#lgbt ffxiv imagines

[derotterdieb]

JDR et le bordel dans ma tête

Bon eh bien si on inaugurait ce compte ?

J'imagine que je peux commencer par une p'tite présentation, il paraît que c'est plus poli.

Se cache derrière le pseudo de DerOtterDieb une personne d'une trentaine d'années, vivant en France, et appréciant parler de JDR. Bon ok, plus en détails, je suis un grand fan de fantasy, et j'en écris moi-même un peu. La SF aussi j'aime ça, mais je suis moins à l'aise pour y jouer et en écrire ! Si je vais surtout parler de JDR, vous me verrez peut être râler sur des sujets d'actualité et politique (en tout cas si vous passez sur Twitter c'est surtout ça que je fais au final là bas), et soyons honnête je me range à gauche, très à gauche. Si les discours pro lgbt+, anti-capitalistes, etc., vous dérangent clairement passez votre chemin, ça risque plus de vous frustrez qu'autre chose ce que je raconte.

En dehors de ça, je joue à pas mal de jeux vidéos, mais on me trouve régulièrement sur FFXIV depuis des années maintenant, si jamais ça vous intéresse je pourrais vous raconter des histoires sur les différents personnages RP que j'y ai incarné ! Sinon j'ai la chance d'avoir un mini jardin avec un petit potager dont je suis très fier, sur d'autres RS je poste régulièrement des photos, allez savoir si je vais pas imaginer un truc ici aussi lié à tout ça ... Actuellement je dirige deux tables de JDR sur un univers et des campagnes maison. Le JDR s'appelle Kaamdlon et vous pouvez trouver la première campagne écrite ici ! C'est un premier jet, une tentative de présenter un peu l'univers, loin d'être parfaite. Je travaille actuellement sur plusieurs projets :

un one shot dans l'univers de Kaamdlon

un petit JDR très politisé et orienté bien à gauche

d'autres grosses campagnes dans l'univers de Kaamdlon (en béta test actuellement pour 2, le reste c'est encore du brouillon)

Tout ça en parallèle de mon travail qui rapporte des sous (faut bien nourrir le chat), et d'autres passe-temps, autant vous dire que ça n'avance pas vite.

Je découvre Tumblr (je suis pas un grand utilisateur de RS en général), et j'ai envie de raconter un peu des trucs sur mes projets, et peut être écrire des petits bouts de résumés de séance de JDR que je trouve sympa. Voire, qui sait, quelques petites histoires si j'en ai le temps. Mais bon, ça c'est ce que je prévois ... sauf que je fais rarement ce que je prévois de faire. Donc on verra bien !

[selchwife]

lgbt terminology is annoying in fic for a game like ffxiv. I don’t mean other people using it but trying to figure out what would be appropriate in my own writing myself. it’s all deeply predicated on cultural context and there’s seldom little basis for envisioning that in canon, if any.

and it’s like, these are things that can be spoken about without specialized vocabulary to some extent, but being queer itself is just as highly contextual, so trying to delve into like “how would a trans man in this setting express that he’s trans or explain what he feels” gets frustrating. Emet is even tougher bc like, I DO have an idea of how he would view his gender and sexuality in irl terms, but how to express that? i at LEAST imagine that he didn’t start out this way in the unsundered world bc he was very intently closeted, so his identity as a queer person is probably more deeply rooted in the context of sundered societies than not. but even then, with his being immortal and not a “true” member of those societies, it’d feel odd for him to, for example, claim that he’s an [insert garlean equivalent of f slur here] in his heart and soul — like, he’s not garlean. entirely. ykwim? but then i guess the point of emet is that the masks he wears do persist, even should he claim otherwise, so.

and anyway like im sure it would not be be odd to anyone if i were to import modern terminology to apply to these concepts (the word trauma being used in a psychological context in recent msq was pretty jarring to me, but that’s an example of one such precedent). i don’t want to spend a bunch of time inventing new words that carry less meaning, either. it’s just one of those things where it becomes difficult to speak about queerness in a way that feels grounded for the setting, and i can’t even go the way of c&w and avail myself of the actual historical research bc this is a fantasy setting where queerness is at best an afterthought

[thefinalwitness]

oc creation rambles sorry i love two (2) cat characters

when i got into ffxiv i thought l'aiha was Too Crazy as an oc, like, i loved her whole concept but i came from warcraft where if ur oc was anything more than a nobody npc u'd get harassed for being a mary-sue (if they were a woman) or edgy grimdark (if they were a man) or just a freak (lgbt/nonbinary/etc) so l'aiha was like, my decision with myself that i wanted a crazy powerful oc and i didn't care what anyone said about it :')

and then she was SO NORMAL IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF FFXIV LMFAO LIKE. the biggest thing i thought was "too much" was her being basically a hydaelyn-version of an ascian, but then shadowbringers happened and uhhhh yeah they just gave that to me LMAO.

