#there are no innocents in Garlemald

[miqojak]

For the Area asks ((I'm sorry I couldn't resist)) 17. How would your character react if they discovered a likeable acquaintance was Garlean? Violently? With suspicion? Or would they ignore it altogether?

FFXIV Area Asks

(( Heh, I figured someone would! :3 ))

To put it lightly... not well! There is, I suppose, a small amount of leeway if the person was a conscript/gang pressed into service - she can understand, in a way, not having a choice? It's a complicated scenario then - because would that make them as much Garlemald's unwilling prisoner as she once was? Certainly, they served the Garlean dogs, but... did they want to? Did they relish it? Were they forced to, at threat of harm to themselves, or loved ones? Does any of that make her feel any better about it? It would, at least, stave off any immediate attempts at murder.

Now, if the person is.... genuinely a Garlean born - a three-eyed freak?If they joined Garlemald willingly? That's probably one of the very few times she'd immediately resort to violence. She's hunted down harmless Garlean refugees in recent times and felt not a whit bad about it - it's what they did to her and her people, after all! So why feel bad about attacking someone who hid what a vile creature they were from her? They're not just filth - but lying filth!

Garlean defectors? Well, good job! She probably won't trust you, but... hey, you railed against the same machine she did, so... that's a vote in your favor, she's not going to erupt into a Dark Knight eldritch horror and turn you into a fine bloody mist, at least!

[disaster-husbun]

What does Crenic think about the collapse of Garlemald?

The Viera mumbles something about they had it long coming.

"Of course the loss of innocent lives caught in the cross fire of civil war and what is, ah... the blast radius of-" Crenic gestures about "-everything is a horrible tragedy. But that too, is yet another tragedy added to the countless many others created by the Empire itself.

While they mourn the loss of home and family, perhaps the tears will clear their eyes to the losses the rest of the world suffered under their banner."

[miqojak]

Not me eyeing Jak cutting a swath through the remains of Garlemald's people for this exact reason; she calls it anger, vengeance, justice... but it's pain. It's a scream of agony that rebounds off the icy plains of Garlemald right back at her - no amount of fear instilled, no amount of blood, no amount of fury can bring back the dead. What's lost is lost. The relief of vengeance is brief, a bitter pill; an eye for an eye, but you'll never get that vision back... no matter how many more you remove. She knows she has become like those who destroyed all those she loved - she does enjoy the control - the control they took from her for so long. They claimed that 'might made right,' and so she clutches this phrase to her chest as tightly as the memories of her family. Now she has the might, and so doesn't that grant her the right to exact a price for her pain? For the pain of the lives Garlemald stole?

The gunfire wracks her dreams, the artillery startles her awake - years after she has escaped the genocide of her people. The pain strikes when she least expects it... so she does, too. She strikes back, an animal blind with fury in its pain and fear - it's the only thing she knows to do: flash her fangs, and lash out.

I watched an excellent synopsis of The Babadook (by Horror History, on Youtube) recently, and it made me think of Jak - how she, like the mother in the movie, won't face her grief - so it continues to consume her. It manifests for Jak, however, in her Dark Knight powers as her Fray... as a twisted version of a thing meant to bring justice... but what does justice look like to someone stuck in the grief loop, never making it to acceptance? There is only pain, bargaining, denial, anger - all folding in on themselves time and again, festering as any untreated wound does.

She is alone, rooted so deep in her pain that the world around her has become a twisted, warped reflection of her own pain. What else can she be, when she can't see an end to the pain/grief?

there's this specific kind of "bad"/unsympathetic victim narrative that i'm obsessed with when it's executed well, where someone's trauma response is to become increasingly destructive and selfish, at first in the hope that there will be consequences - that someone will follow the broken, bloody trail they're leaving behind them and try to stop them - because that will mean that they've been seen. that someone has finally noticed them, acknowledged their pain, and done something about it. but then, when those consequences never arrive, or are too easily brushed aside, they realise that they're enjoying being in control (or the illusion of control) for once far too much to stop, and start to buy into this delusion they've begun to construct for themselves, where what they're doing is Justified, Actually, because of what they've endured to reach this point. they've long since crossed sunk cost fallacy event horizon. to look back now would be unbearable. which is, of course, when the consequences they cannot so easily ignore arrive, and they're forced to reckon with the fact that they've mistaken the grave they've been digging for a great and gleaming tower, the crumbling walls of which are now starting to collapse inwards on them. it's such an inevitable but compelling tragic route to go down.

[raelly-writing]

Safe and Solid (Wolcred, 6.0 MSQ)

In from the Cold follow up fic. :') It's haunted my WIP folder for over a year and I'd really like to call it done so I don't have to deal with this headspace anymore.

----

“Are you quite certain you are feeling alright?”

The question was expected - even when her visitor was just about to leave her room.

Before Viana even had a chance to think of it, the well-worn excuse slipped off her tongue. “Of course, Y’shtola,” she replied with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m just a little tired after the journey from Garlemald. Airships don’t exactly make for comfortable sleeping arrangements after all.”

Something jagged, cold and ugly stirred in her chest. The urge to scratch at the itch crawling over her skin was maddening, but she fought it down by crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe.

A week had passed, dammit.

Y’shtola’s pale eyes narrowed, as though by peering into her aether, the lie would be laid as bare as the ground after spring’s thaw. The sudden pang of guilt was sharp. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Her unease wasn’t related to the events at the moon, anyhow.

She’d explained what happened. She’d talked about it. Told them.

She should be fine. Needed to be fine. There was no time for-

Clearing her throat, Viana ignored the rolling nausea in her stomach. “And if I were to feel anything that could be ill effects from being soaked in Zodiark’s aether,” she continued, “you are my first stop.”

A tension filled moment of silence followed as Y’shtola regarded her thoughtfully. “Fine,” she finally responded, but the unhappy way she pressed her lips together made it obvious she wasn’t convinced. “I’ll have no more foolish heroics on my watch.”

Despite the rancid taste at the back of her throat, Viana huffed out a short laugh. “Only if you promise not to do something that requires tossing yourself into the Lifestream again.”

“Hah!” Y’shtola tossed her head back, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Cheeky as always. Perhaps I have naught to worry about after all.”

Inclining her head, Viana offered her a smile that wasn’t entirely forced. “Thank you for checking on me Y’shtola, but I think I just need to sleep in a proper bed for once.”

Y’shtola hummed and put her hands on her hips. “Alright then. I’ll leave you to get your rest.”

The unspoken command was all too clear.

With a low chuckle, Viana nodded obediently. “Good night, Y’shtola.”

For a moment, she watched Y’shtola walk towards her own room, before she let the door close with a soft thud of finality.

Exhaling wearily, Viana turned around and leaned back against the sturdy wood as she regarded the room. In the wake of Y’shtola’s departure, the stillness settled over the space like a suffocating blanket that pressed down on her from every angle. A jittery energy prickled at her fingers, the churning sensation in her chest too strong to ignore.

It wasn’t the first time she found herself missing Ardbert’s ghostly presence.

Some things he’d just understood without her needing to explain.

Suddenly a shiver crawled over her skin and Viana’s eyes shot to the large window and the night beyond. Was that snowflakes that fluttered in the red gloom of the dying day? The sudden lump in her throat stole her breath away, and before she knew it, she’d crossed the room and yanked the curtains into place. The phantom ghost of winter nipped at her bare arms, prompting her to rub her hands over them.

Hells, when did her fingers get so cold?

The thought, as fleeting and innocent as it’d been, summoned uninvited memories from the corner of her mind that she’d done her best to shove them into for the past several days. Staring at her hands, she flexed them.

They were hers, weren’t they?

‘Borrowed flesh’.

Blinking, she struggled to draw breath.

Borrowed.

Polished black steel covered the arms before her. Pain stabbed at the side of her chest - sharp and piercing.

Burning ceruleum fumes stung in her nose, and the thick, iron taste of congealed blood in her mouth made her choke and tear up.

Borrowed.

But when she blinked again, the black steel was gone and no fatal gunshot was staining her white shirt with red.

Viana stared, doubt nagging at her mind as she traced the familiar latticework of pale scars covering the knuckles and fingers with her eyes.

Borrowed.

Fandaniel’s voice was like ice cold claws digging into the very fabric of her soul, poison bile eating away at her mind.

Borrowed.

Drawing a shuddering breath, Viana shut her eyes and tried to focus on the sensation of her hands on her own skin, the scratch of her blunt nails digging into her flesh. It was fine. Borrowed. She was herself. She had stopped him. Borrowed. She was in Sharlayan. In her room. Borrowed. Not struggling through the snow, stumbling over frozen stiff bodies amidst smoldering wreckages and crumbling ruins.

Borrowed. Borrowed.

She. Was. Fine.

Borrowed.

“Viana?”

Snapping ramrod straight, she whipped around, every muscle in her body coiled tight and heart racing from a surge of adrenaline. “Seven Hells Thancred!”

“You didn’t hear me the first two times.” Without taking his eyes off her, Thancred took off his dark overcoat, having evidently stood there halfway through the action, while trying to get her attention. She hadn’t even heard him entering in the first place. “Are you feeling ill?”

Despite his casual tone and relaxed body language, she could detect the undercurrent of concern in his voice. Even more so, the careful way he kept his attention on her, as though she was a particularly flighty animal. Hells, she certainly felt like one.

No answer came to her, not even the one she’d repeated so often. “I…” Viana shifted her weight onto her foot, her searching eyes falling on the empty tea cups left on the table. Turning away from him and his damned perceptive gaze, she walked over to collect them. “Sorry, I was deep in thought,” she responded firmly while walking over to the sink.

“Anything particular?”

Snorting, she flipped on the water with a little more force than was perhaps necessary and began to rinse out the cups. The heat of the water brought some warmth back to her numb fingers, and with it the world back a little more into focus, allowing her to gather a few scattered threads of her thoughts. “Oh you know, the end of the world as we know it.”

