it would be, the more he comes around to the idea.

Warm sand between his toes, the white noise of the beach crashing ashore, his partner at his side in a bathing suit.

Alright. He’s in. It really didn’t take that much effort to convince him.

He’ll help you set up your little spot and happily help you with sunscreen.

In the water or in the shade, he’ll join you wherever you prefer because that’s what he prefers.

Like Estinien, he doesn’t mind being the floatation device in the water.

Or, if you’re up for it, you can always swim into deeper waters an actually explore the water since, you know, he’s got amazing lung capacity and you can breathe water.

On land, he enjoys the shade, but he may just let you bury him in the sand, just for the sake of you enjoying yourself.

As the day goes, more of the old Thancred begins to slip through.

With you, he’s happier, open, and maybe a little flirty, but there’s no denying that all that’s been somewhat doused by the events of The First.

And it may never all come back, and that’s fine too.

He grew into a better person.

But seeing some of the old, more-carefree Thancred reminds you that things are okay right now.

The day gets better when it threatens to end—when the sun begins to take shelter over the edge of the water.

His hands on you, he’ll slow dance with you, barefoot in the sand.

He serenades you with songs and limericks and tales, sneaking kisses like it’s your second date. The kind that make you giggle and maybe shy away, though he persists.

He can’t help himself. This is what you do to him.

Honestly, this didn’t have to be a beach date. You could’ve stayed home or got yourselves stranded in a field, he would’ve enjoyed the day regardless because it was senseless, worry free,

