#ser grinnaux

[veliara]

Junelezen2024 Day 3 - Breakfast

a breakfast that went really wrong

As Ciel had anticipated upon first meeting the warrior, all foolish thoughts were blown away. Ciel was peacefully eating breakfast in the empty Forgotten Knight. The morning hours were quiet and peaceful. Unfortunately for Ciel, the happiness didn't last long.

She heard heavy, unhurried footsteps coming down the stairs to the main hall, saw the tavern owner's face change. The footsteps stopped beside her and a moment later, a powerful, armoured hand came down heavily on her shoulder. She was nearly knocked off from her chair. "Oh, Shorty," came Dzemael's familiar voice, "you're just who we were looking for." Ciel noted to herself that she had prefer Grinnaux's tone of voice from the night. His faithful companion stood beside the berserker and scrutinised the empty room. The owner of the establishment looked warily at the two knights, then at the young man who was peacefully eatung his apple and completely ignoring Archbishop personal guards. "And good morning to you too sirs," Ciel replied politely, carefully ignoring the nickname that made her eye twitch, "to what do I owe the honour? "Tomorrow's lesson with the boys is cancelled, - the warrior grinned darkly. Leaning over, he whispered in Ciel's ear, "You'll be training with us. Ciel choked at the news. The lancer patted boys back helpfully.

"Why?" the young man wheezed. Dzemael almost laughed out loud. Paulecrain grinned and tried to calm the coughing boy. "Don't worry, they were just sent on an urgent errand. And you've been assigned to us. As the only available for the day." The weight of the hand disappeared from his shoulder. "Be there at five," Dzemael said over his shoulder. "And don't be late, I hate that." Ciel sighed heavily and rested her head on the bar with a sigh of misery. "Sir Gibrillont, don't expect me tomorrow" Ciel moaned sorrowfully, without raising his head "Ciel, what do these knights want from you?" the veteran asked worriedly. "I thought you met Sir Guerrique by chance, but it seems you know not only him." "Yes, sir I know not only him." Ciel mumbled to the side. -Someone seems want me to suffer. I don't know why else they've made them my mentors for tomorrow's training."

P.S. When Junelezen2024 is over I will post everything in chronological order. In case anyone likes my story.

[crystallineconflict]

give a kiss, take a bite (mukmuk_painting)

[abra-ka-dammit]

heavensward really just be like ....and here's A BLACK SKINNED ELF FINALLY! he's wrongfully accusing your friends of conspiring with heretics and works for the big bad and wants you dead!

and.....pretty much every other elezen in the game who isnt a grey duskwight is whiteperson. like

hey, lets talk about ser grinnaux, sqex. i just wanna talk. just a sec. i wanna talk about the first black elezen relevant to msq at all being evil, just a little while

[arcteris]

remember you are not alone

the encouragement wasn't necessary, but eris appreciates it nonetheless. rip ser grinnaux and ser paulecrain

[shadowed-vigil]

day 19: taken

verb: capture characters: warrior of light, paulecrain de fanouilley word count: 878 notes/warnings: a sort of continuation from sally; however, there is nothing explicit in this particular fic. the implications of noncon are still referenced.

Her lungs ache with the effort as she gasps herself awake, great glugs of air that burn fiercely in her throat, down into her lungs. Everything aches — it hurts to breathe, to move, every fiber of her being screaming in protest as she blinks blearily, once, twice. It hurts, but she has to move. It hurts, but as she finally begins to get her bearings, she feels the sense of panic muddy her thoughts, wincing through each fear-stricken huff as she forces herself up. 

It’s almost disorienting, how dark it is. The night is her birthright but this is oppressive, in every sense of the word as her vision adjusts, bit by bit. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s laying on some sort of cot — too dingy and dirty to be a proper bed, no sheet for her to slip out from under. It’s one of the only things she sees in the room with her — windowless, small, the air damp and cold. 

There’s a door, though. 