“Viana…”

Tension settled into her shoulders at the low, concerned rumble of his voice. A few quiet steps was all she heard before she felt the careful press of his fingertips against her lower back.

Inhaling sharply, she froze beneath his touch.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to unease you.”

Her skin burned where he’d touched her, but the moment he withdrew his hand she felt herself tremble like she was seconds from crumbling entirely. Was he leaving? Her whirlwind of thoughts and feelings refused to assemble into a coherent explanation, her plea for him to not leave getting caught and tangled in her throat.

The sharp clatter of porcelain against stone jerked her attention back to what she was doing.

“Shit,” she hissed and quickly picked up the cup and snapped off ear. Did she have any adhesive around?

“Viana…”

“I need to fix this,” she muttered. It was a clean break. The market should have something strong enough for it to hold. Was less she could do about the chipped edge but…

“Viana, stop.” A hand on her arm kept her from walking away from the sink. Immediately, she tensed up, breath caught in her throat and shoulders stiff, but Thancred didn’t jerk his hand back as before.

“I'm sorry,” he continued, “but you're obviously not alright.”

Clenching her jaw, Viana stared down unseeing at the pieces in her hands as she struggled to find the well-worn excuse. ‘I’m fine.’

She was.

She had to be. Too much was going on. But it felt like the words had turned to stone and settled in her chest, the weight of them making it hard to draw breath.

Dimly, she was aware of Thancred moving into her field of vision. His touch was a light whisper down along her arm, until he cradled her hands in his.

“Remember what we agreed on?” He spoke with a firm but gentle tone as he took the mug pieces from her trembling fingers and carefully set them down on the counter. “Don’t hide.”

His hands were warm against hers, steady and reassuring. She could sense him searching for her eyes, but she couldn’t make herself meet his gaze. Guilt tugged at her at the reminder of their hushed argument and subsequent promise in those final days they’d spent on the First. Hells, she’d been none too happy about him hiding the condition of his soul back then, and here she was doing the same thing.

It’d been so easy to avoid his concerned looks while they’d been traveling back from Garlemald - to just keep moving out of pure momentum and not let him, or any of them, catch her. Always keep busy with something, anything, to be the unbreakable figure the Alliance soldiers expected her to be.

“I’m sorry Thancred, I…“ She wet her lips as she clenched her hands, searching for the dull pain of her nails against her palms to jolt her back to reality. “I don’t know what to say.”

The quiet whisper felt like an admission of defeat. Drawing a shuddering breath, her shoulders slumped. She hadn’t felt this helpless since their desperate venture down beneath the sea to save the Exarch and face Emet-Selch. That time there’d been a goal, something to push towards even when she had felt her own body betray her more and more with every step.

Now… Now there was no such thing. Just an oppressive yet infuriatingly intangible threat of doom looming on the horizon.

A tremble shook her. Nevermind the sensation that she was losing the grip on what was real or not. The feeling of hot tears burning in her eyes was unfamiliar and all the more frustrating for it, driving her to turn her head away from Thancred.

But calloused fingers brushing against her jaw stopped her. “It's alright,” Thancred murmured as he rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve got you.”

Viana swallowed around the lump in her throat and reached out to grasp at his shirt. Borrowed. Why did she suddenly feel like a child afraid of being left alone in the dark? Without thinking, she tilted her head and pressed her lips to his.

Thancred’s surprised huff was muffled, but he swiftly recovered with practiced ease. The comforting weight of his arm settled around her waist, pulling her closer into the warmth of his embrace. The familiarity of it, of his fingertips skimming up her neck, the tickle of his hair against her cheekbones, the way his thumb rubbed small circles into her back, it all made her chest feel just a little bit lighter.

Peace. Safety. Trust.

Urged on by a sudden jolt of desperation for more she deepened the kiss, nipping at his bottom lip in a hollow display of playfulness while letting her fingers trace the edge of his choker. The low groan it earned her was immediately lost in the space between them as he rose to her goading and chased after her lips. She knew him, just as he knew her. The way his hands grasped at her hips betrayed his own need for contact, urging her to curve herself against his hard frame as she buried her fingers in his soft hair. Perhaps it was the time they’d spent in military encampments where privacy was as rare to come by as natural ice in the middle of a desert that led Thancred to so readily indulge her despite their tense conversation. She was barely aware of the press of the kitchen bench against her back when they stumbled against it, her thoughts too muddled and scattered.

“Viana…” With the rough utterance of her name, Thancred froze but didn’t pull away. His body radiated restrained energy even as his fingers flexed into the soft flesh of her thighs, his breath a warm tickle against her lips.

Like glass shattering under water pressure, Viana felt reality slam back into her as she gulped down a lungful of air. “I’m sorry. I just…” Borrowed. A cold sneer plastered onto a dead man’s stolen face flickered in her memory. Pressing her forehead against Thancred’s, she cupped his face as she tried to find the right words. “I’m not injured, love,” she finally choked out, trying to not think of the memory of congealed blood in her mouth. “But I don’t… it’s… I don’t want to think right now. I just want to…”

Feel.

Thancred pulled back enough to meet her gaze, the concern all too evident in his hazel eyes. Concern and something… else. Guilt churned in her stomach, but before she could say anything, his eyes softened with understanding and a lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s alright my dear,” he spoke softly. “I’m more than familiar with that desire.” Despite his reassuring rumble, there was an undercurrent of something rueful and bitter in his voice that made her heart ache with memories of long past horrors.

“Thancred…-”, Viana began to respond, instinctively wishing to soothe those scars he carried, but without warning he hoisted her up. Gripping at his shoulders for balance, her legs settled around his waist out of reflex.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured once more and brushed a kiss to her jaw, before giving her pulse a teasing nip with his teeth. “Always do.”

Even as a pleasant shiver raced down her spine, a little bit of the turmoil raging in her head settled then, anchored by his earnest words, and she managed a small, crooked smile. “I know you do,” she breathed.

Thancred looked up at her, his expression soft and loving. “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”

Hells, how she loved him. Viana caressed his cheek and gave a small nod. “Of course, love.”

They met in a slow brush of lips, something tender and reaffirming, but in the short distance to the bed the kiss had grown hungry and desperate, with no room to spare for their usual quips and teasing remarks as they tugged at each other’s clothes.

Not that Thancred remained quiet for long once his hands were free to sweep over her bare skin, his touch firm and grounding as he pressed his fingers into every dip and curve like he was remapping her body in his mind. He stole the dark thoughts from her head with clever touches and heated whispers, and in return branded her body with marks of his love that’d remain in the morning, emblazing her skin with his words of endearments as though they were part of a prayer.

She’d always found it easy to lose herself in him, but Twelve, it felt like he was a wildfire - fierce and scorching, determined to seep into every fiber of her being and set her aflame in turn and give the shadows that had taken root in her heart nowhere to hide.

The haze of pleasure was welcome - to only be aware of him and his touches, too far gone to do anything else but surrender to instinct and tug and pull him to wherever she wanted - needed - him. And gods, he went willingly to wherever she bid, eager to be rewarded for his efforts by her voice breaking upon the syllables of his name over and over again.

She was adrift, lost to the concerns and worries of the world.

It was a fog that lingered even once he eased her down from the high with soft touches and quiet words that she struggled to really register the meaning of. But it was his voice, and she felt safe and looked after, even as the exhaustion started to creep into its place.

—

Viana woke with a sharp inhale, her entire body tensing in preparation for a phantom danger. Immediately, a warm hand stilled on her back.

“Didn’t wake you, did I?”

Thancred’s soft voice made her look up, only to have to blink against the low light of the bedside lamp. “No,” she exhaled as she relaxed and let her head slump back against his chest. Despite the restless end to her sleep, the sweet aches that lingered in her limbs coupled with the familiar warmth of his body against hers swiftly lulled her back to a drowsy state. “Merely a bad dream.”

There was a slight rustle as Thancred put down the book he’d been reading and his hand brushed through her hair and down her back. Sensing the question before he could utter it, she tilted her head enough to press a kiss to his skin. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t too bad.”

“‘I’ve had worse’, is it?”

The ever so disarming teaseful lilt to his voice that concealed the concern in his words made her huff out a tired laugh at being called out on her half-truth. “I suppose it is.” His fingers caressed the back of her neck, coaxing a satisfied hum from her. “How long was I asleep?”

“An hour, give or take.”

“And you are awake because your book was too captivating to put down?”

Thancred was silent for a short moment, before sighing. “Wanted to make sure you slept,” he admitted.

Blinking her eyes open, Viana craned her neck to look up at him. “You lovable foolish man,” she mused fondly and reached up to caress his cheek. “You need your sleep as well.” Thancred smiled softly and tilted his head into the touch, before discarding his book onto the nightstand.

“Then consider me sufficiently guilted by your disapproving look, my dear,” he rumbled and turned down the light.

Viana smiled to herself while waiting for him to shuffle fully beneath the covers. “Quite gracious of you.”

“I have my moments.”

Laughing under her breath, she managed to press a kiss to his cheek in the gloom. “More than a few, love.” There was a comforting familiarity to the teasing exchange, his little huffed laugh warm and precious - like she’d managed to reclaim a fragile piece of normalcy.

It was a feeling she held onto as Thancred pulled her back into his safe and solid embrace. With the warmth of his arms around her, sleep weighed on her mind, but she pushed it away for just a little while longer. Her hand found his jaw in the gloom and he immediately stilled, waiting. With no light, she couldn’t make out much of his expression, but he tilted his head into her touch as she caressed his cheek with her thumb. “I’m sorry for not speaking to you before,” she said quietly.

Thancred didn’t respond immediately, but his fingers flexed against her waist. “I know I’m the last person in our merry little group who should chide anyone for that,” he replied. “But you should, to someone.”

“I know. I will.” Leaning over, she brushed her lips to his. “Tomorrow. I promise.”

She felt him relax as he exhaled. “... just your poor luck that it’s Estinien and I who have the closest experience.”