atlas is, i think, more of a "true" "let's go crazy about it" oc—unsundered (can familiars even "be" sundered?), venat's personal therapy moth, fought meteion for 12k years to stop the song of oblivion from being Worse, can temporarily learn any job by being in proximity with someone (friendly) who knows the job, can shapeshift into whatever they want (i was too scared to do this with l'aiha but i wanted to with her too—i've seen enough full blown shapeshifters tho that i'm not scared anymore hehe)...

like, they're not All Powerful, of course, but it's fun to really let loose and just make something nuts. their weaknesses include that someone has to be friendly to them, has to be someone they can connect with, and they have no real combative skills on their own—and, well, they're a bit out of every loop imaginable since returning from ultima thule. you say something assuming they'll know what you're talking about and you're more likely to get ":D?" in response.

they're kind of like... they have the potential of those around them. if those they're with are strong and full of hope, they can be too. their power comes from actual, literal friendship. because that's fun actually don't @ me. and similarly, if someone weaker puts their faith in them, they can do more. they are the collective hope and ambition of those around them. when venat sent them after meteion, she sent them with all her hope and love and confidence, and that lasted for 12k years. but it wouldn't have lasted much longer. atlas is just a voice in the wind by the time the warriors of light arrive. all they can do is speak, and hope the scions listen.

it's their hope and their triumph and meteion's restored heart that brings power back to them—and it is fundamentally different now, because they are made up of those around them. u know. they were not a creation of dynamis, but when venat sent them, when she put all her hope into them, she gave them the dynamis to survive meteion's song of oblivion. unrealized to her, they were ever designed to flourish under the dynamis of others. when people hope, or put their hope in them, they are at their strongest. they're not nearly so formidable on their own; they cannot create that dynamis themself. they are what their friends make them.

their main friendships now are minfilia, who has ever believed in the greater good and in hope and in the ability to persevere, and meteion, who has learned this from the warriors of light. so atlas does really well. and even more of their strength comes from having met the warriors of light too—l'aiha, aeric, nanamei and aes'a all live within them. those four were what saved atlas in ultima thule. and they couldn't have if each of those characters hadn't become people that hoped against hope, that had ambitions reaching far beyond the limitations of mankind. had even one of them not become that person, atlas wouldn't have survived, and ultima thule would have unleashed its full power on etheirys and all the stars in the sky.

because ffxiv is a game where you're encouraged, by the game and the playerbase, to make batshit insane lore like that, and i LOVE IT.

im SOOOOOO glad i made a dedicated dancer oc, i love the job so much ;_; ranged but instant casts my beloved. so sparkly and bouncy. wah

[ffxivimagines]

We hit 500! I am pleasantly terrified. In celebration of hitting this milestone, I’ll be running a giveaway! Information on prizes and how to enter can be found below, along with me rambling about thanks and how much I love ya’ll. 

How to Enter:

Reblog this post | likes are good, but they will not be counted. Follow this blog | if you reblog via a side blog, smack a tag on your reblog with your main’s url or handle so I know you’re following, please! New followers are more than welcome to participate!

Do not tag this with raffle or giveaway. It will break the notes and make drawing for winners impossible. 

Prizes:

First Prize | 1 Winner 1.5K commission of your choice + 1 Fantasia (or other MogStation item of equivalent value) This includes things like fic continuations, updates, or the traditional tailor-made commission piece. Commission guidelines still apply and can be found here. Second Prize | 1 Winner 1K commission of your choice + 1 Seasonal item of your choice. Same terms as above! Third Prize | 3 Winners 500 word commission of your choice. Same commission terms as above!

Feel free to send an ask or DM if you have any questions!

Giveaway ends on February 14th!

Don’t want to deal with waiting for giveaway results to get a commission? Check out the commission post here and send me an email or DM!

[clawheld]

Aymeric's Gay Fail: my brief analysis of Ishgardian sexual baggage

-Aymeric de Borel is gay, but he can't score

-To preface, I envision Aymeric as kind of a "bisexual gay guy", as in, his same-sex attraction is so fraught and such a source of tension in his formative years that it probably takes up more space in his mind than his opposite-sex attraction. That, and the rigid expectations and social roles that come with marriage and procreation (especially in the upper class) are upsetting and alien to someone like Aymeric. So whether he is bi or a gay man I think he has spent his adulthood thinking he's better off not getting married.

-My interpretation of Ishgardian culture is that between their fixations on procreation, birthright, gender roles, and sexual purity, it is probably the most homophobic culture in ffxiv. I wouldn't necessarily go as far as to say they've outlawed gay sex acts. Rather:

-Same-sex desire, like the temptation to become a dragon-loving heretic, is a temptation that anyone can fall victim to. The potential is there no matter who you are. Especially men, because women are just assumed not to have enough sexual agency to pursue each other. Women have the agency to seduce and tempt, but sex is an Act done by men to the objects of their desire, by Ishgardian logic.

-The stakes of the thing are not very similar to the issue of Dravanian heresy; Ishgard has not been and is not embroiled in a holy war against an army of seductive gay men (at time of writing). But just like the also-prevalent issue of nobles siring bastards, its something that the Holy See would really like to suppress.