Trembling, she works to push herself up into a sitting position — freezes all over again when she hears the telltale rattle of chains, suddenly aware of the irons tight over her wrists; the awed horror dawning ever faster as she tries to swallow her panic, as it just twists up her spine anyway as she bites back a scream —

“Hello, darling.” 

She flinches so hard it hurts. She hadn’t even noticed him in the dark of the room, quiet as he was, as dark as it is.

“Paulecrain,” she gasps. 

Her heart leaps into her throat before she can even think — so blinded by the sheer relief of seeing something familiar amidst the dreadful unknown. He must be here for her, she thinks frantically, heart hammering in her chest as she sits up fully, as she —

Stops. 

It settles over her slowly, wariness trickling down her spine. Because she trusted him — like she’d trusted Grinnaux, and he’d —

She really shouldn’t cry. She can’t afford to break. 

Paulecrain notices anyway as he clicks his tongue, some low hum meant to soothe. She stares at him, wide-eyed in disbelief as he just — smiles at her. Pleasantly. 

She bristles. 

“Where am I?” she chokes. 

“Does it matter?” 

She glowers at him, hands curling into fists.  

“What of Ser Aymeric?” 

He shrugs. “What of him? Unless you mean to ask if your little rescue party was a success.” He sends her an unimpressed look as he gestures. “Which, again — does it matter?” 

She doesn’t realize she’s trembling until she hears the faint rattle of her chains, the sputter in her breath as she tries to self-soothe. He looks at her patiently, almost sympathetically, if not for the ghost of a smirk darkening his features. 

Her eyes narrow, bile rising in her throat. 

“I deserve some answers, I think,” she says carefully, her voice hoarse. “I’m owed that much.” 

“I don’t know that you’re in a position to be making demands, little warrior.” 

The familiarity is enough to bite, to have her wince. She scowls. 

“Am I in a position to do anything?” 

He regards her, some unfathomable expression on his face. Her heart continues to race wildly, confused, terrified — and then he sighs.

“The Lord Commander was regretfully allowed to slip from our hold, just as you and yours intended.” His smile softens and it’s — awful, ominous. “Unfortunate, but — well. It isn’t as if we came away with nothing.” He leans in, smiles worse. “Many thanks to Ser Grinnaux.” 

She stares at him, murderous, heart thundering in her chest. 

He stands, and it’s as if her body suddenly remembers how to move; she leaps to her feet, knees wobbling as she flattens back against the wall, anything to put space between her and the knight encroaching closer. He looks unimpressed at her sudden display, rolling his eye as he clicks his tongue. “Settle down,” he says, voice stern — like he’s scolding her for being rightfully afraid. 

She lunges for the door. 

She doesn’t make it far enough — the chains don’t allow her to even reach the handle before she runs out of slack, the irons halting her movement as they dig in sharply along her wrists. 

That, and the elezen that moves to bar her way. 

“Come now,” he scoffs, hands gripping her shoulders, “you really think it isn’t locked?” 

She flinches, tries to jerk away, her hands pushing off his chest to push him away, but there’s nowhere to run in the cramped room; the wall rushes back up to meet her, her head smacking back against it as she reels. There’s a scream building in her throat but it doesn’t quite form before he’s got his hands on her again, as he cradles her face in one palm and slaps her with the other. 

It’s enough to have her stop, dazed and swaying on her feet. Her pulse still races, so terrified it feels hard to breathe. 

“Settle,” he repeats, harsher. “We lost the Lord Commander. Who does that leave to question?” 

She blinks up at him wearily, her hands still flat against his chest. 

“He’s free. He’ll tell the truth, you know,” she breathes. 

His thumb brushes one cheek, her other still stinging from the blow. 

“So will you.”

[ainyan]

WIP Wednesday Whenever

I missed WIP Wednesday yesterday (and for a few months), but I really wanted to give you guys a bit of a taste of one of the pieces I'm working on.