The jest was spoken softly as he bumped his forehead against hers, their noses colliding, and in the dark, she found herself laughing quietly, feeling warm and safe for the first time in weeks.

[agent-cupcake]

Diplomacy

Here is another for my pitiful Kinktober! I meant to put this out faster, whoops. The next one is Zenos+cockwarming. I'll try to get the others out too but who is to say.

Pairing: Solus zos Galvus/Emet-Selch x f!princess Reader Kink: Vibrators/Overstimulation Tags: Explicit, dub/non con, bondage, Word Count: 2.6k

A while back I mentioned Emperor Solus taking advantage of a poor foreign princess for strictly diplomatic purposes.

Gifts, he told you, were an important part of diplomacy. He said things like that a lot. Lessons. His Radiance Solus zos Galvus, the Emperor of Garlemald, taught you a lot of lessons. The most important had been that a princess shouldn’t ever trust the charm of a foreign ruler, and even the most innocent of feelings could easily be twisted and used, and that inequality would never result in cooperation, and that you were a fool for believing a single word out of his mouth. There were others though, so many things of which you were ignorant. Late at night, when he appeared in your private chambers like an evil spirit, when he took advantage of impulses you didn’t know how to control, when he abused the dominion he’d so easily claimed over your ruined body, he taught you many things.

“This color suits you far better than the drab dresses you have been favoring as of late,” Solus mused, tugging the neckline of your silky candy-colored nightgown down a little further. Just enough to expose your nipples, to further prod at your indecency. You squirmed, but with your hands bound, there wasn’t anything you could do. “Mayhap you believe darker hues will assert your maturity. I assure you, my dear, nobody will take you seriously either way.” 

“Don’t,” you said, looking away in embarrassment. It didn’t matter if you hid your face, your body was on full display, bound flat on the bed without any underwear, your nightgown hiked up around your waist. Solus wasn’t undressed, another assertion of his control. 

“It was a compliment. If you were smarter, you would realize how to use that perception to your advantage.”

“I don’t… I don’t need your advice.” 

“You ought to be grateful that I’m wasting so much time on such a silly little creature like you. Time, energy, and resources.” He sighed. “Never mind about that. I brought you a gift.” He held up the strange device. Your present. Its design was unfamiliar, although it looked to be fueled by magitek, the handle glowing with bluish energy. “This clever little tool was originally of Allagan design. To relax overworked muscles. Of course, it wasn’t long before perverted minds found other applications for it. A fitting gift for the virgin princess, I think. Especially when you have been such a dear friend of Garlemald.”

“What does it do?” you asked, ignoring his barbed remarks to focus on the device. It didn’t look like much, a handle with a bulbous head a little smaller than your fist. The magitek part was what worried you. Garlean weapons didn’t always look like much, it was the Ceruleum that made them dangerous. Solus didn’t often hurt you, but he could. He had. All you had to do to remind yourself of that was look down at the pale, raised imprint of Garlean chains branded on the flesh above your womb. 

“Are you afraid, princess?” Solus asked. “Why might that be? You know very well I would only hurt you if you were deserving.”  His hand dropped, one long finger tracing the chain link. It was the permanent reminder of your attempt at defiance. Back before you realized that Garlemald didn’t have allies, they had acquired territory. “Have you done aught to earn my ire?” 

“No,” you said quickly, loudly, shaking your head. “I haven’t—I wouldn’t.” 

Solus smiled. “Then you needn’t be afraid.” He pressed a button on the handle, and the device’s bulbous head began to vibrate with enough intensity that it seemed to blur, filling the room with a low hum. He pressed it against his hand. Gods above, it sounded aggressive, not unlike the engines on their infernal vehicles. 

Without any sort of warning, Solus pressed the large, vibrating head right between your legs. A fraction of a second passed before the sensation registered, it was just that foreign to your nervous system. And then it hit, and the feeling was that of hot, horrible fire. Every single nerve ending blazing with the agonizing heat of very abrupt and very mean overstimulation. 

“No-ooh—no! Stop-stop it!” you squealed, your hips twisting in all directions to get away. Your violent reaction caused the ropes binding you to the four corners of the bed to snap taut, the sheets dragging off of the mattress to form a wrinkled pile beneath you, and the wooden bed posts to loudly protest. 

Despite that, Solus added more pressure, pushing it past your labia and to the far more sensitive flesh beneath. You screamed. You couldn’t help it, you screamed like an animal would, in a way that would make your throat hurt later. He leaned forward to clap his hand over your open mouth, stifling your wailing. Holding you down.

“Hush now, my dear. They might begin to suspect that you’re not as pure as they believe you to be,” he said, his voice low and intimately close to your ear. Now that he was so close, he was all you could smell. Leather and cold air and a sharp woody scent. You didn’t care that someone could hear, if anything that just made you scream louder. You needed it to stop, you couldn’t handle even a second more of this torment. He huffed, rolling his eyes impatiently. “Do you think I might begin to pity you? Now? Well, rest assured that I won’t. I’ve given you a unique gift. Be grateful.” 

He paused, waiting for the response you couldn’t give, not budging even as you bucked up against him. That was involuntary, you were physically unable to keep your body from convulsing. But you did stop screaming, hoping that it would make Solus relent. His expression softened. 

“There, that’s not so bad, is it?” Solus cooed, saccharinely sweet. “Now do the only thing you’ve shown even the slightest hint of aptitude for and come for me.” 

With that command ringing in your ears, he sat up to watch, his hand still firmly clasped over your mouth and the toy painfully pressed against your vulva. 

The order terrified you. That was impossible, you absolutely couldn’t. You pulled at your bound arms and legs with all your might, desperate to get away, but the ropes had no give, you were more likely to hurt yourself than you were to escape. And the harder you struggled, the more you ground against the thing. All you could do was wail into his hand, tears squeezing out of the corners of your closed eyes, your body impossibly taut, drawn in an arc between the ropes and his hand.

“I’ll wait. I do so enjoy watching you like this, writhing and struggling against the inevitability of my will. Take as long as you need, my dear.” 

You couldn’t. If you came, it would hurt. Then again, if you didn’t, it would hurt more. He couldn’t hear your pleas, so you tried to beg with your teary eyes. You couldn’t do as he asked. It hurt and you couldn’t, he had to realize that, he had to understand, he had to. It hurt, and even if there was a stirring sort of pleasure within the bombardment of sharp, agonizing heat, you couldn’t do anything with it. 

Solus met your pleading gaze. He didn’t care. Amusement shone bright in those pale eyes, twisting his lips up into a familiar smile. It wasn’t like what you imagined with other men. Pity or sympathy was useless against most of them, but Solus couldn’t be manipulated through his desire either. Self control—or maybe it was more accurate to call it sadism—kept him from ever wavering no matter how long it took to force your compliance. You would obey, or you would suffer. He would wait. There wasn’t actually a decision for you to make, just the painful fulfillment of Solus’ merciless order. Obey now, or obey later. 

As soon as you gave in, closing your eyes to try and cling to the pleasure within the overwhelming heat, he moved the vibrating head just a little bit to the side, your swollen clit rolling with it, providing a new point of stimulation. It hurt just like everything else, an endless fury of too much, of hellfire. Gods, you nearly blacked out at the excruciating intensity of it. But it worked. You didn’t even have the time to brace yourself before you were coming. It was, like everything else, a painful, sticky, hot, wretched orgasm. Your body locked up like you were having a fit and you twitched and trembled and drooled and cried your way through it, unsure if the cresting pleasure was even good or if you were just twisted enough to interpret pain in the same way as long as it targeted the same parts, as long as it was at Solus zos Galvus’ command.

When you were done, returning to the weeping, whining excess of torturous overstimulation, Solus removed the thing from between your legs and his hand from your mouth. He finally turned it off and, in the absence of the hornet’s nest buzz, your ears rang. You barely reacted when he wiped off his hand, slick with your saliva, on the bunched up material of your nightgown. 

“You will forgive me,” Solus said. He didn’t bother to hide his amusement as he dragged two fingers between your labia. The overstimulation was too much, you almost saw white, crying and shaking. But then he sunk two fingers into your pussy, and you were beyond wet enough to make it smooth, and all you could do was choke back a confused moan. It hadn’t felt good, but you had come, and one was never enough. Was that something he had taught you, or were you predisposed to being so depraved? “You will, won’t you? As long as I let you come again, you’ll forgive anything.” 

“No,” you moaned hoarsely, trying to squirm away. For all the good that did. He curled his fingers as they dragged out and your mouth fell open wordlessly, any further rejections poofing away like smoke. 

“No? It is a wonder that word remains in your vocabulary, considering how worthless it has become.” 

You sniffed, knowing better than to rise to his petty bait. “Are you done? With that… that thing.”

“Are you so eager for more?” 

“No! No, I can’t, no, I-” You didn’t finish your babbling denial, his fingers driving deep into your pussy with a harsher thrust. “Please. Not again, it… it hurts.”

“Begging is unbecoming of a princess,” Solus chided you. “If you truly want me to stop, you do not beg. You offer something of equal value in return.” 

“What?” you asked, more than a little distracted by the fingers that hadn’t stopped pumping in and out of you with terribly slick sounds, moving too slowly to provide any substantial friction yet just fast enough to keep you on edge. You were still jerking in random bursts from the aftershock pain of overstimulation. 

“Have you learned nothing about the art of negotiation?” Solus asked, his fingers snapping forward in a way that made your entire body jolt, made you whimper. “Mayhap I wasted my time trying to educate you.”

“I… I do, I know,” you exhaled shakingly, trying to ignore his fingers. “I don’t want that… again… and… And you want… Something. Please, I’ll do anything you ask—whatever you want.”

“I want to watch you come over and over. Until you’re reduced to nothing more than a dripping, trembling mess,” Solus said, emphasizing his words with sharp thrusts, his fingers curling in a way that had you keening. “So you see the problem with your pleas, pathetic and heartfelt as they are. Our wants are not compatible.” He hesitated, considering that. “If you had been smarter in the first place, we might have reached this point of disagreement on equal footing and found a middle ground that would suit us both. Unfortunately, you’ve put yourself in a terribly disadvantageous position. You’ve no power to stop me, and nothing to barter with.” 