-Now, how do you prevent these aberrant sex acts from happening? You refuse to give those acts a name.

-And so Ishgard has a culture of censorship and sexual ignorance. There are still LGBT Ishgardians and Coerthans, because duh, obviously there are. But its common for them to not know "what to do" the first time they get the opportunity to act on their desires.

-Ishgardian sexual naivete is a persistent stereotype in other parts of Eorzea, mostly because so many Ishgardians don't feel safe having sex (or don't know where to seek it out) until they leave home. Most cruising and community-building takes place in the Brume, where queen-y peasants drink throat-burning booze and play-act as knights and princesses and lusty dragons.

-That, or they enter military service.

-Now I return to Aymeric. We know he has left Ishgardian soil plenty of times. Has he gotten the chance to experiment? No, I don't think so. Not even after he's come to terms with being attracted to men.

-The thought of having a secret double life just to get away with experiencing basic physical intimacy is extremely depressing from where he's standing. Embarrassing, too. He's in his early thirties, and is a man of high standing, and he has as much sexual experience as an unmarried lordling. Maybe if he had been allowed to step away from being a public figure, he could... But that didn't happen.

-Realistically, I see Aymeric being the kind of guy who can find love and have his late gay adolescence in his mid thirties or early forties.

-In the meantime he's really just left with his imagination, and what few details he can glean. Once in a while, when he is traveling on behalf of the state, he might even dare to read whatever trashy gay Eorzean bodice-rippers they have in Ul'dah or Limsa. But its still only his imagination. Only one lonely man reading a book in a room alone. He still doesn't even know what lube is.

-He couldn't get the finger in.

[ffxivimagines]

If you're still taking suggestions, wedding/proposals (like you did with Zenos) for the Ishgard husbands would be great ❤️

Heya, Anon! I have two of three already done for a male WoL here and here if you’re interested. There’s more below as well! ����

Estinien:

Proposed after they accidentally broke his nose. It was not a good moment for overjoyed kissing.

Does not understand the notion of elegance. At all. Suits and other stiff forms of dress are not to his taste. Nor is a hairbrush, it seems.

Cannot manage to decide on a flavor for the cake. He leaves it up to the Warrior and is pleasantly surprised by their taste in pastry.

Wants to avoid a ceremony and get on with the “honeymoon.” Not for the consummation or any hurry to have a ring on them, but for the wanderlust and lively company he will have once they set off together.

Aymeric:

Was resolved to keep his fobdness under lock and key, had the Warrior not proposed to him during a private dinner together.

Understands the need for some secrecy and care when revealing their betrothal to others of Ishgardian high society. He values their safety above all else.

Gives them his ear cuff and receives a token in return. They are never seen without it.

Has a terrible case of nerves prior to seeing them walk down the aisle toward him, Count Edmont standing in as an adoptive father to walk beside them.

Haurchefant:

Proposes after kissing them senseless. He was planning on an outing and on being more polite, but after seeing them smile so brightly, he could not help but kiss them. (He got the order backwards, just a little).

Is determined to find the most magnificent wedding chocobo for their procession. Even if he has to rear one himself.

Spends weeks agonizing over what to wear. Emmanelain, Honoroit, and Francel eventually invoke the power of friendship strict scheduling to pressure him into choosing something before they run out of time to have it tailored.

Cries when you say “I do.” He thinks you may be an angel.

[ffxivimagines]

Hey once you have time and if you’re still taking request can you do a thing where the wol sees Cid as a father figure of sort and one day calls him dad by mistake

The Warrior of Light does not make mistakes. They don’t. It goes against their reputation. They also do not walk into Garlond Ironworks, shouting to be heard over the din, and say, “Hey, dad! Y’got any more mammet hearts?”

The noise dies down. Cid stares. Nero stares. Every single person on staff stares.

“What?”

Nero doesn’t bother to stifle his laughter, only attempting to do so after Jesse elbows him in the side. Cid clears his throat.

“You called me dad.”

The Warrior flushes from their forehead down to their chest and squawks, “I did not!”

Biggs pipes up from where he’d been replating some stolen Garlean armaments, polite enough to hide his amusement with an understanding smile. “Yeah, you did.”

Their blush worsens.

“I have another heart,” Cid says, surprisingly calm about the whole affair. “Should be in the topmost bin.”

They nod stiffly, walk over to the cabinet, grab the offending mass of mechanics, and leave like Leviathan is trying to eat them whole. Once the door is shut and the handle clicks, Cid turns, places his hands on Jesse’s shoulders, and asks, “Am I a father?”

“Only to that pile of paperwork, sir.”

The next time the Warrior visits, Cid pops up from behind the panel of some queer-looking machine, and calls, “Hey! Come to visit your old man?”

He dodges theur response—a flying wrench—with moderate ease.

[ffxivimagines]

Psst. Characters with a windup warrior of light (just an idea)

Aymeric

Keeps them at his desk. They like to fight his quills on occasion, but are otherwise rather docile when adventuring around his office. Lucia has had to rescue them from collapsed stacks of paperwork more than once.