From the private journals of Lord Aymeric of Ishgard, as discovered by G'raha Tia in the ruins of Ishgard, Eighth Umbral Era

Word of her work in the Western Highlands and in the Sea of Clouds circulated amongst the families of Ishgard, and for once, the scions of House Dzemael spoke well of the foreign woman in our lands. House Haillenarte already thought the world of her, but Lady Laniaitte had been equally as impressed by the Warrior of Light as her younger brother. I must wonder if it was those accolades as much as the indiscreet questioning by her companions that led the Heavens’ Ward to accuse them of heresy. In hindsight, I realize that my father’s personal knights would not have taken kindly to a storied hero in their midst and not under their control.  I do not think then that they believed the rumors from Eorzea regarding the Warrior of Light. This does not surprise me overmuch; love overflowing have I for Ishgard and her people, but we have an arrogance that we have ill-earned at times. When she stood forth as the champion of Mistress Tataru, I could see the smirks in the eyes of those arrogant knights. Those smirks faded quickly when she began to move. Within moments of starting, it became clear that her azure Drachen armor had been fairly earned. Her lance was but an extension of her arm and the fury of Nidhogg swirled about her, lending a dark aura to her obsidian horns and glittering scales. She was justice incarnate; a breathtaking avatar of Halone Herself. She won handily, as one might expect from the woman who put an end to the Black Wolf’s reign. By the time that both Ser Grinnaux and Ser Paulecrain were kneeling in defeat, their flushed faces set in furious lines, Alphinaud was similarly winded, hands planted upon his thighs as he fought for breath. By contrast, she looked as radiant as the moment she had entered the arena, not even a sheen of sweat upon her brow as she gazed down upon the two defeated knights with a disappointed expression. When the Arbiter announced the outcome and acquitted the two unfortunate Scions, she turned and left in her usual silence. While most would not have had the fortitude to resist heaping remonstrations upon the heads of the defeated, she declined to do so, instead exiting the arena in dignified silence with her companions in tow. Once more, I found myself impressed with her all out of proportion to her diminutive size and retiring demeanor. Nor was I the only one; Lord Haurchefant gifted her with her very own black Ishgardian chocobo, direct from the Fortemps stables. Embarrassed though I am to admit it, I wish I could gift her with a similar demonstration of my approval. Alas. Perhaps I will be afforded such an opportunity in the future.

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Write 2023 Day 5: Barbarous

“Just as I was beginning to doubt the efficacy of the Ishgardian justice system!” Alphinaud said with a nervous grin. “Come, my friend─let us put an end to this mummer's farce!”

Aeryn gripped the hilt of her rapier, teeth grinding as the judges nodded.

In her mind’s eyes she again saw young Lord Francel standing on the precipice, ready to leap into Witchdrop of his own accord at the word of a heretic masquerading as an Inquisitor.

It had been so easy, for the false Guillaime to pit faithful Halonics against one another, to sow discord among allies and friends, to send innocents to their doom. He had been believed, allowed whatever excess of cruelty, while any aid and kindness she or Cid or Alphinaud had offered had been scorned and met with suspicion.

This was no different. She stood here to defend her few remaining companions because of the supposedly unimpeachable claims of yet more supposedly holy authority.

The arena was set and Tataru separated from them by bars. Ser Grinnaux and Ser Paulecrain smirked across from her and Alphinaud. Her young comrade took a shaky breath, his tome at the ready.

A trial by combat, to “prove” her friends’ innocence. What sort of illogical nonsense gripped her father’s countrymen?

Games between the High Houses, Count Edmont had said. Powerplays between those who cared naught for who was caught in their schemes—just like in Ul’dah. This had nothing to do with the thrice-damned war!

Thank the Sisters her mother had had the wisdom to take them from this wretched place, to a homeland where both faith and educated reason coexisted.

The Judge held up his hands in supplication.

“O Halone, render unto us Your judgment! Raise up the righteous, and cast down the wicked!”

Fine. If they wished to resort to such barbarous methods as this, she would oblige. She fixed her eyes on Ser Grinnaux and his axe as she drew her sword.