“It’s-ss not my fault,” you told him, too wrung out and frightened to argue with his cruel interpretation. “You’re the one who-”

“Me?” he demanded incredulously, raising an eyebrow. “You think this is my fault?” 

It was. Everything was his fault, the results of his meticulous manipulations. But you didn’t dare say that, not when his eyes were narrowed so dangerously. 

“I thought so. Your decisions are what put you in this position,” Solus told you. “You’ve nobody but yourself to blame.” With that, he pulled his fingers out of you entirely, picking up the toy from where he’d left it on the sheets. “We’ll try a lower setting to start with, hm?” 

“Nn-no, Your Radiance, please,” you begged, pulling at your legs. You’d have bruises where the rope was cutting into them. He turned the thing on, filling the room with its loud, low hum. “Please, you don’t understand, I can’t… Please, it hurts, please don’t-” When he pressed it directly against your vulva, the vibrations didn’t hurt and burn like before, but it still made your body jerk against the ropes. The bedframe creaked unhappily, matching your own broken cry.

Already you were trembling, the vibrator made it worse. And still, now that it was lower, now that you could differentiate the sensations, now that it wasn’t as furious and intense, you could feel the stirrings of genuine pleasure, hot and twisted in your gut. The low buzzing hum was more insistent than simple friction. There wasn’t any place from which you could draw to know if it was good or bad, not after earlier, but you moaned. And then whined. It was impossible to help. Without his fingers you felt empty, and the excessive stimulation only exacerbated that hollow, anxious sensation.

“That’s much better, isn’t it?” Solus asked, smiling as he looked down at you. 

All you could give as an answer was a panicked sort of whine because it was better. A lot, lot better. Good enough to have saliva pooling on your tongue, and your muscles all pulling tense despite your best attempts to relax them. Good enough to make it hard to breathe, especially because he was watching, entertained by the pitiful show. You wondered, even with your head full of lustful fog you wondered, how you had missed the cruelty in his delight for so long, back when you believed him to be a good and noble man. The darkness in his eyes as they watched you squirm and whine, helpless to the pleasurable vibrating, seemed so obvious now. It was his fault, you knew that. But it was also your fault, your mistake, the lesson you couldn’t seem to learn. It didn’t matter that you knew he was cruel, or that he had and would hurt you, or that he was using you. You were going to come anyway, your body was already tightening up, your brain on fire from the unfamiliar stimulation, unable to focus on anything else. 

Solus rubbed your thigh, his large hand gentle and strong and warm, almost soothing. You whimpered, that small act of affection feeding the ravenous need in your core. “Solus…” His name wasn’t what you meant to say, to moan. You meant to tell him no, or stop, or don’t, or I can’t, but it was all, just like he said, worthless. Empty words to try and hide the fact that you were moaning, shaking, coming, giving him exactly what he wanted. Just like always. 

“Insatiable as you are,” he said as you tried to collect yourself—an impossibility when you were given no reprieve from the relentless vibrations. “I suspect the first dozen will feel quite good. After that, however…” Solus sucked in a breath through his teeth, shrugging theatrically. “I doubt it will be so enjoyable. For you, at least.” 

[yzeltia]

FFXIVwrite2024 19. Taken

Characters: Alphinaud Leveilleur, Jullus pyr Norbanus, Erenville, U'rahn Nuhn, Riol Forest, Violet Fisher, Jannie Eyradoux Fortemps, Artoriel Fortemps

Expansion: Dawntrail

Rating: M

Summary: Vignettes of some couples

Notes: [I've had a few years pass from ARR-DT, putting a few years on Alphinaud.]

– Alphinaud–

Such embarrassment. He couldn’t remember a time he’d felt it ring through him as he did now, laying in bed beside Jullus. He’d never given it much thought before, the Garlean winters cold and so many times having huddled close together for warmth. Even after feelings had started to bubble up and kisses exchanged, sharing a bed seemed an innocent act. It had been until now.

“Are you okay?” Jullus asked through the dark, squeezing Alphinaud’s hand lightly.

“I am getting there. Thank you for stopping,” he responded, heart pounding beneath his bare chest.

They hadn’t gotten too far into it. Alphinaud had come back to Garlemald for a brief visit to appraise Jullus on the situation in Tural, and given the late hour decided to stay for an informal visit. It hadn’t been unusual to get carried away kissing, but tonight seemed to slip further. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the other during his journey to the New World, finding himself so enraptured by being held and touched that by the time he realized where they were heading he’d been dressed down to his smalls and socks. 

“Did I go too far?” Jullus asked, breath still ragged.

Alphinaud shook his head, turning to rest his head on the Jullus’s bare shoulder. “No. I just got a little overwhelmed. Nineteen summers and overwhelmed at a simple right of passage most peers would have not given a second thought…I apologize if I am frustrating you.”

“I’m frustrated, but not with you. Just down below and that’ll pass eventually. I was more worried I’d upset you by getting over eager. Rebuilding takes so much of my energy that I rarely am up to the task on my own and seeing you after so long I, well…,” Jullus explained, shifting to hold Alphinaud in his arms as he pressed his arousal against his thigh. “I am happy enough to just have you here.”

Alphinaud laughed, pushing the top of his head under Jullus’s chin as he wrapped his arms around him. “I am happy to be here with you too. And thank you for letting me take my time…”

“It’ll be well worth the wait,” Jullus assured him, closing his eyes to drift off to sleep, grunting as a silver carbuncle crawled up across his face on its way to lay over their legs. “Though your pet I think I could stay with your sister.”

“He’s bound to me and radiates heat. If we’re not sleeping in pajamas then we’ll at least have him to keep our feet warm,” Alphninaud mumbled, eyes lidding as he started to feel sleep get the better of him.

Jullus merely grunted, too lulled by the other’s comfort to put up a fight about it today.

– Erenville –

He usually hated it, the moment they finished. U’rahn would be sweaty, and it would seep into the sheets and trying to sleep on a damp made his skin crawl after. Recently though Erenville’s insistence to get U’rahn up and into the tub with him had gotten him called ‘fussy’ and it struck a nerve he didn’t want to feel after the throws of passion. Tonight though was different, U’rahn laying on top of him with his dumb grin as their chests both heaved as they tried to catch their breath.

U’rahn being the first of them to find energy sat up on him, shifting his weight so he wasn’t burdening him too much. He drew little hearts on his chest, smiling lightly before sitting up to reach over for his boxers. “Ah, so so… You usually don’t let me on top…in fact, I don’t think we’ve come to Tural. Not that I’m complaining. I like it when you do, but I know it’s kind of uncomfortable for you. And this felt kind of different,” he babbled.

Erenville watched U’rahn quietly, arching his back as he felt him start to wipe his mess off his stomach with his underwear. “I wanted to feel connected to you.”

“You don't the way we normally do it?” U’rahn asked, tilting his head as he wiped himself off.

“I do,” Erenville answered, reaching out to tenderly rub U’rahns thigh, appreciative that the other had taken to dabbing himself off. His heart skipped a beat again, yet another little thing he was doing absently for him. Those were coming more and more now. U’rahn would talk softly if he was concentrating. He was more mindful of the fauna around him when they were working together. Little things that he’d mention off hand U’rahn had become more mindful.

“Then?” U’rahn asked, tossing his boxers across the room into their travel bin for the wash before laying back down on top of him.

Erenville let out a small sigh, looking away and closing his eyes, thinking to refuse him his answer but knowing well the other would pester it out of him. “You said you loved me to Lamaty’i,” he mumbled.

“I did? I don’t remember that,” U’rahn said, dropping his chin onto Erenville’s collar bone, giving him a little tickle with his chin hairs.

“You were talking to her and saying how wonderful life with Nyx is and how much you care about your daughters, “Erenville started tilting his head up and looking toward the headboard. “If I have to be honest, I thought this was something ephemeral. That after our adventure together you’d go back to your life and I would go back to mine.”

“No way. I uh…well, um…I still don’t think I said that thing exactly,” U’rahn said bashfully.

“No, I suppose not exactly. What you did say, when I thought that was the end of it, was that you also got to experience Tural with me. I was included among the precious things in your life,” he said, looking to U’rahn before stroking his hand through his hair. “And after I knew I wanted to be with you. Close and connected.”

“Oh. I did say that…Guess I do love you,” U’rahn chuckled.

“I guess you do.”

–Violet–

Riol narrowed his eyes as he swirled a mug of ale, watching Violet laugh and toss her hair at the bar, some suave muscular Keeper Yellowjacket leaned in close next to her with a cocky grin, shirt open in the way he knew she liked. He’d stepped out of the Drowning Wench to use the privy and in that time it seemed the fella swooped in on his girl. He didn’t mind though. Violet was young and beautiful and despite their relationship they weren’t tied down. Not that he’d been interested in anyone else.

He kept his distance a moment, watching the Keeper lean in close to Violet, whispering in her ear something he probably thought was charming enough to seal the deal. Riol chugged the rest of his beer, raising a brow as he watched the man slink away from Violet with his tail wrapped around his leg. Returning to his seat beside her, he leaned on his stool then waved Baderon over for a second round. “What was wrong with him?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to pick me up thinking I’d be impressed by him being a Yellowjacket and sailing across the Indigo all himself. Told him to come back when he can commandeer the Ragnarok,” she hummed, shifting off her stool to lean against him. “And that she handled like an obedient manservant with me at the helm.”

“So you made him feel this small before comboing by bragging and giving him an idea of how he’d fair with you if he did get the chance to follow you to bed,” Riol teased lightly, catching his drink as Baderon slid it toward him.

“What chance would he have? I already have something steady,” she shrugged.

Riol blinked a moment then looked down at Violet blushing lightly while she leaned on him and sipped at her drink. “Do you now? Anyone I know? Is he handsome? Local hero? Has one eye?”