Magnai

Believes them to be an absolute nuisance. He ignores the wind-up even while it follows after him, tiny face a reminder of the one he considers to be his moon, and makes him sick for their company (not that he would admit it). He ignores it, he says, but cleans up the metalwork all the same.

Crystal Exarch

Likes to carry them around in the outer layer of his robes. They peer out from behind the red drapery like some sort of curious kit and clamber all over his body. Their favorite perch is his shoulder so they can lean and gently knock their face into his cheek. He wishes his Warrior would be there to give him a true kiss.

[ffxivimagines]

Headcanons for WoL taking the Scions on vacation to costa del sol (bonus points for relationship things?)

Urianger

Does not own a swimsuit

Does not understand why he should have one

Is very much scandalized by the very real glimpse of hip bone he gets from above the waistband of Warrior of Light’s shorts

Does not tan well and uses it as an excuse to request their assistance with applying sunscreen (An excuse to have the Warrior’s hands on his back? More likely than you think)

Y’shtola

Owns too many assorted sets of shorts, skirts, and well worn blouses to bother buying a swimsuit. She wears whatever is comfortable to swim in

Prone to falling asleep in a beach chair and tanning unevenly

Has water fights of legendary proportions with the Warrior

May or may not use arcane magics to keep her drink cold longer

Thancred

Should not be allowed to choose his own swimsuit. The Warrior is thoroughly convinced that wearing shorts that short is illegal at Costa del Sol

Keeps doing that inconveniently sexy hair-push-back thing they can’t cope with, making the Warrior pray to the Twelve for perseverance while screaming internally

Can’t surf. He’s laughably bad at it

Tataru

Has the cutest, most flattering swimsuit

Helps the Warrior set up the large beach towel and their picnic. Also defends it from Thancred’s sandy feet + seagulls

Floats around in the shade where the fish like to congregate. The Warrior is pretty sure she’s some sort of fairy tale princess with how many miscellaneous creatures she manages to see, touch, or otherwise befriend

[ffxivimagines]

wol with a windup zenos? actually, how would that even work, how big would it be?

Not that big, actually. If anything, it would be smaller than usual. Never one to be outdone by Eorzean engineers, the designers who slaved over making a lookalike of their crown prince went for the tiniest, most elaborate replica they could manage—complete with a functional holster and replica katanas.

Given the chance, the Warrior of Light would keep one of their own. It’s a nearly pocket-sized build, non-lethal, and the effective equivalent to a mechanical hunting dog. The wind-up Zenos is an endearing type of predatory not unlike keeping a particularly active mouser. They try to name him Menagerie, discomfited by how Zenos’s name feels on their tongue when spoken with affection. Unfortunately, the miniature only responds to Zenos, your Highness, my Lord, and your Radiance. They learn this after he takes issue with their sandwich and refuses to stop stabbing their bread until they order, “Zenos, yield.”

It takes adjustment to live with a tiny and semi-murderous wind-up, but they make it work. It goes well up until the point where they run into the prince himself and have to deal with his examination of their newfound friend (and his jealousy is a spectacle for the ages. Challenging a wind-up to a duel in jest). If the Warrior is amenable to a substitute, they should thus be amenable to his company in full.

[ffxivimagines]

Magnai reacting to scars on Healer!WoL? Minific or HCs, whatever you feel inspired for!

To sit on the throne, one must first pass the Naadam. This is an inalienable rule of the Steppe. As such, Magnai does not expect to cross weapons with the Mol outsider whose bearing reflects disdain for injury, rather than a joy for inflicting it.

The Warrior of Light, they are called, and he begins to understand their might when they tear destruction from spaces that were previously empty, pouring stars from their fingertips and treading the edges of gravitational rifts with ease. They harness the Steppe itself once Sadu attempts to crush them. The wind is a fierce howl, the earth itself rebelling against her presence, and they draw out the very energy she uses to cast to duo on it themself. The nearly one-sides nature of their battles betrays them.

It is decided, the Steppe sings, I have found the rightful champion.

They win in short order and it is a grating defeat to concede to. Crushed under the weight of seven other Oroniri warriors and a large chunk of stone besides. Unthinkable. Magnai does not want to yield.

But he does. It is law.

The men in iron appear and they have no mercy left to give. Sadu cackles when they flick through gear, items dissolving to aether before others take their place. Left holding a book, Magnai wonders what they mean to do. Throw it? Read scripture until they flee out of boredom?

They flick it open, inhale, and roar. The being that erupts from within is nothing like any being he has ever seen, spectral blue and shimmering even as it fades, and the Warrior flicks down a couple pages, yanks other beings into existence, and obliterates every single soldier standing before them with fire and fury. It is terrifyingly magnificent.

Later, once all warriors have been helped back to their tribes or laid to rest, they sit with him and soothe the aches in his bones. “You have questions,” they surmise, laughing when his fidgeting ceases, “And I would have them. What troubles you, my Sun?”

