#fire the headcanons

[ffxiv-swarm]

prompt 25: perpetuity

Zoraal Ja is mad, and his madness lends him strength far beyond what even his glut of souls can account for. The Scions are fighting for their very lives, never mind the fate of the star—and they are losing. They are losing. Gan nearly tumbles off the edge of the tower, only held back by Evrard diving to save her; Alan barely notices, so hard-pressed is he to defend against the King of Resolve’s attacks while Wuk Lamat gets her guts shoved back in by Alphinaud’s and Urianger’s frantic healing. Ritanelle is far back enough to see the entire battlefield, and she knows they’re not strong enough.

She knows—but she hopes.

And she reaches inside of herself, where the aether of every primal she’s ever faced slumbers like currents along the ocean floor, and she flips open her spellbook to a random page, and she prays. Anything she can summon to wrap around her valiant Ifrit-Egi will be a help. Anything.

She prays—

And raw aether erupts inside her, whiting out her vision, filling her ears with the clamour of great grinding bells and the steady tinkling of crystal like a dancing windchime. For a heartstopping moment all is white fire, she can’t see, she can barely think—the spell feels like Demi-Bahamut but different, glass instead of crackling blue flame. What has she...?

She thinks she feels a cool white hand brushing her cheek. She thinks she hears a voice whispering words she can’t make out, filling her with peace and resolve. But then it clears, and there is only the dragon.

It is lean and sinuous, stripped-down to its bare essentials. It has the horns and tail and great curved claws of Demi-Bahamut. But it’s a pale blue-white, as pale as the moon, and its wings—its wings are swords—no, its wings are Brands, whole and unbroken, a barrier against destruction—

It wants her to command it. It waits, patient as the Light, and there is a heartbeat of stillness where even Zoraal Ja’s frenzy seems to slow.

She finds her voice, and her aether. “Lightwyrm! Exodus!”

It’s not until later—much later, in fact, after Zoraal Ja is slain and Sphene is fled with the Key and something truly terrible is likely about to happen between their shards which they’ll have no way of preventing if they’re running on fumes—that she has the time to figure out what happened. New summons don’t appear out of thin air; even if they did, new spells certainly don’t, and she doesn’t think she was ever so deep in a frenzy of innovation that she’d forget writing it down.

Once she’s settled in her inn room with a mug of maté, she flips through her grimoire; each spell is bookended by inert dividers, because the last thing she wants is for any of the ink—or aether—to bleed. She can’t imagine what would happen if it did, but she’d be lucky if it was only the book that exploded. Carbuncles, Ifrit, Garuda, Titan...they’re all there, and that dragon was none of them. Demi-Bahamut was copied straight from Prin, and hasn’t been tampered with. The half-crazed scrawl of Phoenix, written while she was dying on the First and bolstered by infusions from the crystal of Azem. (She owes Avery her life many, many times over.) She’s never bothered writing down her trances; she doesn’t need equations to shape aether into fiery claws or gusty wings or heavy stone walls. But beyond Phoenix...

She runs her bare hand over the blank paper, feeling the echoes of aether. A cold so deep it burns. The profound stillness of glacial ice, of the peace found at the end of a long journey. Hope and love and a single crystalline tear sliding down Her Mother’s face to drop upon the open page. It had fallen open here, when...when...

“Know that my love will be with you forever, my dearest children. Ritanelle...I am so proud of you.”

Arms around her, the first and final embrace. Aether rushing into her like a river.

Oh, she thinks. Oh. Venat lives on.

She has the presence of mind to grab a napkin before she starts crying all over the page. When she can see through her tears, she’ll have to write the spell down properly. Gods know what’ll come out next time if she doesn’t.

[chic-beyond-the-wall]

More medieval dyes for y'all!

[machveil]

BestFriend!Simon Riley and his big, beautiful brown eyes. he doesn’t think they’re anything special, but he knows you like them. is it playing dirty when Simon looks at you through his eyelashes when he wants something? maybe, but can’t you just let him stay over for the night? he’ll be quiet - he always is. your couch is a little too small for him, you don’t mind him squeezing into bed with you, right?

BestFriend!Simon Riley that has such dark irises they could be mistaken for black. sometimes you can’t tell where his iris stops and his pupil starts. eyes half-lidded, pale eyelashes droopy - Simon’s resting face usually has his eyes looking tired, almost heavy with sleep even when he’s wide awake. if you ignore the way his eyebrows seem to furrow, knitting together for positive and negative emotions alike, his drowsy gaze is almost dreamy - especially when he’s looking at you

BestFriend!Simon Riley who stares at you until you notice. lounging on your couch as you talk to him, your gaze focused on the tv while his is on you. two episodes of your favorite show, that’s how long Simon was able to stare at you before you noticed - you spared him a few glances, but it never really struck you. he cracks a smile when you ask, “Do I have something on my face?”, a deep hum rumbling in his chest as he shifts his gaze to the tv, pale eyelashes catching the light, “Nah, just lookin’.”