Levin crackled in her hands, sparking down her blade. Icy wind played in her hair and clothes. She sensed the earth below her feet and fire behind her eyes, waiting to answer her call.

If her country of birth refused to be civilized, then she needn’t be, either.

And they would remember that in this realm, the Fury was her patron.

[mimble-sparklepudding]

7. Trial.

To the old and the infirm, the young and the weak, this right we allow. Very well. Who will stand for this woman?

Mimble was not much impressed with Ishgardian notions of legal procedure. Especially since the vaunted justice of The Fury appeared to rely upon the successful litigant being either too weak to fight for themselves, or too strong to lose in ritual combat.

He suspected that this arrangement quite suited the Ishgardian ruling class, since their access to better food and cleaner air tended to make them stronger and healthier than the poor, and their wealth and connections allowed them to take their pick of possible champions, should they require one.

Under such circumstances, the chances of an orphan from The Brume being willing to seek justice against an abusive noble seemed remote.

Consequently, whilst Mimble was conscious to be publicly respectful of Ishgardian traditions, he also rather relished the opportunity to chasten scornful bullies like Ser Grinnaux and Ser Paulecrain de Fanouilley.

That he did so bedecked in the symbols of Nophica was an entirely calculated touch.

[irisopranta]

FFxivWrite Prompt 5: Barbarous

How could they have done that. Arresting a young elezen and lalafell for asking questions about our allies. And now they have to deal with a trial of combat. “I, Taturu Taru, am innocent of these charges, but I cannot fight, so I want to name a champion.”

Iris was more than happy to stand up for Taturu. For her it just defending a friend in need. She arrived into the trial pit to fight two of the Heavensward that accused her friend of heresy. At least Alphinaud was with her in this fight.

The fight began. Iris, without hesitation, ran up to Ser Paulecrain. She took her lance and knock his out of his hand. Before he knew it, she had knocked him down to the ground. He surrendered before her.

Once he was down, Iris head towards Ser Grinnaux. No doubtly, Ser Grinnaux had been bullying Alphinaud. However, there was a glint of red in Iris’ eyes. One that dictate her murderous intentions. She tackled the knight before he could continue. And while she may not have her weapon in hand she did punch him a few times in the face before he surrendered as well.

The two were victorious in the end and it did bruised the egos of two of the Heavensward. This shouldn’t come back to bite them later in their journey.

[jefarawol]

Without delay I made my way for the first time to the Vault. Perhaps the only time I would enter her hallowed halls without bloodshed. I held my surprise at Aymeric's presence, and walked proud as he announced me to the Archbishop.

Your Eminence, it is my honour to present to you the Warrior of Light.

 I have heard the tales of your many grand endeavours. The lord commander has also been most effusive in his praise. I am Thordan VII, Archbishop of the Ishgardian Orthodox Church, and I bade you come here that I might offer my personal apologies. You will forgive me for not calling upon you as courtesy would dictate, but as you can see, my more sprightly days are long behind me. But I digress.

Your companions were wrongly accused of heresy and subjected to gross indignities. This, I am sorry to say, was the result of negligence on the part of our nation's protectors─negligence born of an excess of zeal. Is that not so, Ser Zephirin?

Yes, Your Eminence... Regrettably, it would appear that we of the Heavens' Ward were in receipt of erroneous information. Ser Grinnaux has ever been headstrong. He pressed charges before the truth had been ascertained, for which I most sincerely apologize.

An unfortunate misunderstanding born of an earnest desire to serve Ishgard─but one which should never have occurred... For who could doubt the character of those who bested Shiva and drove the Horde from the Steps of Faith? Not I, that much is certain. That will be all, Ser Zephirin. I would speak with our guest in private.

Your Eminence? I─ As you wish, Your Eminence. That will be all for today!

The way Aymeric looked at me as he was forced to leave, I knew immediately one thing: he did not trust this man. Every defence I possessed was raised, but the question lingered in my mind..."Why?"