He short circuits for a long moment before managing an answer. Their sun! Him! Theirs! Never in a—well, technically he is. They won the Naadam. Ah, what a situation he has to live with, now. “What arts allow you such power?”

“Many of them. More than a handful,” they reply, smoothing salve over his bruises. “The last was a byproduct of another art. They go hand in hand, scholarly pursuits and that of the summon.”

“And of your scars?”

They heave a sigh. “I have always been a healer. It is one of the few things I know I do well. Some arts are... aggressive. Painfully so. I fight and I heal myself haphazardly. There are many things you cannot are that are never going to be right again.”

“Does it matter, then,” he argues, “if they cannot be seen? The Sun sees all and grants unto you his blessing. Partake in his grace.” He opens his arms.

The Warrior stares. Blinks. And then smiles, incandescent and sorrowful. They accept his offer and slide over to wrap their arms around him. They fit in his arms comfortably, scar tissue a clear pattern where his hands rest against their skin and the borders of bandages.

Magnai is not stupid. He knows of the side effects of healing too soon, too heavily, too late, too lightly. He has experienced all of them. The numbness in his left foot can attest to that.

He would care for them, if their own touch is too harmful. It is a small price to pay for such might and generally-inoffensive company. He would hold them until they are comforted, such is the Sun’s benevolence.

[ffxivimagines]

Hand in Hand | Fealty AU

“What terrible posture you have.”

The Warrior of Light, sworn protector to the youngest prince of Allag, and unwilling participant in social niceties spits, “And your lead is, of course, infallible, your Radiance. I had assumed dead men could not waltz.”

“Ah, but you see—“ he says, grip tightening ever so slightly on their waist “—I could not stay away from an old friend for long.”

The Warrior’s attempt at neutrality (paltry as it has been) is thoroughly shattered by the touch. “T’would do you well to remove your hand from my person, lest I need remove it with my blade.”

“The one you are not in possession of, yes?” Solus laughs, quietly amused, and very pointedly ignores how their hand tries to slip from his. So many incarnations later and they are still a spitfire. He does not enjoy it being all animal malice, however. The true them he had known was cunning, quick witted, and blunt. This little imitation is a knockoff. Single-minded, vitriolic, and graceless enough to heave around a huge and semi-blunted claymore for the sake of a bastard prince.

Where is his devotion? That prince simply sits on his fancy little throne, tall staff in hand, and watches his precious Lionheart dance with the dead emperor of a far-away country. What a terrible creature he is to not show Psy—no. No. This is not them. This will never be them.

But he can still enjoy picking them apart, rooting through their memories, inching the hand high on their waist downward until they glare knives at him. He does these things in fits and starts, frivolous with his power. They try to fight his lead and step away when their prince calls them, but Solus’s hold is unyielding.

“I have been summoned and as such must obey,” they say sharply. “Release me.”

Solus smiles and the gold of his eyes seems to glow in the light of the ballroom. “You can leave whenever you so wish,” he replies, “but I do not believe you wish this to end.”

They spit curses at him under their breath and attempt to make a strategic escape. Making it look like the emperor of Garlemald and all associates territories was according them would not look good for the tenuous ceasefire being arranged after G’raha’s coming of age festival winds to a close. They could not afford to jeopardize the safety of their people.

They follow the emperor’s lead smoothly enough, stomping on his feet with purpose every few beats. It is a blessing that Allagan dress uniform includes a floor length robe. They take full advantage of the obscurity to make Solus wince. Not that he does but the intent is still there.

It takes three more songs and a pleading “Kill Him Before I Do” type of look shot toward their prince before they are freed. Solus smiles as G’raha approaches and leans in, whispering uncomfortably close to their ear, “Do remember my name properly, old friend. It is Emet-Selch.”

He pulls back and twirls them right into the arms of their ridiculous crystal prince. G’raha has some level of understanding when he offers his own company in exchange, citing a rotation of the guard as grounds for his Lionheart to take up residence by the throne. “If you would grant me the honor, may I ask for a dance, your Radiance?”

And so they do, the prince far worse at the waltz than his jack-of-all-trades warrior. “There is something off about you?”

“Is it the odd aether?”

Solus smiles with a patronizing curl to his lips. “So you are not useless, after all. The first decent princeling in the entire history of Allag and of course you have their affections unto death.” He can hear the murmurs shaping and warping in corners about royalty dancing together so intimately (to allow the leader of another country to lead, how scandalous) and asks, “Would you marry them?”

“I— No! They are not someone I could bear to burden further,” G’raha says, tripping over a few words in his haste. “They deserve to live a life without court interference.”

“And you believe having them as your lifelong guard is safer,” Solus accuses. He follows the lull in the music to dip the prince, pulling nearly the same maneuver as what he had done to the Warrior to ask, “I assume you would have no objections to my request for their hand, then?”

G’raha flushed down to his chest at the combined proximity and the insinuation that his longtime friend and dearest companion is something to be given away. “You will find,” he growls, “that some diplomacy should be handled with more tact and less intent.” He pulls himself from Solus’s grip with obvious fury and strides away.