BestFriend!Simon Riley that stares at his ceiling at night, legs crossed and arms behind his head. one of the now rare times he isn’t at your place, a rare instance he isn’t cozied up and surrounding you. deep, pitch black eyes in the dark room looking up, eyelids heavily with sleep as he dozes off waiting to march back to your place tomorrow, those big, beautiful brown eyes waiting to look at you as he asks to stay over again

[supine-ly]

clay doodles

[dead-end-draws]

WOF Leafwing concept art. My aim here was to showcase some wings based on actual leaf types found in nature.

Read below cut for close-ups of each individual art & wing type.

I’m least familiar with arc 3 in the series, but I’m catching up slowly but surely and working on some cool headcannons & art for ya’ll! Which leaf shape do you like best?

[thefreckledsika]

Hi so what if WOF had sports..

ICEWING HOCKEY!!

Concept art of thee talon blades, then some art of the full gear! they have leg guards, chest guards, and helmets

They use their tails to hit the puck across ice, and the can shield themselves with their wings or armor if the puck goes airborne

They are not allowed to fly or use their frostbreath, and all four talons have blades to ensure they dont grab other players

The whole point of hockey was originally to train soldiers to use their tail to strike others more, and to train their running muscles in case their wings are bound or in case they cannot use their frostbreath, but it has evolved into a sport for fun!

[biting-rose]

Seawing head-cannon design!

they are usually very short. chubby and stream lined so they are built to swim. seawings actually can't lift their heads up very far upward because of their build. their wings are inspired by flying fish!

i gave them axolotl-like frills too instead of gills on their neck, as it just makes sense more, allowing them to breath in and out of water, but depending on hydration. :>

i kind of imagine them being low fliers with their tails dragging heavily, but swimming with them kind of like a ray?

[notherpuppet]

Day 5: Domestic 🍎 🦌

[liothebiblioklept]

did my attempt on the sandwing sister designs :D! They're probably some of the most drawn wings of fire characters, so i really tried to make them unique. Blister is the outcome of me shoving the most devious, malicious, sinister features a dragon could possibly have together, just because of the amount of times she's described as evil in the series.

[eggcromancer]

(in tears) the year is still new....

Hi hi hello dca fandom! I just wanna say thank you for being the most amazing community! i can't believe i made so many new friends and drew in so many fun magmas last year, everyone here is so nice,, and cool, and talented,,, y'all are genuinely the highlight of my 2024 🥹🫶💖

May your 2025 be filled with joy and whimsy (and silly jesters)!!

[ashscarce]

I've been wanting to redesign Sandwings since I watched Dune part two, that movie got me obsessed with Sandwings and I decided to draw them for a school project.

anatomy- sandwings are quite short compared to other tribes. they have flat bodies covered in spikes similar to thorny devils. they have large barbed tails, the stinger is strong enough to break through bone. Sandwings wings have large feather like structures that can join and separate at will, once separated they will create a rattling sound, sandwings will often rattle their wings as a sign of anger or fear.

unlike other tribes sandwings have partial hairs on their bodies. these are most notable in hatchlings who are covered head to tail in dark micro hairs which are used to protect parasites from digging under their scales. they also have whiskers which can detect changes in weather.

speedpaint- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BiChdD_k1YA

clothing-

[ffxiv-swarm]

a parting at castrum fluminis

This didn't fit any particular prompt this year but I wrote it a while back and REALLY wanted to post it so here you go

& & &

Yotsuyu is dead.

So is Asahi, but that’s less important. Yotsuyu—Tsuyu—is dead. She’d been given a second chance, she could have done so much with it, and now she is dead. (Because of Asahi, because her brother used her parents against her, because he wanted an excuse—oh, Ritanelle could kill him a second time If she had the chance.)

Alas, there are more immediate concerns than vengeance, no matter how much she wants to scream and incinerate Asahi’s corpse until the pyre is visible from Garlemald. Asahi hadn’t come to Doma alone, and instead of sensibly fleeing for their lives his underlings are still here. Still here and talking.