And it was with you.

~~~~~

Nova’s Final Fantasy Masterlist

[yukiotacon]

Could I request Ardbert for the Trust HCs? I wasn't expecting to like him as much as I do, but now I wish he had more presence in the game XD

Trust system hcs Ardbert

We all know how OP warriors are right now. Ardbert is no different

Has a special ability that allows him to heal himself from a tank buster automatically called enduring light

A special buff is on his called Lammit's blessing/ love that doubles Ardbert healing by a percentage

A special K O ability called Azem's legacy wherein if he gets KO he gets back up ( only has 2 charges so healers be ready )

Has special dialogue for certain dungeons

(Ranka ravel) huh it was far less dangerous back in my day

( Mount Gulg) It's time put the fat bastard down

( Amurot) So this is what happened to the ancients. No matter it's time we end this here

( Matoya's work shop during the water boss) Did that water drop just talk?

( Mother Porxies after defeat) Thank the heavens that doesn't exist in the first

All in all, Ardbert is a great tank and the bestest pal to party with

[owlespresso]

pollen, chapter 5

tags: fem!reader, healer!reader, reader has a personality

a/n: thank you for your patience.

Read 1-4 HERE.

“You think she ever gets bored in there?” Ardbert asks, motioning to the Solar’s towering double doors. 

“No idea,” you say, returning your attention to the texts laid across the timber table. Dusty tomes in tongues of lands far away have been hastily translated by Sharlayan’s most driven scholars. The good men and women of Saint Coinach’s Find hadn’t spared you a second glance when you slipped inside of G’raha Tia’s abandoned room. It had been just as he left it, hardly packed. Standing there, in the midst of all his belongings—you aren’t proud of how it winded you. How much of a hold a man you’d known for mere weeks had over your emotions.

It would have been a most audacious waste to leave his things to draw dust, given the doubtless countless hours he spent gathering such a sumptuous sum of information. At least a single piece of his collection accompanies you wherever you go, slid into your pockets, in between the folds of your robes, reading material for free moments between missions, opportunities to learn about Allag and the worrisome wonders it so carelessly created.

It’s irritating to know that some of history’s most malevolent empires are also its most successful, but you could co-opt what you gleaned for your own valiant purposes.

“Reading all that, again?” Ardbert regards the streaked ink and crowded margins of your parchment with a raised brow. Weeks ago, you would have mistaken his question for poorly masked derision. Now, it is painfully clear that he questions you out of clear concern, making it markedly difficult to dismiss his query as the petulant pryings of a man who could not see the value of your intellectual pursuits. 

“You should give it a rest—I mean, far be it from me to tell you what to do…” He breaks into a stumbling series of desperate clarifications, cheeks flushing pale florid. 

“I know,” you reply, giving him a gentle, reassuring grin. “But I’m fine. Really. I know where my own limits lie.”

In the wake of Meteor’s sudden distance, Ardbert seems to have taken it upon himself to take up twice your attention. He intercepts you in the halls with offers to carry your belongings, joins you for meals, and tags along on trips to Mor Dhona’s markets. It’s all well and good, better than the strained relationship you’ve had thus far, but that doesn’t stop the change from feeling awkward. Even he does not seem entirely confident when he asks to accompany you. What exactly does he want? Is he sticking so close out of some sense of gentlemanly obligation? Or is Meteor avoiding him as well, rendering him just as lonely as you?

“Do you?” Ardbert asks, and all of the good will you’ve been willing to extend crumples. “You’ve been working yourself to pieces—pulling all nighters ‘till you can hardly keep your eyes open! You nearly fell into your pudding yesterday.” His hand hovers over the ink-stained pages. Irritation strikes you like a fresh burn, like you’ve touched the still hot stovetop. Your wrists throb, hands curling into fists.

“That’s not true.” you grouse. “Pudding incident aside.”

A moment of silence settles between you. His strong, weathered hands grasp one of yours, thumbs pressing against the sore stretch of your wrist. The sudden sensation sends a shock up your spine and makes your breath hitch, cheeks growing warm. The feeling is shockingly familiar to you now, his touch running up to your palms and back down again. You can’t even bear to look at him, fingers twitching as he presses against your palm.

“I know we don’t much get along. On a good day, but trust me on this.” he murmurs. His brown eyes shine rich amber under the candlelight. The space between his brows wrinkles in concentration.

“You called me a ‘nag’ for telling you to get some rest.” you pointedly remind him. 

“That was only once!” he insists. “And I have since learned the error of my ways, thank you.” “You can call me whatever you’d like, but we both know I’m right,” he insists. “I’m not asking you to stop. I’m asking you to rest.”

“Your concern touches me, really… but I cannot stand an idle mind.” You pull away, met by only a meager resistance. You try not to think about the gentle pull of Ardbert’s fingers as you slide your hand free, calluses drifting over your palm and fingers. Ardbert’s already fretful frown furrows further, and you awkwardly ignore his cross expression in favor of study. The chapter detailing the creation of Baphomet is next—and you’re sure that your unique comprehension and experience with other primals could help you unearth something new. Even the most studied of scholars do not have the unique comprehension you possess, a skillset which lends itself to revolutionary breakthroughs which surely supersedes your mortal need for rest and other petty distractions.