What a curious creature he is indeed.

The event concludes without further issue, but there are five more days to go before the festival is through. He has time to burn, for what it is worth. There is nothing that princeling can do to keep him from thoroughly ruining the plaything with his old friend’s face.

With that in mind, he begins the next day’s soirée with a public announcement.

“Ladies, gentlemen, people of the court, I bid you good morning. I have a small announcement to make. T will take but a moment. I announce my intent to court His Highness G’raha of Allag’s Lionheart. If there are any in attendance who object my claim, speak now.”

The dining hall erupts into pandemonium.

[ffxivimagines]

Can I request "didn't realize they were injured" with the Warror of light and Aymeric please. (The warrior being the one injured)

“Report!��

Aymeric watches troupes of soldiers repeat their exploits and hand in forms. He waits. He watches. The Warrior of Light does not follow.

He rises from his seat of temporary governance to ask after them. Lucia has not seen them. General Aldynn says he last saw them bells ago, heading out the South Gate. The other alliance leaders are either clueless or otherwise unhelpful. They are nowhere to be found.

The siege is not yet to commence. They have a time and place for these things. It mus be coordinated. The Warrior they all count on is missing and Aymeric intends to find out why.

He understands the rampant paranoia that settles in before war. He has lived with it (and still does, even with Nidhogg slain) for many a year. He would not begrudge them so simple a need.

But he still worries.

He struggles to work past his anxiety late into the night nearly to morning. They do not arrive.

Even when the troops are assembled and rallying below the many banners, they are far beyond his sight. He waits again. Watches carefully. Prays.

They are found among the many bodies the Garlean prince has decimated, standing proudly even when he bears down against their broken blade. They fight and they fight and they fight until they are struck down for one final time.

And he sees to their rescue with fire and fury to match Estienien’s own. They pull no punches and give no apologies. Not even when the Warrior is tucked safely in a field infirmary bed does Aymeric cease his vigil.

Nor does he when they wake and sit up, blood seeping through their bandages from wounds torn open again, and worry after him. His health and wholeness are paramount, they exclaim, slurring and blinking blearily at him. What on the Fury’s green earth could they possibly be worried about if not him?

He watches them lose steam, watches how the pain filters slowly into their awareness through the filling relief of potions and poultices, and catches them before they fall half off the bed in agony. His touch brings them pain, he knows, but it is better than he assist them back into bed than leave them bent over the short railing. There is nearly nowhere left to grab that is not somehow in disrepair.

“Rest—“

“I... it has been a while,” they say between breaths hissed slowly through their teeth, “since I have been injured.”

Aymeric finds that he both doubts and believes them. He has seen the state hey work themself into for the sake of others and he world at large. They consider something needing stitches to be the same as a paper cut.

To them, injury is one step away from death.

He smooths a hand through their hair when they sneeze and whimper through the aftershocks. He stays with them as they take stock of their body. Slowly. Carefully. With more than one medic on hand to change their bandages and redo popped stitches.

He hopes they make it long enough to recover.

[ffxivimagines]

"this is for your own good" with estinien saying it?

The Warrior of Light shudders under him. Had Estinien enough patience to allow them his kindness, it would be freely given. The situation at hand, however, does not care.

They are dying.

He shifts his weight and hears them sob for breath, his legs locking their body to the ground from shoulder to thigh, and whispers an apology. Pouring alcohol over the wound, he thanks the Fury for silencing potions. He could not bear to hear them scream themself hoarse.

He lifts a blade from the fire (one of many that they carry, repurposed for the emergency) and hisses when the hilt heats his armor to scalding. He cannot imagine how it will feel for them when he seals the wound. He grabs a strap of leather and forces it between their teeth like an afterthought.

He has nearly forgotten everything in the face of their agony and slowly draining life.

He’d tried potions, elixirs, infusions of all sorts, pouring the solutions over where they continued to bleed out. They would fizz and sizzle. Slow the bleeding.

And then stop.

He is left to his last resort.

The Warrior does not glare, instead choosing to grind their teeth on the leather and steel their resolve. They know before he says it.

“This is for your own good.”

And it is, though they black out when he is barely halfway through. Estinien does not wish this on any enemy of his, much less an ally. To be scorched by fire and their own blade in an act of desperation.

He finishes cauterizing the wound, pours more alcohol over it, dries it, bandages it, and allows himself to weep. Sitting beside them, carding a hand though their sweat-damp hair, he wonders if it would prove true.

Would it have been for their own good? Had he managed to keep them alive? Would they hate him for this, or allow him their company once more?

He is answered by their waking, bells later in a chirurgeon’s bed, and broken call of his name. They wrap trembling hands around his and say, “That must have been hard. You have my apologies.”

“Never more than what you have been through,” he replies.

Their hands do not move from his, nor do their eyes from his face. “May I request one last liberty of you?”

“Anything.”