...Alright, she can recognize when she’s being unfair. Maxima quo Priscus isn’t a bad sort, despite the actions of his superiors. He’s tall and handsome and grave, and he has never once called any of them savages in her hearing. But gods, his explanations of the truly minute details inherent to Garlean political parties could just as easily have come before all this, in a much more pleasant setting. Over drinks in the Kienkan, maybe, instead of where they are now—near a dozen people hovering awkwardly around each other in a Castrum Fluminis meeting room, forced to sit on the floor or lean against walls for lack of chairs.

(She’s summoned one, and gotten Titan-Egi to hover behind Gantsetseg and Avery so the three of them—who have just been fighting an entire primal, thank you—don’t all fall over. It wouldn’t be dignified, and they need all the dignity they can get.)

“I admit,” Hien eventually says coolly, “I am surprised you are still here.” His hand rests lightly on his sword, a silent warning.

Maxima is unarmed, as are the other Garleans; they left their gunblades at the door as a symbol of trust. He appears composed at a casual glance, but if he were an Elezen his ears would be twitching nonstop. “I entertain thoughts of escape even now,” he confesses, and Rita finds herself impressed by how casually he says it. “But our negotiations have yet to reach a satisfying conclusion. The ambassador insisted that the summoning spelled an end to our mission here, but it seemed to me there was more to the tale...”

His gaze drifts to Ritanelle, his eyes narrowing. So does Avery’s; he’s frowning, his ears laying back. Even Gan, who’s a full three-quarters asleep and leaning heavily against Rita’s leg, perks up.

She grimaces. Right. She’s forgotten to tell them about the vision she got off Asahi’s sword. “Well,” she starts. “Maybe you’d all better sit down for this. It’s going to be rather a long story. You see, I had a vision of that pint-sized arsehole’s past...”

It is a long story, punctuated by the outrage of her assembled listeners. She’s barely set the stage and gotten to just who was giving Asahi his marching orders before Gan is on her feet snarling and Maxima has to actually raise his voice to restore order.

“Zenos is dead,” Hien says, shaking his head. “He took his own life after the battle in Ala Mhigo. I saw his body with my own eyes!”

Gan’s sat back down, but her tail is thwapping restlessly against the floor as she growls, “Bloody told you we should’ve burnt it an’ pissed on the ashes, but nobody ever fuckin’ listens to me, do they?!”

“I listened,” Alisaie grumbles. “Next time I’ll do it myself.”

Maxima winces, looking anywhere but at her. Good; he has some sense of self-preservation. “Forgive me, but Lord Zenos is very much alive—he granted our party an audience prior to our departure. That he was gravely wounded is certain, but his recovery appeared to be proceeding apace.”

“’Gravely wounded’?” Avery repeats, staring at him. “His throat was slashed from ear to ear!”

Alphinaud frowns, twining his braid through his fingers. He’s silent for a moment as he thinks. “I am afraid I share my comrades’ confusion. The man's death was confirmed and his remains interred. These are matters of public record.”

Maxima’s political poker face is even better than Aymeric’s—but then again, he doesn’t have Elezen ears to give the game away. Nevertheless, his tone suggests he’s seriously revising his opinions of Eorzean sanity. “...Hmm,” he mutters finally, rubbing his beard. “I have no doubt you believe what you say.”

Rita catches Avery’s gaze and rolls her eyes, mouthing, Feckin’ hells, just call us madmen and have done with it. She’s rewarded by a rare, brilliant upward twitch of the man’s lips.

Maxima is still reasoning his way through this. “But what then is the explanation? That an impostor has infiltrated the innermost circle of the imperial court? The idea is inconceivable, absurd...but worthy of investigation nonetheless. Our movement can ill afford to have a highly placed pretender undermining our efforts.”

Hien clears his throat. “Your efforts may yet bear fruit. Tell me, what is to become of our prisoner exchange? Though we have already taken custody of our conscripts, we have yet to release your imperial comrades. Do you still intend to collect them?”

The assembled Garleans stiffen, one or two of them eyeing Hien warily. Maxima blinks, and then nods. “Ah. Yes, as the late ambassador's second-in-command, it falls to me to speak on the Empire's behalf. And I am happy to confirm our intent to proceed according to the original agreement.”

Hien visibly relaxes, nodding to his nearest aide. “Then let us be about it. 'Twould be a pity to abandon such a promising beginning.”

Maxima pushes his glasses back up his nose, but not soon enough to hide the open relief on his face. “Indeed. You have my thanks, Lord Hien. As soon as our people are secure aboard our airship, we shall depart straightways for Garlemald. And you have my world that we will be investigating this matter of Lord Zenos.”