“...Do you want to talk about it?”

“Ardbert, I’m not sure if my research would be of much interest—”

“I’m not talking about your research,” Ardbert says. “It’s still troubling you—the Tower, and what happened with G’raha. And that’s alright! We all grieve. That’s just a part—”

“I’m not grieving,” you inform him in a monotone drone, ignoring the sudden tightness of your chest. You’re well-accustomed to losing things—and people. It’s a part of being an adventurer. A part of being a Scion. But it’s only just that—a part, and you cannot let it rule you, lest it rend you to pieces.

It’s become clear that he intends to obstruct your study until he’s been appeased, so you cross your arms and lean back in your seat, the fine upholstery cradling the back of your neck, your aching back. Your rest your head backwards, weary eyes drawing shut as you submit yourself to his lecture. 

“The material I’m reviewing could hold vital information that only someone with my experience can understand, That’s why I took it with me.”

“And it just so happened to be in G’raha Tia’s quarters. Right after we were told the rest of the research team would be clearing it out. After you spent a whole bell blubbering about the lad.”

“I was not ‘blubbering’,” you shoot up from your seat, palms slamming onto the table. The teacups clattered noisily against their porcelain dishes, silverware similarly jostled. Any mote of goodwill you have afforded him during this conversation dries up near instantly. You could feel the startled stares of your nearby fellows, unwanted attention making your face hot. The deathly feeling of embarrassment only adds to the agitation which now simmers beneath your skin, the skin you had always believed quite thick. Wordlessly, you began to gather your materials, shuffling files and folders into haphazard stacks—just tidy enough to keep together, cradled to your chest like a barrier.

“Wait,” Ardbert beseeches with a newfound desperation. His lips press into a thin, flat line, expression immediately beset with immense regret. “Wait—I didn’t mean—wait just a moment—!” he stood, hand awkwardly hovering as if to reach for you or your papers. Wisely, he refrains from taking such reckless action. 

“I’ve heard enough.” Hopefully, the venom in your voice will be enough to keep him at bay. He’s already testing your insomnia-worn patience, composure slipped between your fingers like salt silted by waves. It hadn’t been his intent to upset you so, but wars and negotiations resolve based on intent and action alone. A single verbal blunder can spell disaster for entire kingdoms and continents. Fortunately, Ardbert’s lone crime is offending you. And the worst he would receive is a temporary reprieve from your presence, which is perhaps more of a boon than anything. “I’ll be in my chambers should you need me.” You push your chair back into the table with your hip. jaw clenching as the legs creak noisily against the tile. A step, then another, before you spare him a last look over your shoulder. “Please, try not to need me.”

---

Mor Dhona has been overtaken by grey, a canopy of clouds shedding water onto the cobblestone streets. Meteor bears the weather with no more than a grimace, paltry pattering of raindrops paling in comparison to the powers of primals and the pain they’ve inflicted. A scar on his left flank, courtesy of Ifrit, aches whenever the weather grows this gloomy. He pays it no heed, head low under the black tilt of his umbrella. The fingers of his other hand drum across his belt as he pursues the market stalls. 

The sudden turn in weather has frightened a wide portion of patrons indoors, leaving him blessedly alone in an uncharacteristically quiet market. Not a single shelf is spared his discerning gaze as he searches for an apology gift of acceptable quality. He’s painfully aware of how confused and perturbed you were after his sudden exit and subsequent avoidance of your person. Everytim he dares recall the tower, he is appalled at how easily that ancient concoction seized his inhibitions, how horrendously high it stoked his passions. Had you been a touch more stubborn, insisted on prying answers out of him or worse, treating him, the shot strings holding his decorum in tact could have dissolved, putting you in great danger. 

Warrior of Light title notwithstanding, a soft bodied healer would prove little challenge to someone like himself, or Ardbert. At a distance, you could fend them off, but you had been close enough to grab, close enough to press the entirety of his body against you. It would have been child’s play to pin you to the wall, to edge one of his thighs between your legs to settle his hungry mouth into the crook of your neck.

A shout of his name from the opposite side of the market snaps him from that grim line of thought, warmth in his breast doused by a cold wave of something not entirely shameful. Something dark and unbidden had purred at the thought, and that very same presence laughs mockingly in his ears.

“How long are you going to wait?” it hisses. “How long will you deny us?”

And then Ardbert, looking soggy and cross, is standing a film before him, face wrenched into a sullen pout. Rain beats against his pauldrons, droplets rolling down the brown leather. His soaked bangs fall into his forehead. Several awkward moments of silence settle between them. Meteor spends every single one fending off his own dread.

“You’ve got some nerve, you know that!?” Ardbert says. Meteor’s face crumples into a sour scowl. In the wake of the Crystal Tower, you have been granted an extended respite. Meteor assumed you could not personally care less if he was present or not, you had grieving to do (despite your denial) and though he could not claim to know you well, he did know you hated for others to bear witness to your moments of weakness. A staunch perfectionist, unwilling to be seen at anything other than your best.

It’s clear his absence has jarred you, in some way, more than he anticipated. He can think of no other reason for Ardbert’s sullen, storm countenance.