“Shut up,” Violet grumbled before tilting her head back to kiss under his chin.

–Jannie–

“Lady Leveillure’s wedding present came in.”

Arteriole looked up from his book as Jannie held her hand in the air, looking over her intricately sewn white lace glove. He smiled, happy to see his wife starting to enjoy some of the luxury she was unaccustomed to. “They suit you well. Something fitting a lady of a house.”

Jannie smiled then looked inside the box they came in. “She seems to have designed them for cleaning blades. There’s instructions for how to wash them after I've finished polishing your sword,” she said before jumping as Arteriole dropped his book behind her.

[mimble-sparklepudding]

I'm not sure what cursed ship means but I'll do my best.

Maybe it's because I replayed the Crystal Tower arc yesterday but Nero is strongly on my mind. It would take a bit of work, given the man's ego. He would apparently make a good teacher* though and would go out of his way to boost Humble's self-confidence as he does Cid's. [*someone posted something saying he was wanted to teach in Garlemald]

On a slightly less cursed note, Hildibrand. Though in this case, the cursed bit would be that his parents are Godbert and Julyan. They would be pretty interesting otherwise, or at least funny.

And on a gentle note, Hien perhaps. I think they would get along though I'm not entirely sure as to how much. Hien's adventurous side playing against Humble's shyness would definitely be cute.

I should note that while writing this I realized that I have no idea how old Humble is. While thinking of Baderon to be precise. So apologies if some of my suggestions are a bit off.

Hi @kannedia Thank you for your thoughts on this!

I think Nero would be reasonably "cursed", given his propensity for sarcasm and sneering and Humble's shyness and tendancy to take things literally. Although they might make for quite an interesting mix of cynicism and innocence in practice. Perhaps Nero just needs to be taken in hand by a firm, but nurturing Roegadyn warrior and shown the error of his ways?

Hildibrand would be classic comedy, with Humble already being frequently baffled by events around him, add in some Hildibrandian chaos and the poor chap would be entirely giddy with trying to keep up with the madness.

Hien would be a cute pairing I think - and Hien deserves more attention in general. I agree that Hien's carefree and adventurous spirit would be a great foil for Humble's shyness and modesty, plus there would be plenty of romantic comedy opportunties around cultural and temperamental misunderstandings. Plus Humble does have a weakness for long hair on men (not that he would ever admit this).

Baderon would be an interesting proposition - an older man might be able to provide Humble with guidance and nurture, at least providing he keeps off the rum long enough!

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite2024 - Day 30: Two Heads are Better Than One

Tataru glanced up anxiously from her desk as Krile emerged from the Dawn’s Respite. “So,” she asked her. “How do they look?”

Krile shrugged resignedly. “Unchanged. Which, I suppose, is both good news and bad news. …I hazard a guess we have not yet had any contact from the Warrior of Light?”

“Not as such, no,” Tataru said. “She hasn’t been gone long, after all. But I did have the strangest dream…”

Krile inclined her head curiously.

“Oh, never mind,” she said. “It’s probably just my silly imagination. Dinner did not set right, or something. But! I did hope to seek your counsel on another matter, actually.”

“No one else has fallen mysteriously unconscious, I trust?” Krile joked wearily. “What is it?”

“Oh!” Tataru gasped, suddenly realizing herself. “Look at me. Chatting your ear off, and yet I have not even offered you tea. Have a seat; I’ll be right with you.”

She directed Krile over to one of the common room’s tables, and then hurried over to the bar. She only had to threaten the Mark XIV Thermocoil Boilmaster just a little to get it to dispense the hot water. Within the few minutes it took the tea to steep, she joined Krile at the table with a pristinely laid-out tea tray, complete with cakes she had stress-baked the night before.

Krile gratefully sipped the steaming brew. The past few days had been… a lot, and the respite was more than welcome. “So,” she asked. “What is all this about?”

Tataru folded her hands and leaned forward. “I have been thinking. We are a little—shall we say, short-handed at the moment.”

Krile chuckled dryly. “I suppose we are, yes.”

“Our best are literally on another world, and only one of them is in possession of her body. And the other teams, bless them, have their hands full, struggling to pick up the slack. Yet, truth be told, even if they were not already stretched to their limits… I worry that we still have a problem that is, unfortunately, beyond their experience to take on.”

“You mean the war?” Krile asked.

Tataru shook her head. “I mean Black Rose.”

“…Ah, yes,” Krile remembered. “Gods. If only these crises could come fewer at a time.”

“I do not doubt our Scions’ enthusiasm nor willingness, lest you be mistaken,” Tataru explained. “Hoary and Arenvald would probably require only a suggestion before they stormed the gates of Garlemald itself, swords drawn. But as good as they are—and as much as they’ve grown—I can’t say I fancy their chances.”

“No indeed,” Krile agreed. “Thancred is the only agent I know personally whom I would entrust with such a task.”

“And he’s quite inconveniently indisposed at the moment,” Tataru nodded.

Krile set down her tea. “So… how do you believe I can lend aid?”

Tataru smirked, ready to lay out her plans. “I am of a mind to recruit someone.”

Krile just raised her eyebrows, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You remember Estinien Wyrmblood, I trust?” Tataru asked.

Krile nodded slowly. “Of course. Though I cannot say I have seen hide nor hair of him since he was delivered from Nidhogg’s possession.”

Tataru leaned in more intensely. “Outside of his brief involvement at Ghimlyt, no one in Eorzea has. Not even Ser Aymeric—I’ve asked him. It would seem our former Azure Dragoon has been quite intent on disappearing. BUT,” she said triumphantly. “I have contacts. People who know things. People who owe me a few favors.”

“…And?”

“And, I think I can safely say we have narrowed down his whereabouts. I have reason to believe he is in Kugane.”

“Most impressive,” Krile congratulated her. “But… apologies; I still do not understand where I might come into this.”

Tataru tapped her fingers together innocently. “Do you suppose you would still recognize him by his aether?”

“…No better than you could recognize him by his face, unless something has drastically changed.”

“No,” Tataru said, a bit miffed that her grand scheme was not as obvious as it seemed to her. “I mean, could you find him by his aether? The way you found Thancred?”

Now Krile understood. “…Oh,” she said, considering. “Hmm. I may need to pay a visit to the Steps of Faith to see if I could possibly pick up a lingering trace, by way of reminder.”

“That is easily enough arranged,” Tataru said brightly.

“Matoya would have my head if I asked to borrow the Crystal Eye again, now of all times…” Krile shot a glance towards the door to the Dawn’s Respite, where the old woman was even now continuing observations with said crystal. “But if you’re sure he’s in Kugane, then I suppose I would not need it once we’re close enough…”

“Oh I’m sure,” Tataru asserted. “Have you attuned to the aetheryte there? Time is of the essence, I’d say.”

Krile nodded distantly. “As fortune would have it, business for the Students has taken me there before.”

“So?” Tataru asked. “Will you help me?”

Krile looked at Tataru’s outstretched hand and pondered. It is true she had used her aetheric senses to track people down before, but only rarely, and only for individuals she believed wanted to be found. She had never spoken to Estinien. She had never even met him when he wasn’t a vessel for Nidhogg. It seemed a bit intrusive to memorize his aether to hunt him down now.

But then she thought of what she knew of Black Rose, and of the absolute, unimaginable death it threatened to all her allies—nay, to the entire star. She thought of her friends stranded on a different world, unable to continue their work to stop it. She thought of Tataru scouring the streets of Kugane alone—even with her considerable resourcefulness, it would be a difficult task.

Was she really doing this?

She hesitated. Then she smiled. Then she clasped the hand of her now co-conspirator. “Let us be about it, then.”

[motheatenscarf]

6, 11, 19 and 20 for the wol ask meme!

thank u for the ask!!

6. how does your wol feel about romance? are they a hopeless romantic, waiting for The One, or are they more casual? do they believe in soulmates?

Despite her cynicism, Talia is at heart a capital R romantic in the sense that she is a very passionate person who goes tear assing off on whatever cause or purpose or goal she ascribes for herself, and that includes people she gets involved with, romantically or otherwise. She hates in extremes, she loves in extremes, it is either soul crushing devotion or nothing. Casual does not exist in her vocabulary, she is intense. There's a reason she's guarded, once she cares, it's painful, even if it's a positive emotion. I could get into specifics but that is, honestly, a post unto itself.

11. where was your wol during the last calamity? how did it make them feel? did it change their life, and if yes, for better or for worse?

She was in Garlemald at the time, ramping up her involvement with the Populares. Project Meteor was obviously a top government secret, but once the fucking moon started falling out of the sky, I don't think the state was quiet about taking credit for it and explaining the reason as being a drastic but last ditch effort to rid the world of the primal threat. Talia and her sister were both participating in protests and petitioning the government to maybe, idk, not drop a fucking moon on a continent of innocent civilians who were only going to grow desperate enough to summon MORE primals to try and stop it. Her sister wound up getting killed just for speaking up, Talia was deemed a threat and was wanted by the state, and that was what made her finally realize that everything she'd ever been told about her home was a lie. She's not sure if it's better or worse now, but even if it's lonely, at least it's honest.

19. what would you say is your wol's greatest flaw? what part of their personality causes them the most problems?

Girl, reflect on your guilt complex and examine your trauma. Okay, good, now stop lashing out and holding grudges and chasing your death as the only means you have of making amends.

20. what is your wol's best quality? what's the thing that they do that really gets stuff done or makes people like them? hard mode: their own perception vs. a friend or partner's perception.

Despite everything she's been through, nothing has been enough to calcify that big, dumb, soft heart full of love and idealism. Unfortunately, no matter what else she's shed about her old self image, she still firmly believes that the best she can offer to anyone is to be a weapon for them. (Hence why she's so guarded and choosy about who she trusts; her loyalty is a powerful thing, as seen in the first question here, and she is... The World's Best Murderer, and given her history, has proven she maybe doesn't have the best judgment in who she pledges that loyalty to.) But where she sees herself in that Dark Knight mantra of Serve, Save, Slay, Slave, I think most people just see how earnest, sincere, and nurturing she can be.