Rita slumps back in her chair, letting out a sigh of relief. It’s not until now, with the pressure easing off, that her exhaustion is sinking in. Yes, Zenos—or something wearing his skin—is apparently back from the dead, but that’s not an immediate problem. She can always kill him again, and this time he won’t have a body to come back to. She’ll make sure of it. (In the back of her mind, she wonders what Zenos’s spirit is doing if his body is walking around. Gods, she hopes the Resonance doesn’t let him hop to another body. One of him was entirely enough.)

She’s only vaguely aware of Alphinaud’s movements across the room until he’s halfway to the door, and then—

“Might I accompany you to the capital?” he asks Maxima, as though that’s an entirely normal question and not utterly deranged.

Shock rips through her like a levinbolt. “Alphinaud!” she snaps. “Are you bloody mad?!”

She’s not the only one demanding an explanation. Gan is on her feet, yelling at him that he’s going to get shot as soon as he crosses the border. Hien is openly baffled. Avery is asking, rather loudly, if Alphinaud has thought this through at all. Alisaie has her twin by the shoulders and is shouting in his face.

Finally, Avery must have enough of all the yelling, because he barks, “Enough!” in a tone so sharp and icy that even the Garleans snap to nervous attention and Gan closes her mouth with an audible click. Clearing his throat, he continues, “I’m sure Master Alphinaud has his reasons, and I’m sure we would all like to know what they are.”

Alphinaud has to wrench himself out of his sister’s grip first. Brushing off his coat, he straightens up to huff, “Impostor or no, if Zenos was instructing Asahi on the finer points of ritual summoning, then experience tells us there is an Ascian waiting in the wings. Without our knowledge and expertise, our new friends will be hard-pressed to contend with a foe for whom death is but a minor inconvenience. They need our help.”

“They’re our friends now?” Gan mutters. Ritanelle finds it hard to disagree.

Maxima actually lowers his glasses, the better to blink at him. “Were you...indeed willing to share your knowledge of this enemy...we would not shun your counsel.”

Hien is frowning at the room in general, but it deepens when his gaze rests on Alphinaud. “You truly mean to do this? In full knowledge of the danger?”

He inhales slowly, and lets it out just as slowly. For a moment, he seems older than his eighteen summers. His gaze sweeps the room, lingering on each of them in turn before it falls on Avery, Gan, and Ritanelle again. “I have seen the Warriors of Light risk their lives on countless occasions. Next to them, I am scarce more than a distraction on the battlefield. But in the meeting room or the audience chamber, there I can make a difference. I can strike bargains, forge ties, and change minds. And where better to do these things than in the home of our old enemy?”

His voice is full of conviction, never wavering. His fists are clenched. Rita knows before she even opens her mouth that he won’t be swayed from his path, but gods, he is so young. “Alphinaud.”

He frowns at her. “Yes?”

“I...” Her grip tightens on the folds of her coat. The words stick in her throat. Finally, after a long moment where she deliberately does not blink, she says, “...Good luck, mate.”

Gan is glaring at Maxima. “You,” she says coldly. “You bring him back safe and sound, or I’ll rip your heart out an’ feed it to you. Clear?”

Maxima swallows. “...As crystal, Miss Bayaqud.”

And that, apparently, is that. The sole bright side is that it does take time to mobilize several hundred captured Imperial soldiers and their personal effects, not to mention the refueling and pre-flight checks for the Garlean airships, so nobody is leaving immediately. They head back to the Kienkan so Alphinaud has the chance to pack his things and say his farewells, during which they all pretend they don’t see Alisaie wipe away her tears. The wind coming off the One River makes the eyes water, that’s all.

That’s certainly Rita’s excuse when she goes outside to watch the aetheryte revolve. The blue light is soothing. Really.

Footsteps catch her attention. She knows that tread—light, steady, as careful as a tightrope walker—so even before she swivels her ears in that direction she says, “Hey, Avery.”

“...Miss Rita,” he murmurs.

It’s always miss or my lady with him, never just Rita. She sort of hates it. Aren’t we friends? she wants to ask. Urianger is friendlier to me, and I’ve actually threatened to kill his cryptic arse. But apparently Ishgardian nobility beats manners into their sons with a heavy stick, so she’s been forced to get used to it. She glances at him over her shoulder to find him busily cleaning his glasses with a small cloth. “You alright there?”

He takes a deep breath and puts his glasses on, his expression grave as he meets her eyes. “I’m going with him.”

What, Rita does not say, mostly because she’s temporarily speechless. She can’t even make her mouth open in preparation for a protest—an argument—anything. She’s vaguely aware that her fingers have gone cold, that she’s whirled to face him, that there’s a curling strand of hair caught in the hinge of his glasses. Her chest hurts, and belatedly she sucks in a breath that scorches her lungs.