“What’s happened?” he inquires, immediately and urgently. The taut line of Ardbert’s shoulders ease, his relief practically palpable as he elaborates.

“She’s been buried in her books for days now—well, I suppose I should be saying his books.”

“Whose?” Fierce alarm colors his voice, so suddenly it surprises him. 

“The Sharlayan lad who shut himself in the Tower. He left all his things behind. Ever since she brought ‘em back, she hasn’t slept a wink—I’m sure of it. Bags under her eyes deep as Syrcus.” Ardbert hurriedly informs him, impassioned testimony flooding out all at once.

“She’s still grieving him,” Meteor says, more a passive observation than an informative statement. You bury yourself in your work on the regular. He can only imagine what you look like now. His lips press into a grim frown. He is well-acquainted with the brutal ache of overwork and he knows it well, better than most, he would dare say. Intensive, impassioned labor was at first a means of survival, then a way to distract from whatever unholy thing has taken up residence inside of him. He cannot hear its incessant whispering if he is worn enough to sleep.

“Have you tried… talking to her?” he asks.

Aerdbert looks personally affronted. “Of course I have!” he insists ardently, voice rising above the sound of the tempestuous weather. The winds have begun to howl, a sudden verticality to the gales that brings the water dangerously close to their spot underneath the tarp. “And more than once! But you know she hates listening to anyone, much less me. She’s a healer, but she’s just as stubborn as you and I.”

Meteor blinks. Stubborn? He’s never known himself to be particularly stubborn. Dedicated, perhaps. Diligent, in both training and on the field. He has half a mind to remind Ardbert of any of the six occasions he can immediately recall in which his brother was the picture of stubborn (his insistence on exploring the Aurum Vale when you were absent on parley to Dragonhead), but he mercifully refrains, beating back the quarrelsome urge.

“Let’s face it,” Ardbert continues, equal parts exasperated and defeated. “She clearly has a favorite, and it sure as hell isn’t me.”

There’s nothing Meteor can truly say to that, because it is abundantly and painfully correct.

“Alright,” he relents, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Intervening in the business of others is quite literally in his job description, but he hesitates to meddle in interpersonal affairs. He much prefers the solemn quiet of his steel to the plex customs of the social order. The battlefield is less daunting than diplomatic affairs between different powers, where the smallest upset could spark political incident. Fortunately, a brief conversation with you does not bring with it a risk of war. Most likely.

---

Nighttime settles over Mor Dhona like a widow’s veil, stars blotted out by blackened clouds. Thunder sings low in the distance, Ramug’s song rumbling over rolling hills of stone and steep spires of crystal. You work deep into the night, candlelight slips through the narrow crack of the door, and touches the opposite wall. The rest of the Scions have squirreled away their respective chambers, leaving the Rising Stones settled silent and nearly empty. He spares the remaining night owls polite nods as he passes them in the hall.

He keeps his footsteps loud on purpose, alerting you to in lieu of the thick plate armor he’s abandoned in his room’s cramped closet. He’s come to you in a black button up and dark slacks, boots laced up to his knees. He feels ridiculously exposed without his armor, a rigorous discomfort which prowls his every step. Any shadow could be a knife through the ribs, a beast laying in wait, a Garlean assassin still sore from past defeat. And the shadows are not still. No, their edges writhe when he looks at them too long. His own paranoia stirs his senses to a heat-stroke simmer.

So he pays them no mind. They are tricks of the light, idle playings of an overactive mind. Perhaps its restlessness. Nearly a week has passed since he last drew steel, since he ventured beyond Mor Dhona. An expedition will do him good, he decides, gently nudging open your door.’

The mere sight of you fills him with an inexplicable amount of relief. You’re curled over your desk, but you budge when the hinges creak, eyes gleaming with a recognition that lets him know he is real. His pulse becomes quiet in his ears, the hasty thudding of his heart rendered mere background noise as you speak. 

“You’re up late.”

“I could say the same to you,” he says with a small, wry smile. “Can’t sleep?”

“You could say that,” you hum, regarding him with a discerning squint. “...You can come sit, if you want.”

This is his first time inside your private room, he realizes. Crossing the threshold feels like some sort of sacred act. Urging the door closed, even gently, feels like a sin. It’s a terribly cozy space. A bookshelf crammed full hugs the western wall, stacks of tomes left to overflow onto the floor and the coffee table and the dark wood nightstand. The bed looks even cozier. The unmade blankets are half slumped onto the round rug partially placed underneath the frame. Meteor resists the urge to pick it up and fold it. Instead he settles himself on the edge.

“So, what is it?” you turn in your chair, regarding him flatly. You’re dressed in a slip of a robe. The sheer fabric shifts to expose more of our thigh, squished against your crossed leg. The warm candlelight touches your bare skin with a tenderness. Meteor tears his eyes away.

“I… I’m sorry for not being present, and for any inconvenience I may have caused you.” Meteor says, meaning every word. No matter how you feel about him and Ardbert, the bond you share is vital to your success as a team. A sacred commitment forged under Hydaelyn’s all-knowing, all-loving gaze. Not being able to reach him must have made it impossible to decide where you would be going, precious time wasted.