[claire-ashe]

"Garlemald..."

"My family never traveled here, I spent my entire upbringing in Ala Mhigo. This isn't my home."

"The Empire took so much from so many and killed countless innocents, including its own people. All in the pursuit of madmen."

"If anything, I should be glad it's gone, I should be happy it was reduced to rubble..."

"...So why aren't I?"

[housedeaubemarle]

(The Silver Tattler, Is. 10)

~~

“Darling Philomene, is Oudine quite alright?”

The Dowager Viscountess sits in her chair, as upright as always, sipping fragrant Ishgardian tea from a porcelain cup. A sumptuous tea service sits between her and her companion, complete with pastries, water biscuits and a generous wedge of good Ishgardian cheese to accompany the latter. One would think two highborn ladies whose ages totalled to about 130 turns would have smaller appetites than the amount of food warranted - one would be mistaken.

She looks at the older lady before her whose face is full of concern. Seeing as it's her sister-in-law, Perette de Hellyes, as lovely a soul as one could hope to meet, it is genuine.

So she sighs. “Perfectly fine, dear. If the Viscount de Aubemarle hasn't enough sense to keep her name out of tawdry publications, she at least has the wherewithal not to let it trouble her.”

Perette nibbles a madeleine delicately, as the concern is replaced by some relief. “Domin and I had been rather worried - this is the first time we've heard our niece being spoken of in such a manner.” She waves a hand encircled by a jadeite bangle airily. “Not that we really believed you would countenance a match between her and the Losstarot head, fond as you are of those young men.”

Philomene snorts. “Fond, indeed. When have I ever given the impression I was fond of them?”

“Well dearest, you must admit: giving away opportunities to be introduced to members of the ton after just one meeting is a hint if nothing else. And have you not been quite kind to them in public?”

She sniffs. “My generous daughter wouldn’t have heard of anything less. As it is the wish of the viscount, I must do my duty as a member of her household.”

Perette grins, knowing full well the Dowager’s peculiar way of expressing affection: denying it utterly in words but showing it in contradicting deeds. “Such an obedient Aubemarle, my love. I am proud of you.”

Philomene gives her a look before returning to the previous topic. “Well, regardless of my… fondness, if you insist on calling it that, I will not have my darling girl be shackled to such an inexperienced innocent. Lord Joshua is yet to be fully tried in our crucible since the ton has been more concerned with his older brother on the whole. Now they will be paying more attention to him; it ought to be a worthy learning experience.”

Perette's eyes twinkle. “That cannot be the right description for someone who has been through a Garlean invasion.”

Her sister-in-law shakes her head. “There are different wars fought here, as well you know. Garlemald quakes before the judgement of Ishgard's beau monde.”

The ludicrous statement makes Perette laugh, even as she understands the sentiment. “And have you considered that Oudine may have her own plans? She is more than of age, and can make her own decisions without your approval – a union with Losstarot is not exactly that poor a prospect.”

Philomene arches an eyebrow at her. “Perette my love, only you may say that to join hands with a man of that house is not a poor outlook.” She takes another sip, and shakes her head. “Whichever bride Lord Joshua brings into that family is going to need a stomach of iron to confront such an unsavoury history, to say nothing of the veritable wealth of rumours.”

“And if Oudine should find herself in love at long last?”

This gives the Dowager pause, but only to set her teacup down and laugh. “Love! My daughter and Joshua de Losstarot!”

“I don't see why you should scoff so,” protests Perette. “From what I see, he is as eligible a bachelor as any! A steady young man with clear ambition, and rather good looking too. Not quite as handsome as the older brother, but certainly features one may appreciate even up close.”

“Fury love you, sister,” replies Philomene with some incredulity. “Would you marry Lucinne- no, stay; of course you would. She chose Felixient and you agreed.”

Perette shakes her head. “Now really darling, Felixient is a lovely man.”

“Oh yes, and without a single sensible thought in his pretty head, even after becoming a father,” says Philomene dryly and without hesitation. “It says much that your featherhead of a son-in-law is, by leaps and bounds, more acceptable than either of the Losstarots as they currently stand. It will take a few more turns before the reason they had to be reinstated even begins to fade into obscurity.”

Perette's amusement, in spite of this (long-familiar) abuse of her son-in-law, is written all over her face. “And that is your only objection if Oudine should wish to marry Lord Joshua? His current standing in society?”

Philomene narrows her eyes at her. “Perette, what has my daughter said to you?”

Perette immediately raises a hand in surrender. “Absolutely nothing, I promise you faithfully.” She sighs. “I merely think it would be nice to see Oudine in an actual romance for once. The poor dear has never found anyone who suits her. Not that she’s had any head for it in recent turns, understandably, but nonetheless…”

Philomene snorts. “She could if she would but listen to good advice.”

Perette gives her sister-in-law a wry smile. “All your dossiers and reconnaissance have yet to bear fruit, I take it.”

The Dowager rolls her eyes. “Stubborn girl.” But the words have no real critique in them.

“Well,” says Perette, picking up a biscuit and the cheese knife. “Perhaps it's for the best Oudine hasn't actually lost her heart to him. Apparently the younger Losstarot was seen stepping out with a mysterious woman some mornings ago; not too long after sunrise, as I’ve understood.”

A silence falls as she cuts a small corner of cheese to spread on her biscuit.

“He what.”

Perette immediately looks up, cheese forgotten. The Dowager's posture has gone more still than earlier, and from afar it would have been nothing remarkable.

But Perette has known her for well over thirty years, and can tell the glitter in Philomene's dark brown eyes is one of utter displeasure. The twitch of her lips is also tellingly unhappy.

“My dear one, you just said-”

“I am aware, love. He what?”

The thought that she may have spoken carelessly crosses her mind rather too late. Perette sets down the knife. “Now darling, it’s all just talk – I heard from one who heard from another and so on and so on. You know how it works,” she says soothingly. “It’s nothing certain at all.”

Philomene does know how it all works, which is why her frown is relentless. “And where did you hear this uncertain whisper from?”

Perette lets out a breath. “My dresser happened to mention it – with all good intentions, to be fair to her; the Tattler also reaches the Foundation after all, and she'd remembered the name of Losstarot.”

The Dowager closes her eyes in consternation, very nearly trembling with indignation. Pity and gossip from a lowborn woman because a prospective suitor has (apparently) moved on within mere suns – suns! – of (allegedly) courting Oudine: her precious girl, treasure of her years, only daughter of herself and Vouloix de Aubemarle.

How dare he.

From the far reaches of her (unjustified) mental outrage, she catches Perette’s voice. “Darling, it is most likely all a falsehood. Besides, you just said there is no possible chance of Oudine ever marrying him. Why in the Fury’s name should this bother you so?”

“Because!” snaps Philomene, and her eyes open at the same time. “It subjects her to the mortification of even more vulgar rumours! The cheek of it – waltzing with my daughter and then stepping out with some common woman?”

Perette is quite used to these wild mental leaps but this is a particularly tricky labyrinth. Still, she tries to keep up. “Philomene, we have no idea who this woman is, common or otherwise. And I really do think a man ought to be free to converse with anyone he pleases – goodness, where would anyone be if one waltz shackled us forever to conversation with that singular individual and only them? It would be lunacy.”

“That is not what I meant!”

Perette blinks. She has a vague clue what Philomene does mean, but can’t quite parse it. She settles on something more sensible. “At any event, I hardly think he set out to offend – and again, if it’s true which it well may not, did you not also just say he is an inexperienced innocent in the ways of the ton? He’s hardly a rake, from what I can tell – it’s unlikely to be anything but a simple misunderstanding. How could he possibly know a mere walk might be twisted into anything more?”

“Well, he should!”

A deeply hidden part of Perette wants very much to laugh at this farce, and particularly at the petulant tone her sister-in-law has taken. Yet any outward show of humour at this point would probably result in an unfortunate incident involving the butter knife. So she quashes the impulse and turns all her energy to calming down the tempest which has arisen. (And also discreetly moves the knife closer to her side of the table).

“My dearest Philomene, one of your best qualities has always been your maternal devotion to Oudine. I know you desire nothing but the very best for the dear girl. The offense is only natural, to be sure.”

Philomene breathes in, and out. That much is true.

“And if anyone so much as forcibly plucks a hair from her head, I am assured you would go to war with them, be they ever so highly placed as the count of Durendaire, or as dangerous as the Tribunal's inquisitors themselves. So what is the lord of an old, noble and recovering house to you?”

That is also true.

“No one, my love, could doubt your affection for your children. None at all.” Perette refills Philomene's cup. “But you know, my dear, your dedication sometimes overwhelms you, understandably of course. Yet I know you are far too sensible a woman to let it overtake you for long. You must remember your health, dearest, lest you be overwrought – we are not as young as we used to be, after all.”

Philomene finally lets Perette's calming – almost cooing – tone settle over her, relenting enough to even drink the fresh cup of warm tea.

“There now,” says her sister-in-law, still employing her mollifying tone. “Isn't that better? Now we may think comfortably.”

She gives Perette a look. “You are not entirely subtle, sister.”

Perette just beams. “Which is just as well since I had no such intentions.” She picks up a madeleine and places it on Philomene's plate for emphasis.

Philomene, in spite of herself, breathes in and out. “Well. After the service he has rendered, one supposes Joshua de Losstarot may be given the…” she sips her tea again, as if to swallow her feelings, “benefit of the doubt, in the face of… admittedly baseless, vulgar hearsay.”

Perette keeps smiling. “Precisely. An eminently more reasonable approach, I say. You've met the young man more often than I have, so you would know far better than any rumour monger, of course.”

“...well, I can’t say I know him all that well,” says Philomene slowly, allowing herself to be convinced by this notion. “But certainly I know enough that he is not inclined to even dally with women, much less keep a mistress hidden somewhere.”