They smile and it is a hollow and bitter thing. “Do not cry for me. There are a thousand thousand others guided by the selfsame light as I. You are too good to mourn a false hero.”

But he does, years later, when Black Rose steals all from him. He stands at their pyre and cries.

They cannot hear him.

[ffxivimagines]

can we get more of emet being nonbinary? in anyway really, just showing off or teaching the Wol that its an option? ill take anything, this hc is amazing

There is nothing surprising about the strange and archaic traditions the imitations living on the Source employ to describe and separate their forms into categories. How ridiculous, to stick to something so finite and uninformed as a binary. Emet-Selch has seen many a civilization have more to it than men and women, boys and girls, option A and option B. Allag was far better about that than Garlemald has been.

There is no lack of chaos within him, even after centuries in mourning crushed his creativity with which to display it. His mask feels comforting, now, when it has been stifling before. It holds all that he is behind the lacquered front and allows him the easy option of smiling with all his teeth when someone asks what sort of man would see the end of the world as a blessing. What kind of man, indeed. He is not one. He would not know.

The Warrior of Light looks and does not know. They are shattered and kept in little bite-sized pieces. He wonders if they would understand him after being so many creatures. What a joy they had been, back in the day, when their robe would come off to reveal an ever-shifting amalgam of aether and personality. They have always known what they are, what they could be, with such certainty. It was a game to them, changing their form from one day to the next. Emet-Selch would watch with admiration and a touch of envy. They have always been a far better polymorph than he. 

He has grown comfortable within his mortal body. It is weak and annoying in all the worst ways, but so easy to toss aside and replace. He covers it in furs and rich fabric like it’s deserving of such luxury. No measure of mortal vessel would be, but he resides within and is more than worthy. There is no plan better served by comfort and drama than his own. The drapery is a nice touch.

The Warrior is nothing like what he knew. Hydaelyn has taken even their confidence to leave a husk behind. They listen when he tells them of Amaurot, of how he is not so much a man as he is something so far beyond such a paltry word, and promise to remember him. All of him. Not just the bits and pieces that fit within their world of binary rules and strict expectations. 

They have torn him in two and, for the first time in many an age, he feels at peace. The chaos has quieted to a dull hum. It is not gone. It is a part of him same as his very aether, but it has settled in place. He feels himself fade away, a breath at a time, as their aether twines with his and tears it apart all at once. 

He allows them to carry him to rest. 

[ffxivimagines]

dona nobis pacem | minific

Warnings for: character death, SHB spoilers, angst, references to unhealthy coping mechanisms, the result of a multi-century fixation ending in the worst way possible, character injury, blood, canon-typical violence, mild body horror

100% inspired by @surfacage ’s Bad End piece. Thank you for making me cry. (I hope this is to your taste ;;w;;) 

Ao3 Link

Here’s your cue to scroll past and avoid spoilers or otherwise triggering content! Beware!

They do not have a paper, nor a crier or any other newsfolk, but everyone still knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not have a paper in the Crystarium, nor a crier or any other newsfolk with which to deliver assorted information to all. However, despite this and all other underdeveloped facets of the bastion city, everyone knows without a doubt:

The Crystal Exarch has gone mad.

They do not need headlines in sharp-smelling ink to believe it, having been haunted by fanciful offers of adventure the moment they rest their heads for nigh on a fortnight. There is a whisper of promise carried on the wind that they can taste. It is heady and familiar as if wrought from worn scripture. Whenever someone says they know it, recognize it, there is a note of terror to their confession.

The Warrior of Darkness has fallen. They who speak in tongues and borrow his voice are but a ghost built from desperation and aether. The Exarch knows it is madness to reside hand in hand with a facsimile of godhood, but he does it gladly, hood ever up and obscuring his face. They need not ask him why—not when they can see the edges of shimmering, blue tear tracks beginning to blend into the steadily spreading crystal of his curse—and seek to avoid doing so for fear of finding themselves face to face with a broken man.

There are no sightings outside the Tower, the Exarch and his little toy god happily locked up together in the recesses of Allagan royal suites, but the people know. They grieve for the man they knew and the love that killed him.

There is no adoration for their half-savior, not when his demise has brought their only hope for survival down to his knees in prayer. With every word that rings hollow in the air, their hatred grows.

“The Exarch is recuperating,” they have been told by the guard. “His strength was sorely tested.”

“By who,” they ask, “and how? What could prove so taxing to a man who leapt through time?”

And though there has been no spoken answer, they know. From the moment the Tower flickered, aether sputtering and flickering in protest to an invisible strain, they knew. The sky simply agreed with a blinding rush of neverending Light.

The day the Warrior of Darkness fell, so too did their Exarch’s heart shatter. His Tower, the symbol of his life and blessing of protection, had nearly faded from their sight. They felt the echoes of battle in the groaning and creaking, worried for his health when fissures rained flakes of crystallized aether down upon them, but he had returned. He was not hale, but they had assumed he was whole. What an oversight, that. 