“Inconveniences?” you say with an incredulous scoff. “I suppose we’re behind on planning, but I can handle most of it within the day. If I were to be upset—which I am not—it would be because… I happened to miss your company.” You bite out the words like sour apple seeds, space between your brows wrinkling.

“But you would have.” Meteor prods, unable to stop himself.

“But I didn’t,” you corrected him, stern as can be. “Honestly, I've been too busy with research to really notice who comes and goes.” you inform him with a reluctant mote of sheepishness, clearly disconcerted at admitting your distraction. “But I swear that what I learn from this will aid us all in the future.”

Meteor blinks as you launch into a small lecture. The sluggishness which weighs you like a worrisome spirit lifts as you delve into the unique Allagan perspectives on the primal problem, mentioning methods of containment long forgotten alongside the rest of the empire and its accursed, abominable creations. Never before has he witnessed such passion swell within you, such ardor. There’s a glimmer in your eyes, a glow about you. At that moment. he decides that passion suits you. Even if he will have to ask you to repeat your exposition and explain in further detail numerous times. Preferably at a slower, more comprehensible pace,

“I believe you,” he says, standing to cross the distance between you. Up close, he can see the bags under your eyes, luggage you’ve been saddled with the moment G’raha Tia sealed himself away. He cannot help the bitter pang of resentment which stirs within his breast at the man who so carelessly drove you to this state, sending your brain awry with grief and guilt.

Something deeper, something more shameful hisses in envy, in disbelief that another man has so easily wrested such fervent emotion from you. And in such a short amount of time.

His hand, weighted this time not by glove or gauntlet, lands on your shoulder. Two of his fingers span beyond the neckline of your robe, touching your bare nape. There is a magnetism that comes with touching you. The Echo pulses and resonates, aether reaching out and rushing warm beneath his skin. It’s an outpouring of energy that brings with it a bevy of unusual, varying side effects. For that reason, he and Ardbert have mutually agreed to touch you only when necessary.

Meteor has wandered in the past if it affects you as much as it does them. A shiver pulls down your spine, betraying your otherwise cool countenance. It's absurd, how such little contact can evoke so much, but it is relieving to know he is not alone. His thumb twitches, before he rolls soothing circles over that patch of bare skin, attempting to settle some of the tension which pulls your shoulders taut.

“You should get some rest,” he urges quietly, voice low, eyelids dipping as he nudges against the ambient pulse of your aether.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” you mutter, and for the first time, before he can help himself, Meteor scoffs at you. It’s a haughty, amused little sound that has you whirling to face him with hackles raised. The satisfaction he sows from your reaction is obscenely childish, but he quickly smothers the worst of himself, straightening his lips and schooling his expression into one of stern concern.

“Trying to make sure you’re prepared for what tomorrow brings,” Meteor supplies. “Our next mission is in Gridania. The moogles of the Shroud have summoned a primal.”

“I don’t recall them worshiping any gods.” Even when exhausted, you remain quick on the uptake.

“Exactly,” he replies, providing no further context. The details will wait until the morrow. You don’t need anymore information knocking around inside your head while you try to sleep. He swallows, wishing for a reply, a retort, but you are hesitant. And the silence that settles seeds the ground for the insidious voice to sow.

How simple it would be to lift you by the nape, to manhandle you onto the mattress, to press upon you all that you have made him feel. It’s repulsive, it's disgusting—the very concept of so violently breaking your trust makes his guts churn, makes his cock hard as stone. He feels frigid at his edges, a bitter cold wreathing around his outermost extremities as something tries to claw to the surface. He shuts his eyes tight and breathes evenly, wills down the wolf even as his head splits.

The legs of your chair squeal as you push out from your desk, sending him scampering back to avoid a stubbed toe. The contact is broken. His fingers twitch and his palms prickle, an aching chasm opening within his chest. A sense of emptiness lingers in your wake.

And you’re wearing a strange face as you regard him. Not fraught with fear, but with suspicion. He has somehow made you curious, which is perhaps the most frightening outcome of all. He is no G’raha Tia. He cannot spar with you intellectually, and he cannot bear to be the next fervent focus you dedicate yourself to. 

Rather than launching into a barrage of questions, you simply nod. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

“You win, I’ll get some rest. But I’ll have questions for you in the morning.” Meteor nods and gives you a gentle goodnight, hastily hastening from your quarters with the poorly disguised dread of a man rusting to the restroom before he sicks all over the rug.

He leaves for Gridania early the next morning, while you are still in bed and Ardbert is struggling to get out of his.

[ladyramora]

I made myself sad today thinking about Ardbert. 😭

I was thinking about wol/d falling in love with him, and Elidibus using the fact that they're so weak to Ardbert's touch to take advantage of them.

And like wol is like no, but just can't actually push him away? How fucked up would that be 😭😭😭

This is as much Elidibus x WoL as it is painful Ardbert x WoL.

Shadowbringers Spoilers and vague hints of Endwalker Spoilers for the Pandaemonium quests under the cut.

↓↓↓