“There you are then,” says Perette, patting her on the hand. “I’m sure they mistook him for someone else. White hair and grey skin are so common these days after all.”

Philomene’s cup rattles a little more than it should on its saucer, but Perette’s tone is perfectly empty of any implications. She does mean what she says.

So the Dowager merely reaches for the madeleine and bites into it, as her sister-in-law takes the opportunity to change the subject.

~~

“Ah, my son, what a rare pleasure to find you home for a change.”

Remont looks up from where he’s been perusing a journal in the study. He immediately places it back where it’d been on the shelf and strides over to his mother. “My dear Mamma, you talk as if you want me tied to your apron strings.”

She takes the arm he proffers with one hand, while the other holds onto her habitual walking stick. An eyebrow is raised in his direction. “Can you deny that we’ve not had you at our dinner table for the past ten suns?”

“Now madam, it’s easy enough to confess I haven’t been there. Yet do consider how five of those ten have been spent out socialising alongside you and the viscount,” says Remont with an easy grin as he leads her to an armchair. “And I distinctly recollect being in the same carriage as you, both to and fro on at least three of those five occasions.”

The Dowager snorts, though the smile is evident. “At least you have such grace to admit the other two did not see you return with us.”

He stands in front of her, still smiling amusedly. “I’m a wretch and a scapegrace, but not a liar.” He adds, before she can open her mouth, “As much as I can help it.”

She gives him a look, putting both her hands on the topper of her cane. “Hmmph. You have your father’s silver tongue.”

“As precious a gift as his name,” he says, with evident sincerity. It mollifies his mother enough to employ a softer tone.

“Remy my dear, I’ve heard some things from your aunt this afternoon. I should like your opinion on them.”

He bows in assent. “They are yours as best as I may give them, ma’am.”

“It involves your sister in some capacity.”

Only a sharp-eyed mother would have noticed some of the casual ease disappear from his posture, though he manages to keep himself quite relaxed overall. “Oh?”

She looks him directly in the eyes, and it is like looking into her own, which makes it easier for the question to emerge: “Has she a tendre for Lord Joshua?”

Remont is genuinely taken aback, staring at her in such shock that the question seems thoroughly answered. Nonetheless, she waits for him to gather himself so she might have solid confirmation.

“My lady mother,” he says at last, feeling like he’s just climbed over the Coerthan mountain range without benefit or aid of magic or mount. “What, in all the names of the divine Twelve, gave you that impression? You cannot still possibly think the Tattler was entirely correct.”

“I was given that impression, dearest, by your aunt asking me that exact question.”

Remont shakes his head. “Dear Aunt Perette, always on the lookout for her niece and nephew’s potential soulmates.”

The Dowager raises an eyebrow. “As am I, for my own children. Thus I must ask directly since subterfuge is beneath us.” Such a blatant mistruth and his accusatory stare bounces off her.

He sighs. “No Mamma, Dine doesn’t fancy either of our cousins in such a way. She has become very attached to them both, and would seek their good and happiness, but it is no tendre.”

“And she has told you this?”

Remont looks at her despairingly. “Mamma, will you not ask her yourself rather than doubt my word for it?”

“I will not subject your sister to such embarrassment when she has so many other concerns to deal with.”

“And I am worth subjecting to this embarrassment? Have I no other concern?”

The Dowager does, in fact, love her son very much, for it is only a real mother’s affection which could offer, in as dry a tone as could be mustered: “My dear child, when have you ever been embarrassed in matters of the heart?”

“I could start!”

She gives him a wry look so devoid of belief, it should have been immediately hauled into the Tribunal for interrogation and executed for heresy.

Remont throws his hands up in exasperation. “She hasn’t told me in so many words, but it is clear to see, Mamma. Dine has no intention of setting her cap for them, and the feeling is mutual.”

“Alright, then tell me this: has either of those boys any serious intention of courting anyone this season?”

Her son goes from exasperation to bewilderment. “I… I honestly couldn’t tell you. Mamma, why would you be remotely interested in the matter? Are you thinking of adopting them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; one son is more than enough.” She huffs. “My lord Joshua was allegedly walking out with a young woman of unknown origin soon after the Tattler was published. Just after dawn no less. Your aunt’s own dresser brought the news to her.”

Remont can feel a laugh rising dangerously to the surface. Oudine had told him about her pre-breakfast, not-quite-rendezvous with Joshua. She's going to screech at this unexpected development. “R-really now? Did she say what the young woman looked like?”

“No, she did not,” says the Dowager with a more pronounced scowl. “Hence my question to you, as one who has spent far more time with my lord than I have.”

Remont keeps his hilarity down admirably. “I assure you, Mamma, if Joshua has any, ah, particularly close connection, it is not known to me. Nor, I’d wager, to him, considering how he has little real interest in the matter.”

The Dowager’s eyebrow rises higher. “Is he not the one who keeps speaking about the future of his house?”

Remont smiles helplessly. “It doesn’t quite translate to courtship nor its success.”

“Hrrrmph.” She taps her fingers on her walking stick, looking away from her son and at the fire crystals in the hearth, thinking and digesting the new information she’s received. Remont stays quiet, watching his mother’s face.

“Your sister has always hated being the subject of gossip, yet she has handled this without complaint,” she says eventually, thoughtfully. “Outwardly at least.”

“She’s bearing it gracefully, yes.”

The Dowager looks back at him. There is concern mingled with sharpness in her eyes. “Yet she’s not as inured to it as you and I, my son. I don’t know what you’re both scheming, but for my sake, have a care.”

Remont blinks. “What could we possibly be planning, Mamma?”

She snorts, as she pushes herself up from her seat, using her walking stick. “I hardly know. Call it a mother’s instinct, if nothing else.”

He looks at her for a moment, then breaks into a fond smile, and stepping closely to her, kisses his mother on the cheek.

“Thank you, mother mine.”

The Dowager gives him a look. “And what have I done that's worth such thanks?”

“Why, for giving us life of course. Is that not what you’ve constantly reminded us?” he says with a grin. It becomes wider when she swats him on the shoulder, in quite the same way his sister often does.

“Impudent boy,” she says, though she smirks. “Are you staying for dinner?” When he nods, she smiles in satisfaction. “I will see you and your sister then.”

He bows and watches her leave the room, walking stick softly thudding with every other step. When he’s left alone again, he lets out a sigh, sinking into the armchair she has vacated. He does not look forward to if and when the Dowager discovers the other piece of gossip Oudine is planning to manufacture. Then he pictures Joshua's face when he finds out yet another rumour - now with his specific name in it - is spreading and chokes on a laugh.

“From no scandals to two in seven suns; Fury love you, Joshua de Losstarot…!”

-

End.

[miqojak]

Us/Them

(( Hey, this is about Jak and - you guessed it - Ketsuchi of @throneoflevin ! I've had one hell of a month, and was VERY ill for most of the last week, and then some, so what's a better way to dive back into RP, than with my favorite person to write with?! ))

The sun slowly slips beneath the horizon to the oddly comforting song of cicadas and crickets - the fountain below her a melodic accompaniment... and the little woman on the bridge can't help but to wish she had her sketchbook on her. The scenery, and the comings and goings of the city beneath her tug at something she needs to put on paper - and so Jak commits it all to memory; this place, this moment in time - that person's shape, who tosses a coin into the fountain. The children who splash in it, before catching up with their family.

The hate gnaws at her beneath it all, however - searing, like a splash of stomach acid in your throat - the real reason she's here. The information she's had from Garlemald. The goods that this place will be sending to those hateful creatures who took everything from her.

And then he appears - her Wolf. Her burgeoning bile at the thought of Garlemald dissipates, if only for a moment - when had he become such a break in the clouds? She couldn't... put her finger on it. Maybe, in his way, he always had been. Even at their worst, they'd always come back together to hash it out - too furiously stubborn to give it up; too spitefully determined to see where their paths led, when they let them cross.

And she...needed him right now. He had insight on these things, and... if she committed to poisoning the supplies meant for Garlean refugees, it would be a big step in... a direction, certainly; and a dangerous one, at that - she'd been worried about the potentials of being caught by the local government, but he'd... humanized the enemy. He'd appealed to a morality that had long since stopped applying to Garlemald, and all those who hailed from its' icy depths, for her - he spoke to the thoughts she'd weighed, herself... if only deep down, where she didn't have to analyze them too closely.

And her Beast, that ever-burning fire in her breast, that thing that her soul crystal had peeled away from her, to look in the 'face'? Well... it was her, too. Why wouldn't it give weight to Ketsuchi's words? The gnawing hunger for vengeance - or was it justice? What difference was there, in the end? - answered to her, ultimately - and hadn't the little woman worried that she was becoming just like the people she hated, and now hunted?

'Innocent.'

What a word. What a thought to think - to give genuine consideration, when she'd spent years determined not to believe in the very concept of things like 'innocence,' 'love', or 'altruism.' The world had chewed her up, spit her out... and then stomped on her over and over again; the young woman been preyed on, still, at her lowest - only to then be abandoned by the only family she had left.

...So was now the time to have things like 'hope' again? What did that even taste like? To... even venture to believe that a person could be 'innocent?' He challenged her, still - even now, even after all the other ways he'd set challenges for her... there was always something new, and Jak thrived on it - so how could she allow herself to be frustrated at his words? At his defense of those, who to her, were guilty of the slaughter of her family?

But they weren't, these refugees. No matter how racist, or vile Jak might find them - they had not slain her family. They had not, in all likelihood, known anything about what was done to prisoners of war. You don't tell the general public about war crimes, after all - even if you've stripped the humanity of the prisoners in the eyes of the public, there is only so much people will swallow before they begin to wonder if they're next. And were they not as brainwashed as anyone else? Much like she'd asked herself about the 'sheep' she was surrounded by - was it their fault they were how they were? She'd had very little choice about who she'd had to become, under the heel of Garlemald's boot... what choice did they have, under the watchful eye of the Emperor?