[lunarosewood23]

FFXIVWrite2023 Prompt 2: Bark

Set a little after 3.0 in the Forelands. Raven laments over her talons and remembers those lost.

CW: Mentions of Death, Mourning

Word Count: 673

~~~

It had been harder to hold pens and other writing instruments since her inheritance awakened.

Raven stared down at the black talons that extended from her fingers, her once blunt nails that she would bite on when anxious turned into long claws, a permanent mark of what Nidhogg’s blood had done to her. She couldn’t really make a proper fist, though she damn well tried on several occasions, and she needed to learn how to get used to a pen in her hand again.

Still, Raven felt a need to make it to where those lost on Azys Lla were remembered. Their names etched into something to signify that they were people who were loved and were mourned.

So she went out hunting and in addition to her meal for the night she found a huge piece of bark that had come off of a tree and began to carve their names into the surface. It would be crude and ugly, but she felt as though she needed to preserve their names. Preserve them as people, not tools. She felt tears begin to sting in her eyes as she used her talons as her quill, what she knew of them sprung to the forefront of her mind.

Ignasse de Vesnaint - A dragoon, though she wasn’t sure of much else about him other than he and Ser Vellguine were close.

Vellguine de Bourbagne - The oldest among them. Silent, but kind.

Hermenost de la Treaumaille - A man of deep faith and a mage who passed along to her how to imbue magic into weapons as he did with his battleaxe.

Grinnaux de Dzemael - Brutish arsehole who bullied her when she was small, but Raven knew that his fate wasn’t one he deserved. 

Paulecrain de Fanouilley - Raven didn’t know much about him, other than that he was a former knight of House Fortemps that had been dismissed, and that he seemed close with Grinnaux.

Noudenet de Jaimberd - A bookish sort who liked magic. He seemed to be interested in Mingxia’s, and to some extent her own.

Haumeric de Peulagnon - Coronette’s dearest and the one who taught Mingxia Coerthan ice conjury. She remembered how Coronette had passed Serella her sword to do a blow for her when she was told of his fate.

Adelphel de Chevraudan - A notorious flirt and one of the fastest swordsmen she’d ever seen. She remembered the family of older sisters he was leaving behind and her heart squeezed.

Janlenoux de Courcillant - Always seen with Adelphel, the moon to Adelphel’s sun. And a wonderful culinarian. Were he not on duty he would be volunteering in her mama’s kitchen.

Guerrique de Montrohain - A sweet one, if a bit loud. A soft-spoken Raen named Yitsuge liked him. One of Zephirin’s most loyal, and to her knowledge they were close friends.

Zephirin de Valhourdin - Raven knew him to be a noble and just soul. Mingxia’s sister Kaia was in love with him and he loved her. She remembered having a small crush on him as a teen, but he was focused on his own goals to notice her.

Charibert de Leusignac Cross - Raven let out a sob as she wrote the name of her brother. She lost him once already when she was seven summers, and then she hadn’t seen or heard from him for a score. And of course the fates would be cruel to her by giving him back only to take him away again. The one who would sit and teach her words and scripture and answer her questions about the faith. She dragged her talon across his surname and replaced it with her own. Even though he was never formally adopted, he was a Cross, and damn anyone who would try arguing that. She knew he did horrible things, but she wanted to believe there was more to it than pure cruelty. Their mama taught them all better than that.

She set the bark aside as she hugged her knees, weeping for them, as she knew their families would be back home.

[veliara]

Junelezen 2024 Day 16 - Airship

Grinnaux didn't know what about Shorty was annoying him so much. Was it the way he spoke? The way he moved? Or maybe the expression in those eyes that no longer held fear.

On the second thought, he'd only seen fear in those green eyes once. During that ill-fated training session. When he'd nearly broken the boy's neck, grabbing him by his fragile throat and throwing him onto the ground with all his might. If only Zephirin hadn't interfered…. There had been no fear since then. Irritation? Definitely. Discomfort? Certainly. Hurt? Maybe. But not fear.

He watched Shorty interact with the Inquisitor. With all of them. Dzemael could swear that Shorty was the only one, in the whole damned city, who wasn't afraid of any of the Ward. It annoyed him. Shorty annoyed him. The warrior's musings were interrupted by the black mage's voice. "We'll take the airship to the Falcon's Nest. It'll be faster, considering you can't use that aetheryte." Shorty was surprised, but only shrugged. Curiosity burned in his green eyes.