You stare into a familiar face, gaze into eyes such a piercing, bright blue, but the way you are regarded is nothing the same. The expression on that face is not happy to see you, the look in those dull eyes can only be described as cold fury.

The full lips you had once kissed part, and a voice that is all wrong comes out. Smooth and deep and filled with contempt.

"Does this hurt you, hero?" He asks, reaching for you. The only light that brightened those dull eyes the satisfaction of seeing you flinch at his touch, but hold so very still as he lays hands upon you. Craving the touch of the lover you had lost.

"To know the person who knew you best—who understood you like no other—is gone?"

You swallow hard, turning your cheek in pained revulsion at the feel of that leather glove caressing your cheek. It should be the sharp, cruel bite of claws scratching at your skin, but instead it is smooth, buttery leather. His touch is so very warm, but his words for you are like ice. Filling you with cold dread.

"Good," Elidibus says simply. Quietly.

You think you would much prefer if he raged. If he wrapped his hands—Ardbert's hands—around your throat and squeezed.

Elidibus is too calm, too still. He regards you with dull blue eyes, his thoughts and feelings hidden from you. Cold and distant as the moon.

He does not tell you his plans, is not so forthcoming about his intentions as his fellow Ascian had been.

You do not know what he wants from you. Why he toys with you like this instead of exacting his revenge.

"You are death," Elidibus murmurs. His thumb traces your lips, blue eyes gazing deep into your own. "Yet they were all drawn to you. Will I be drawn in, too? Will you end me, Bringer of Light?"

You stare him in the face, jaw ticking with your grinding teeth. Tense and hating the way your body reacts to the body he wore like an ill-fitting suit. Your stomach swoops, your traitorous heart jumping as he cradled your cheek and leaned close as if he might kiss you.

"I will do what I must."

Elidibus smiles. That calm, composed curve of lips seeming strange on Ardbert's expressive face. Far too cold for a man that was warmth and love personified.

"As will I," Elidibus replies, and draws your lips to his.

You freeze, clutching at his arms, your nails digging into him. His lips are as warm and soft as you remember, but the way he kisses you is different. Ardbert had been passionate, clumsy in his eagerness. Laughter and light and love.

Elidibus kisses you as if he wanted to devour you. Swallow you whole and snuff out your flame, darkness consuming light.

You tremble, and gasp under the onslaught of his forceful hunger.

You do not understand what he wants from you. Why he claimed they were all drawn to you. Was it Azem, you wonder. Was this all their doing? The echoes of that person they all had known, haunting them still and causing you untold grief.

"Why?" You gasp into the hot crush of his mouth on yours, groaning as he took you into his arms and held you so tightly. His grip bruising, as much to hurt as it was to possess you.

Elidibus pauses, lips still pressed to yours. That half-lidded gaze was a dazed, distant blue as he murmurs in that deep, velvety voice. "My star."

He does not seem to be in the moment with you, but somewhere else entirely. His expression is hazy, his voice almost affectionate as he stroked at your cheek with a lazy swipe of his thumb.

What?

"What?"

Elidibus blinks, seeming to focus again. Whatever that had been, that moment, gone as quick as it had come.

"You know very well, hero," he says, drawing back. Distancing himself as if you were the one who had kissed him.

"The salvation of this star."

[finalfantasyxivwritings]

Titillating Torture

AO3 Version

Relationship: WoL!Reader/Ardbert

Rating: Explicit

Summary: During the worst time possible, Ardbert decides to take advantage of the fact that nobody else but you can see him, hear him, or touch him—or more accurately, that he can touch you.

There comes a time in any fighter’s life when, if only a little, they might start having regrets about some of the things they’ve done—actions taken, people missed, those kinds of thing. You as the warrior of light are still no exception to this, though the things you tend to regret don’t often seem like things a person would dwell on; you regret helping with that godsdamn banquet, for one, and… well, you don’t regret meeting Ardbert, but there are a times when he makes you wonder if you should.

Though he is still a shade in all manners of conventional meaning, Ardbert and you have found a semblance of peace between the two of you now that you technically share the selfsame body—a consequence of what he did to help you defeat Hades, assuredly, and not an action you would ever wish away. But being the only creature who can see him coupled with the fact that you’re the only person he can touch and be touched by, it…leads to some unscrupulous activities.

It’s just past the eve of battle. A mission had tasked you to the cold climes of Ishgard where it seemed that several rogue spellcasters and ex-knights had banded together to try and summon voidsent to claim the countryside. It didn’t work, obviously, and while they could have simply left the job to several of Ishgard’s finer knights or perhaps to Estinien himself, you had enjoyed the opportunity to see old friends.

If only someone would have told you about the ceremony for the completion of the firmament.

Not that it was much of a surprise—you had lent you hand in some of the procuring and refinement of the supplies for the new housing wards—but you never expected to be plucked out individually to take part. Thank the gods above that Aymeric hadn’t forced you to stand on the stage above the crowd, to give a speech or thensome. You weren’t terribly great with words, and are certain that your current predicament would have been worse tenfold.