It made her feel no less vitriolic towards them - but she understood. He was...right. It was misplaced time, and energy. The wrong target. Logic and feelings, however, make for an ill stew - but what choice was there, really? Become exactly what they had hoped for her to be? The Bloodthirsty Beast, stalking the wastelands, ever hungry for more of that which will never sate?

Was she not worth more?

He was.

It was a difficult choice to have to make, to set that ever-burning fury down... for a little while, at least. To decide where best to direct it; to figure out who truly deserved it... and Ul'dah was looking more and more like a better prospect.

And... Ketsuchi would be there to help her discern "the lambs from the rams", so to speak, when the time came.

When had it become so... almost easy to be vulnerable? To just... say things to him? Why did he still fluster her so much, and how was he still so frustratingly good at it? When had their roles reversed? Once upon a time she'd despaired of ever getting him out from under-water, feared that he'd never truly allow himself to be happy again, and all because he was punishing himself... for the same kinds of things she'd hated herself for, as well. There was a certain sort of irony to it all that made her feel... well, was it the irony that made her feel this way? Jak couldn't help but appreciate that he was capable of talking about something better - her own head has slipped under water at the mere thought that Garlemald could rise again, that they could hurt yet more people with their vile rhetoric about 'beastmen'... but she'd never been able to think about Garlemald in a way that was reasonable, and he'd gotten her back above water with cold, clear logic... and a lot of patience.

It would still be a challenge to internalize that logic - and it would take time to adjust her own 'morals' to allow for these new... moral stances concerning the 'innocence' of the average person - to include the vile Garleans - but she would try. When you've spent so many years in survival mode... everyone looks like a predator, and no one is 'innocent'. But she was past that now, wasn't she? Did she want to stay the frightened, fury-motivated beast Garlemald had left her, with somnus, guilt, and paranoia as her only friends... or did she want to grow, and evolve? Self-betterment was rarely easy, and Jak knew that.

J'kesri could salt the earth, or pull the weeds - and maybe the latter finally seemed like it wasn't just viable, but... worthwhile, even?

[thereluctantoracle]

FFXIV Write 2024 Day 10: Stable

The following entry in the tome Flora and Fauna of Northern Ilsabard was the first hint that perhaps rescuing the odd little fledgling from the mountain cave wasn’t the wisest idea. Where can such a large and belligerent creature be housed? A stable, a barn, a pasture, an aviary? Can an alkonost even be kept where you want them to be at all? For now at least, this innocent little creature is no larger than a housecat, all fluff and demand for food. The question can be revisited when the antlers grow in.

ALKONOST – 

An unusual avian with cervid features, having a range in Ilsabard from Garlemald to Bozja. Found in a wide variety of habitats at all elevations, but rarely above one thousand fulms up from sea level. Nests in large trees in warmer climes, or caves and crevasses in colder climes.

Adult alkonosts can grow up to two yalms in height at the shoulder, and the males grow impressive antlers at least a yalm in length upon reaching maturity. Their diet ranges widely, but the alkonost is strictly herbivore and insectivore.

If raised in captivity from a young age, the alkonost can be a faithful companion and swift flying mount, but few attempt such a feat due to the destructively exuberant nature of juveniles. Adults are frequently aggressive and highly territorial, and in captivity often reject the presence of all but those highly familiar to them.

[tinygamertris]

THIS IS VERY BELATED but I want you to know I saw your tags and LAUGHED, so I wanted to pick from one of them (or, more, blend two): How did your characters experience as an orphan shape their perception of Garlemald? Might this have changed if their parents lived? Might this have changed if they were adopted/received a different family?

I'm not playing Gentian any more but I spent SO LONG working on his lore that I can still answer the questions! Yay!

(Also I'm very glad I made you laugh!)

(EDIT: I spent twenty minutes gushing to one of my besties about how much fun I had making this post, and then explaining to him about Gentian, and now I'm back to playing the lad who is going to fix Garlemald come hell or high water! Thank you! XD)

For the first 12-odd years of his life, or at least the bits he remembers, Gentian's world was the orphanage, the block of old homes and slowly collapsing businesses around it, and the people who lived there. Nobody was rich, nobody was strong, but everyone banded together and helped out. The little old ladies in the bakery three doors down always made sure that someone had a cake for their birthday even if it was teeny. The family down the road would hand down clothes as their own army of kids grew up. The kids in the orphanage would run packages around the neighbourhood for the veteran who lost his legs in the Werlyt Campaign and he'd tell them stories of the friends he'd made and loved and lost and sometimes men from his unit would come around and the whole neighbourhood would come together to help them return to civilian life. It was hard but everyone pulled together, and I think it shaped his love of Garlemald in a way that can never be shaken. He's seen the worst of his country, yes, but he's also seen the best.

If his parents had lived he would probably have grown up in Ala Mhigo, loyal to the Empire and completely inured from the dark side of the country. His parents came to the country because his mother was part of the second army of builders, managers and administrators who followed the Garlean victory (she could use paperwork to make almost anything happen, and the messy state of the country genuinely did need people like her), and of course they couldn't leave him behind! It was an accident of bad timing and rebels who didn't care overmuch about civilian casualties that killed them; if she'd left work five minutes later or earlier they'd have lived. I think he'd have still felt loyal to the Empire, and probably still contributed to their magitek in time, but he wouldn't have had the same intense love for the civilian population he has in canon.

It would've been so, so easy for someone terrible to adopt him. The noble families of Garlemald are often twisting knots of infighting and jockeying for power, and we've seen how many innocent sons Valens van Varro took in and tried to corrupt. We've seen how the grandson and great-grandson of the Most Beloved Emperor Solus zos Galvus were raised! He was genuinely lucky it was the Dravis family that got wind of him first, given that they were honest and generally kind. If word of his magitek skills never got out, though, he would've stayed at the orphanage until 18, then been sent to the army to earn his citizenship. I don't think he'd have been happy in that life, and I also don't think he'd survive for very long.

[voidsentprinces]

A Realm Reborn: Here this is Thancred, he's a fail man feel free to bully him after he is used as an Ascian Meat Puppet Heavensward: Here this is Emmanellain and Estinien they both have the social skills of a goldfish in a Picasso Painting and think they're the hottest shit on the block. Feel free to bully them as they trip down the flight of stairs that is their failures. Stormblood: Here this is Magnai, he has the ego the size of the moon which is funny cause he can't get a moon girl to save his life and is actively bullied by the nearest moon girl in the Steppe. We'd say his ego was big as the sun but they requires him to be bright or worthy of such a comparison. Also this is Hancock, he's the satire on all you fans who wanted us to go SUPER HARD on Japanese Historical Glamour and tropes this expansion, in short--he's a weeb. He is some of you, so you're going to be use to bullying him cause y'all self-deprecate anyway. If he's not you, and you don't feel like bullying him, Tataru is here to do it for you so... Shadowbringers: Here is Emet-Selch. Sure, he has indeed shepherded countless of innocence to their deaths by being an integral part in the Calamities that have plagued mankind since cat girls walked the earth. And also instrumental the functioning of two empires who have caused needless untold suffering and death to the rest of the world. But, he also has bags under his eyes so deep it loops back around to looking like he's wearing mascara AND eye liner. His favorite activities is napping and slouching so hard that despite being in a clone body he still has a posture of YOU CAUSE YOU CAN'T FUCKING SIT STRAIGHT! STRAIGHTEN YOUR FUCKING BACK YOU'RE NOT 15 ANYMORE! Anyway, feel free to bully him cause his life has been nothing but failure and he is tsun enough you can get away with it. Also there's a cat boy here but... Endwalker: Here this is G'raha Tia. A red headed catboy who thought it was a good idea to use a levitate spell in the middle of a well manned library while having red hair. Alisaie can and will steal his food so feel free to bully him. Because like a lot of Isekai these days, he's an older man in a younger body. But unlike most Isekai he's only here to fall in love with you, adult person. Feel free to bully him and that depressed Hermes over there. Also since this is the victory lap expansion, feel free to also watch the cast bully previous bully participates Thancred, Estinien, Emmanellain, Magnai AND Emet-Selch again. In fact, some scenes in Garlemald can BEST be described as: No really, bully Magnai in particular.

[tallbluelady]

9. What do they think about commitment? Is a long-term partnership the goal? Are they thinking about building a life with their partner, or are they focused on the present?

10. What scares them about entering a relationship?

12. How much independence do they prefer in a relationship—do they want to share their lives as much as possible with their partner, or do they prefer to mostly do their own thing and let their partner do their own thing?

<3

9.Khaliun hasn't had much thought of romantic commitment. She's definitely on the aromantic spectrum, but she has had casual sex and I'm thinking she probably had a fwb sort of situation with Sadu, Cirina, and Magnai. So when she figures out that she's in love with Wuk Lamat, the idea of being devoted is a lot for her to process. With the succession and dealing with Zoraal Ja and Sphene over, Khaliun knows she wants to be with Lamaty'i but she doesn't know for how long or if her heart will change. Lamaty'i definitely has hopes but the future is vague. The present is solid, and she'd like to spend it with Khaliun.

10. Khaliun is afraid of hurting Wuk Lamat, of turning her sour somehow. The innocence and sweetness Lamaty'i had throughout her journey is what drew Khaliun to her. There's a healing to seeing Wuk Lamat just enjoying her life and learning everything when Khaliun lead a rather tumultuous life leaving the Azim Steppe, journeying to Eorzea, and joining the Scions as she did. Luckily I can see Lamaty'i just shaking her head at that and promising Khaliun she'll never change <3.

12. I think one of the things Khaliun is learning from her relationship with Wuk Lamat is how much couples actually need to spend with each other. It's one thing to tease Rowan for being down in the dumps when Urianger goes with Thancred to Garlemald, it's another thing to realize she's missing Lamaty'i when she's hanging out with Erenville in Shaaloani and is feeling extra sad. Khaliun is more of a wanderer than Rowan is, so I can see her traveling more while Lamaty'i remains in Tuliyollal, but coming home for the weekend or something.

Thanks for the ask!