A few moments later. Ciel's pov: Ciel clenched his jaw trying not to look down. He thought they would be flying over fields or forests, not sharp rocks and mountains. He wasn't afraid of heights, but the feeling of extreme discomfort never left his mind. Crouched on the floor, he pressed his back against the railing and hugged his knees. Why had he agreed to this? Oh, right, Thordan had sent the knights on an errand and him to see the fortress. "Are you all right?" the mage asked. "Yes, quite so. Turns out heights aren't my thing." Grinnaux chuckled. "So you're no stranger to the the instinct of self-preservation? Amazing."

Ciel looked up at the warrior with a sneer. Why, of all knights, was this bane of his existence sent? Dzemael grinned even harder.

"That's enough," The black mage said tiredly. "Don't provoke him, brother." Grinnaux only snorted and looked away. Ciel mentally thanked the stars for the black mage's presence.

[jarael]

what if ysayle lived au? 👀👀👀

This is actually canon for me! Ysayle was only badly injured when she Shiva'd to distract the Empire.

A little explanation: Oviine is Ishgardian by birth. Her bio dad is from House Dzaemel; Ser Grinnaux is a first cousin of Oviine's. However, Lionele didn't feel that he could live as his authentic self(he is trans) in Ishgard, so he took 5 year old Oviine and ran off to Limsa, where he met his husband and Oviine's adoptive dad, Wishful Thinking.

Oviine met Ysayle when following a heretic from a library in Gridania. Oviine is a huge nerd(affectionate) and noticed the heretic got books only on dragons. Initially, it was purely platonic, but their love grew as they got to know each other and Oviine moved up with the heretics. They get married in early Stormblood(which is why Oviine is only involved with that expac from Ala Mhigo part 2 on).

Not much is different than the game canon. Instead of Ysayle's spirit protecting the party from Amon's raidwide in the Aitiascope, it's Z'aza's bio mother Lhei, who prays to Menphina, who sends ice to protect the party.

[bielobog-kun]

wouldge you consider yourself a drk enjoyer, lore wise? i have a concept you may enjoy

this ask sounds so threatening. i feel like there is some kind of animal trap lain inches before my feet. are you a temple knight. are you ser grinnaux the bull

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

Six Sentence Sunday

They do not have plates, for none had been sent up with them, and Mother Miounne's knowing smile as the three stood so near to one another, that perhaps she may have been tempted to send them away with one fork instead of three. But, with his single knife, he will cut three pieces, and by far they are phenomenally uneven, with intent to take the smallest for himself. He will tear off a piece of parchment so he has something to hold his pie slice with, back still turned on his companions so he can examine the food. The filling is dark, and seems to spill from the cut edges of the pie, it wafts with a slightly peppery and salty scent now that is is no longer confined by the flaky crust. Something about it seems creamy, bits of white chopped meat floating in the pooling, thick sauce. Ser Grinnaux, and Ser Paulecrain take the remaining seats, making them seem rather small compared to their bulky forms. The pie might not be enough.

[shadowed-vigil]

day 17: sally

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

It starts with a chain cinched around her ankle. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alone?” he mocks, almost instantly. 

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

(Maybe it did. Maybe, in his way —) 

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

She catches his answering smile, the sneer. 

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

So it starts with the chain. 

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

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

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

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

The unwanted…? 

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

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

He even lets her shoot it. 

How benevolent.

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To her credit, she tries not to. 

(Tells herself that she tries not to.) 

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

Like she has a choice.

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

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

She swallows thickly.

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

Her hand flexes.