“Quite the spectacle,” a low voice hums from just behind your ear. The sound might have been a surprise if his hands weren’t already stroking along your body, inethreal hands easily skimming below the layers of your armor and clothes as if they were illusions. “I remember being part of some. Saving a village or fending off a group of thieves—when we started taking on harder jobs, the fanfare was… frightening, honestly.”

“Not a fan of crowds?” Your whisper in reply is so soft and careful. Though there are a number of people around all paying more attention to Aymeric than you, the last thing you need is for someone to hear you apparently talking to yourself.

“Yes and no,” Ardbert continues, sweeping his fingertips up the sides of your body, and then to the gentle swell of your breasts. They are bare to his touch, which in itself is eager to explore and peruse. He pinched one nipple between a forefinger and thumb—and you are forced to swallow the gasp that nearly falls from open lips. “But I have to say I’m quite fond of them right now.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Unfortunately I don’t think that’s possible anymore,” Ardbert huffs amusedly, then pinches your other nipple with unrelenting eagerness. Rolls them both between leather-covered fingertips until they’re brought to a pert hardness. “And you once said we can try to make the most of this, correct? Eager to change your mind on that?”

You want to bite his words, to shift your body away from his touch… but you also don’t want him to stop. Be it from a combination of touch and the rumbling timbre of his voice or simply one or the other, there’s no denying the blossom of heat between your legs. The shade smiles in a kiss against the side of your neck, hands completely busied in toying with your breasts in ways that make your nerves buzz and shiver. So instead you simply let his touch continue unabated, until your nipples are sore and aching, until your legs feel like jelly and your heart is lifting itself right out of your chest with how quickly it beats.

“B-bastard…!” You hiss.

“I’ll have you know my parents were happily wed.” Ardbert presses another careful kiss to your throat. At this, his hands move, sweeping the warm planes of his open palms across your abused nipples—pleasure and pain fill you in equal amounts, as if your skin isn’t quite sure how to register it anymore.

He’s pressed up against your back, eager to feel you but still with a semblance of care to how your body moves to balance with his—you are, after all, still very much in view of half the people of Ishgard. Though Aymeric seems to have moved onto letting the others in charge of the reconstruction say their various parts (and all to a bustling crowd) you still can’t help feeling watched. Eyes, hard upon you, curious and cautious and—

That’s when out of the corner of the stage your gaze finally catches onto the familiar shape of dragoon armor. Estinien is barely visible beyond all the decorations and stone pillars, but he’s still discernibly there. For security or simply to witness the event, it doesn’t much matter the reason when he’s yet watching you all the same with that sharp focus and brooding state of his all the same.

Your eyes catch his. He raises an eyebrow. You hope to all the gods above that he hadn’t caught a moment of broken composure from you, else you’d have to either avoid the man for an entire season; otherwise, you’ll have to come up with a reason why it looked like you were getting sexually accosted by unseen forces during arguably one of Ishgard’s most important commemorations to date.

Desperately trying to seem casual, you lift a hand up and wave it in his direction with a smile poised ever so perfectly upon your lips. Even as Ardbert sighs in your ear and gropes at your chest with an almost boyish eagerness, years of battle-hardened constitution wins out long enough that your expression holds out until Estinien finally glances away from you. Whether content in your facade or simply deciding it wasn’t his place to press, you’re grateful all the same. The same can’t sense of contentment can’t be used to describe the shade who so needily kneads at your chest.

“So it seems the warrior of light can keep a steady composure in the face of pleasure and pain alike,” he murmurs, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. If you didn’t know any better in the moment, you might even call his tone a tad possessive. “But we both know how much you adore having your nipples toyed with, yeah?”

“Don’t act like you’re not the one who has a thing for-“

And just to prove something of a point, he suddenly pinches them in a rough and quick motion—so much that the softest noise of shock and pleasure slip past your tongue. Though it is easy enough to hide behind a sudden cough, you can’t help but fear that someone nearby is going to catch on. Even if the layers of your outfit cover up the way Ardbert is all but torturing your chest, the same can’t be said about your knees as they threaten to knock together, or the building heat between your thighs.

Satisfied with the reaction, Ardbert continues, “Do you think I could make you climax right here?”

It’s as much threat as it is a question of permission.

Though the word ‘no’ would be simple and easy to say, even in your current state, it never reaches your tongue. Instead you risk a moment of selfish sentiment and reach a hand up towards your chest. To an unwary onlooker it would seem as if you’re lifting a hand up to toy with a piece of your armor—but your fingertips graze across Ardbert’s knuckles, pressing his touch ever so against your skin. He sighs in satisfaction—more from the subtle consent than the actual contact—and becomes ever more forceful in his ministrations. He rolls and pinches your hard nipples between his fingers with the same fervent passion as he would touch the rest of your body. The pleasure seems to connect all the way down your chest, belly, and straight between your legs. It’s a tension all of its own right, a pleasure quite like and unlike when he has his hand between your thighs.