No.

“No,” she says, her voice weak even to her own ears. “Avery—”

“Master Alphinaud needs a bodyguard,” he says simply. “We can hardly let him go alone.”

He’s not wrong. But just in this moment, she doesn’t care. Garlemald is malms away, a frozen pit of vipers filled with people who hate them and everything they stand for. Forget walking into the dragon’s den—he’ll be walking right into its jaws, and she’ll be powerless to pull him out. If he gets on that airship, she very well might never see him again; she doubts they’ll think to ship his corpse home for burial. Hells, he might not even make it there; she’s seen Garlean airships, and there are plenty of places to arrange fatal accidents if one was so inclined. She doesn’t think Maxima would, but his troops? She doesn’t know them. Can’t trust them. And if anything happens to Avery—if, gods forbid, he dies...

The lump in her throat threatens to choke her. She wonders if this is what swooning actually feels like in the moments before your body hits the ground. “Avery,” she says again.

She must look a wreck, because his gaze softens. “I’ll bring him back safely,” he murmurs. “You have my word.”

Alphinaud isn’t who she’s worried about in this moment. She swallows roughly and finally, finally manages a proper sentence. “Do the others know yet?”

He shakes his head. “I wanted to tell you first.”

Oh, this impossible man. She swallows back tears. “You’re a bloody idjit,” she informs him, “and if you don’t come back I’ll never feckin’ forgive you.”

A faint smile curves his lips, lighting his eyes. And then he bows, which is a blessing because it means he doesn’t see how hard she’s blinking. She will not cry. "I could do naught otherwise, my lady."

My lady, again. She snorts wryly, shaking her head. “Hope you know I’m holding you to that,” she mutters, but she likes to think she knows him by now. If he says he’ll come back, then...well, he will at least try. But she’ll still feel better if he goes off with a little extra insurance.

Before she can think better of it, she reaches up and pulls off her bronze ear clasps. They’re surprisingly heavy for such little things, but thinner metal wouldn’t hold up to daily wear or the thorny vines etched in relief on their surfaces. Hundreds of years ago, her people wore clasps made of precious metal and inlaid with gemstones, but cheap bronze is all she’s ever had. She only takes them off to bathe, too afraid of losing them otherwise.

Avery stares at her as she presses them into his hand. “Miss Rita...?”

She meets his eyes and makes herself smile. “For luck. Put ‘em on.” She can get new ones. He needs all the help he can get.

He blinks. “My lady, are you sure—”

“I could do it for you.”

He actually blushes. It’s adorable. “Ah. That is...quite alright, thank you, I can manage.”

His skin is darker and warmer than hers, but the clasps still look good gleaming on his earlobes. This time, her smile isn’t feigned.

Avery and Alphinaud will be fine. She just knows it.

[lavenderwing59art]

Yea, they. Headcanon designs.

Old thing from beginning of summer (but I still like it)

[avensartt]

My headcanons for nightwing powers. Specifically before they moved to the volcano

[battry-acid]

BEHOLD! my fire emblem three bitches

[innerfare]

Carrying You 

Summary: How do they carry you?

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

——— 

Luffy: 

We all know he’s a potato sack kinda guy. When he wants to, he’ll just throw you over his shoulder and that’s that. Notorious for reaching all the way across the deck of the Sunny, wrapping his arm around your waist, and snatching you up. 

Zoro: 

Another type to just throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He’ll smack your ass every time he does, too, and tell you to stop complaining if you dare say something. He’s been known to do this in an argument. 

Sanji: 

Bridal style. Always bridal style. He sweeps you off your feet, handling you with great care, and makes sure not to jostle you around too much. He’ll carry you any time, day or night, always happy to have you in his arms. 

Ace: 

Piggyback rides all the way. He loves having you on his back because he can move at his fast pace and keep you with him. He also puts you on his shoulders to carry you around because why wouldn’t he? Very happy for you to climb him like a tree.  

Sabo: 

Always picks you up off the counter or desk or somewhere you’re sitting, grinning when you wrap your legs around his waist and cling to him like a koala bear. Definitely not above tucking you under his arm for safekeeping. 

Law: 

Not the most handsy, though he has been known to pick you up against your will when you’re overworking yourself and take you back to his cabin. How he carries you depends on how difficult you make it. If you’re nice, he’ll carry you bridal style, but if you put up a fight, over his shoulder you go.  

Kid: 

Grins when you come behind him and attempt to lift him off the ground, failing miserably due to his size, turns around and does the same to you but with far more success. He takes advantage of the size difference and manhandles you all day long. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!