They learned quickly that the Exarch is mad over love. What an end for such a visionary, to be tempered so (though, for some, they say it is not separate from his adoration. That devotion is one and the same). The creature he calls by name and laughs with is volatile in how it smiles and jokes back, an old friend come home, with far fewer scars and none of the trauma from the time after the Crystal Tower’s doors had shut back on the Source. He has built his own coffin and proceeded to tuck himself in as if comfortable living within a blue-gold bubble of fable and falsehood.

For those who have known him, it is nauseating. 

For those who knew the one he lost, it is infuriating. 

“Stop this,” Alisaie pleads, voice muffled through the doors of the Ocular. “You know better than most that this is not what he would want.”

She has been there every day for a month. Alphinaud has visited, but it is Alisaie’s persistence that has run her ragged where all others have stopped. Teleporting between the Inn’s aethertye and that of the Crystarium has eaten away at her Gil same as her energy, but still, she persists. Behind the locked doors, the fake that wears her friend’s face leans his head against the Exarch’s own with a dull thok. 

They do not answer.

(A little part of her is jealous that the Exarch can turn off his cares for the rest of the world so thoroughly as he does for the sake of his fabricated hero. What she would not give to be so singlemindedly greedy.)

The Scions wish to grieve. They have his body, the casket, knowledge of the badly penned will left in his inn room to the left of his aetheryte earring, but they lack the person they know the Warrior would most love to send him off. Alisaie is not the only one waiting. However, no matter what they ply the Exarch with, he does not allow them the concession of allowing their friend to rest, or releasing the (for all intents and purposes) Primal who has been made to wear his face. 

They were there when he fell and in the moments after. Ryne could not stop the Light, Alphinaud’s magic too feeble to seal the wounds torn into being across the Warrior’s body, and the Exarch... what could he do so far from the Tower? And so they had watched, helpless, as Emet-Selch brought his grand fury to bear against their faltering aegis. Watched him shatter and collapse to his knees time and time again until it becomes a mercy when he does not yet rise. 

But it is not his last stand. 

With axe in hand, he leverages to his feet once more. There are no defined steps, no head held high, no righteous fury. Where stories had said he was indomitable, terrifying, untouchable─this person is not him. This bleeding, dying warrior is mortal and just as flawed as all the rest and yet the world is stacked upon his shoulders as if his bones will not be ground to dust in the shadow of its magnitude. 

He takes one step and then another, feet slipping and scuffing along the ground, and then stops. He hefts the axe, palms sticky-slick with blood, but can do no more. 

Hades laughs at his struggle and the sound reverberates in the cage of his ribs. What bitter mockery it is to see his friend-turned-enemy struggling to stand. Hydaelyn’s Champion is nothing but a husk at his feet, soul sundered and aether long since spent. He reaches out and very carefully snuffs out the overflowing Light with a practiced hand. This will be his final victory against Her Champion. 

This is his final elegy for a friend. 

And then, in a show of pity, he allows the body to stay whole. He rescinds his darkness, the many, many masks and names and memories he carries, and steps down to pay his respects. The Exarch does not allow him that liberty, for the moment his feet all but brush the ground, the aether of his domain shivers. 

He had not designed the Allagans to have such comparable power to that of his creation, but (then again) he had not accounted for the mistakes of late royalty nearly turning his plans to cinders. The Crystal Exarch fumbles his way toward his fallen friend and pulls his body into his arms, hands trembling but face blank. He calls to him, desperate. His voice cracks. 

Emet-Selch smiles. At least, for once in all his ages and eons, something just as wretched as he is mourning their loss. He waits and he watches. Detached. 

(A part of him resents the hand that suffocated that Light, but that is the same part of him that has been around since Amaurot rose around his ears. He is not so willingly naive, anymore.)

The aether trembles and shakes in fits and starts and the crystal creeping its way up the Exarch’s cheek slides a little further outward. He holds the Warrior close to his heart, a hand resting on his head as if to protect. What could he do for a body that is devoid of life, truly? No matter how tightly he holds him, no matter the silent prayers he devotes tot he Twelve, it will all be for naught. 

Sitting there with the bloodied crest of the Warrior’s head tucked under his chin, the Crystal Exarch cries. The entire First follows suit. 

The crystal lances up and onto his yet untouched cheek and spiders outward like cracks on fine china. It does not consume him in full, but there is a dullness to his grief mirrored in the wide-eyed wildness of his disbelief. The Warrior cannot be dead. There is no way. 

But the body in his arms gives no sputtering breaths, no soft whispers of stubborn aether. It is empty. 

And every effort he has made turned to waste. 

There is no clear shift where his mourning turns to rage, but by Hydaelyn’s will it is felt. The quaking becomes pressure and a crushing embrace that screams in intrinsic tongues, “You will never have atoned enough for this sin.” 

When the might of the Crystal Tower is brought to bear, there are few who could oppose it. The cost is great, though, and there is a hardening of more than feet and back and hips, but even that of heart. 

If the Warrior of Darkness has died, so too has the man called G’raha Tia. 

And so, the Crystarium mourns. The Scions mourn. The false god ever lives.