“Almost a shame that there’s a crowd,” Ardbert growls, voice low enough that each word is a rumbling of syllables than anything else. Or perhaps your mind is barely able to comprehend them as more than that. “I don’t get to hear all those pretty sounds you make when you cum. But I can still feel you trembling. The powerful warrior of light—even the warrior of darkness—made to shake like a leaf while I play with your nipples ‘till they’re sore. Hopefully that dragoon friend of yours won’t notice at all.”

It’s hard to think. Hard to even breathe. All your mind can focus on is how eager Ardbert’s hands are upon you, pulling and tugging and twisting—you realize all too suddenly that you can cum like this. Your legs would be shaking if it weren’t for your incredible force of will, and that’s nothing compared to the fire rolling in the pit of your belly. By the touch of his hands and the growing sense of debauchery in Ardbert’s voice, you feel it creep closer. The edge. Pleasure wells up in your veins as each word and motion seems to push you closer to it. The world around you has become little more than a muffled layer of noise and shapes settled just beyond Ardbert’s presence.

And then it all comes crashing down. Head over heel over the edge of pleasure’s precipice. It’s sharp and hot and tight and nearly overwhelming as it crashes across your body starting from your belly and echoing out, all the way to your fingertips and toes—but especially where the man’s fingertips continue to tease and torture the hard buds between them. All that escapes from your lips is a shaking sigh, but he is standing close enough to be nearly against your body, and thus he feels the gentle trembles that slide down your spine when sweet orgasm seeps through your bones.

“Gods above,” he murmurs, pulling his touch so that his hands are skimming up and down your sides again. “If I were a weak man, I’d have you on the ground and myself betwixt your legs after a little show like that.”

The words are sweet and taunting, but you scarcely have the energy to come up with a retort, and especially not one quiet enough that half of the crowd wouldn’t hear—it’s hard enough to control your sudden need for air. But Ardbert doesn’t chase the topic or try to continue teasing you; instead he merely settles his palms over your hips, keeping you steady even when your legs feel as if they want to give out.

Luckiliy enough, the ceremony only lasted another quarter-bell.

[cinnabun-faerie]

FFXIV {May 2022 Masterlist}

✧Group HC & Reactions✧

F!WoL singing Girls/Girls/Boys (Lyna, Minfilia, Y'shtola, Ysayle)

WoL buying a house in Ishgard (Aymeric, Estinien, Haurchefant, Lucia)

WoL being taller than them (Aymeric, Emet-Selch, Estinien, Fandaniel, G'raha Tia, Thancred, Y'shtola, Zenos)

Sick WoL (Aymeric, Urianger)

Miqo'te!WoL who bunts & purrs subconsciously when they're around (Ardbert, Artoirel, Erenville, Gaius)

Worst moments ffxiv character could confess to the WoL / Asking the WoL to marry them (Haurchefant, Emet-Selch, Urianger)

Fandom Dads - He escorts you down the aisle (Barbatos, Edmont de Fortemps, Estinien, Lucifer, Shota Aizawa, Simeon, Thancred, All Might, Urianger)

Special Threesome HCs (Zenos x Reader x Fandaniel)

They comfort the WoL after they receive some bad news (Emet-Selch, Urianger)

Antagonists & the films they'd choose for movie nights (Emet-Selch, Fandaniel, Hermes, Zenos)

How they'd protect their beloved WoL if they met someone who made them feel uncomfortable (Artoirel, Aymeric, Estinien, Haurchefant, Hythlodaeus, Urianger)

How they’d handle the Ishgardians' negativity towards genderfluid!WoL

WoL that absolutely loves picking fights with others for the sake of thrill or battle glory (Alisaie, Alphinaud, Estinien, G'raha Tia, Thancred, Urianger, Y'shtola, Zenos)

WoL gives them a flower crown (Alisaie, Alphinaud, Estinien, G'raha Tia, Thancred, Urianger, Y'shtola)

Tank!WoL is reckless yet protective of their S/O (Alphinaud, Urianger)

✧Solo HC & Reactions✧

G’raha with a Miqo’te WoL S/O

Crystal Exarch realizes that the WoL is using his old bow he left behind when he sealed himself away in the tower

WoL misses Alphinaud so much that they pay him a visit in Garlemald

Estinien Proposal HCs

Aymeric Proposal HCs

WoL finding out Y'shtola can purr

Artoirel Proposal HCs

Alphinaud Proposal HCs

Whenever Miqo'te!WoL and Y'shtola sit together, their tails unconsciously wrap around the other's

Haurchefant Proposal HCs

G'raha Tia Proposal HCs

Emet-Selch playing Neath Dark Waters for the WoL

Y'shtola Proposal HCs

Alphinaud reacts to an Asexual WoL

With a demisexual lover who confesses to their crush, who doesn’t care/is using them

Alphinaud with a sick S/O

Fandaniel Proposal HCs

Zenos Proposal HCs

Urianger Proposal HCs

Thancred Proposal HCs

Gaius Proposal HCs

Erenville Proposal HCs

[lovehotelreservation]

"it's not like you can do anything about it."

Regarding reader masturbating in front of ghost ardbert

Whether it's something he takes up with him through odd means of finding a body later or not is up to you (or if right there

😳🙈

"You don't mind if I borrow a little aether from you, right?"

Smirking with pride, a physically realized Ardbert demonstrated his gratitude with a hearty slap to your ass as he continued to pound his thick cock into you from behind, savoring your shameless squeals and the sensation of his skin touching yours at long last.

"Gonna need as much as I can if I'm gonna thank you properly for that show earlier!"

[ransprang]

Ardbert x Reader Beach HCS

More FF14 requests PLEASE! Our inbox is open :)

- Wears boxer shorts instead of a swimsuit (forgive him he doesn't know any better)

- Smacks your ass as you pass by, being super satisfied with the sound that echoes turning a few heads

- Orders a coconut and chills on the on the beach bed, and wears sunglasses fazed out.

- Massages sunscreen on your back and tries slipping his hand in your undies, only to get smacked away for decency

- Splashes water on you playfully as you lay on the beach sunbathing, just enjoying watching you get a little annoyed.

Your coconut,

Admin Sav