#ulric the skull.

[mortuarymorticia]

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─── 02.06.24. [ 1/3 ] final exams down. i'm so drained today. i had a huge task list that i'm slowly working my way through & i feel like i'm drowning in course evaluations & final exams & scholarship applications. my partner's grandmother passed away today so he's planning to go back home which means that for the first time since we've moved in together, i'll be in the home we've created together alone for a few days. i'm not looking forward to it, especially with my break coming up. how was everyone's first week of february? 🎧: voices - motionless in white. 📖: lo, streyga - jazlen bella. ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[caparrucia]

Cor and Nyx getting into trouble together, or anything CorNyx, I love the way you write them

"So..." Nyx began, when the silence had stretched beyond uncomfortable past awkward and straight up into hilarious. "Is this a thing you're into?"

"Shut up, Ulric," Cor hissed out of the tiniest corner of his mouth, not taking his ear off the solid wooden door he'd shoved them through a few minutes ago.

Nyx, who did not, despite common slander to his name, have a death wish, did in fact shut up.

For five minutes.

It was the longest five minutes of his life and he spent them being mostly keenly aware of how small a space they were shoved into and how very much it didn't seem designed to house two full grown men in it. He counted the number of tiny skulls in the print of Cor's shirt - 438 - and tried his best to pin down the scent of his aftershave, and then, just as he reached peak restlessness, just as he was about to open his mouth and say something dumb or improper or suicidal or all three, Cor sighed and slouched down against the solid door.

"So..." Nyx tried again, resisting the urge to nuzzle into the underside of Cor's chin, because whatever that aftershave was, it smelled nice. "Why are we hiding in a closet?"

"I'm not hiding in a closet, I happen to have chosen the strategic retreat when in the face of the Lord Shield's rampaging fury," Cor said, eloquent and not the least bit bothered by the fact Nyx had a foot trapped between his and he was desperately trying not to make their already awkward position somehow worse. "You're here because you're an idiot with bad luck and you don't know how to duck properly."

"Hey," Nyx protested, almost on reflex. "I'm excellent at ducking." Cor stared down his nose at him. And then Nyx blinked. "Why was the Lord Shield so rampagingly furious at you?"

Cor shrugged.

"Because I put a glitter bomb in his desk drawer," he said, utterly deadpan.

Nyx reached several important, earth shattering realizations in quick succession, and then, in true Nyx fashion, opened his mouth and said:

"If you buy me dinner, I'll teach you how to do it without him knowing it was you."

[kharrneth]

Now, for the uninitiated, Bloodthirsters – as the name might suggest – ain’t exactly the sorts of chaps you invite over for a bit of socialising. They’re greater daemons of Khorne. You know, the Blood God? Taker of Skulls? Lord of Slaughter? Always a mite angry, so I understand, and his Bloodthirsters are every bit as bad. Also, they’re bleeding enormous and nigh unkillable; slayers of heroes and levellers of armies. I’m not in the business of ranking monstrosities, but if I were, Bloodthirsters’d place somewhere near the top of the list. And this one in particular is, as my old mother would have said “bloody enormous”, so he probably ranks even higher still. That being the case, I’m inclined to believe these legends when they talk about the showdown with this Bloodthirster – Va’Kharr’oth – “laying waste the mountain”. Daft bugger found himself beaten down, overpowered and sealed away inside the mountain – trapped in a cage of living rock for millennia to come. Impressive work, and no mistake. Thing is, there’s a bit of a conflict when it comes to who actually did the beating down and sealing away. The dwarfs claim it was Grimnir, which is credible enough as daemon-hunting was very much in his wheelhouse. Adepts of the White Wolf point to Ulric, citing the icy shackles as definitive proof, while in Kislev they tell stories of an epic mauling delivered by Ursun himself. The elves, of course, tell it differently. They say they’re perfectly aware of who did a number on Va’Kharr’oth, but that “we’re not ready for the knowledge”, which is exactly the kind of thing an elf always says, regardless of whether or not they actually know the truth. One thing’s for certain. You can bet Va’Kharr’oth’s not in the happiest of moods right now. If he ever gets out, I’d rather yours truly wasn’t in his path. I mean, the Ubersreik Five are good, but we’ve all got our limits. Fortunately, I don’t see anyone setting him free any time soon. I mean, what kind of idiot would do that?

Franz Lohner's Chronicle - A Prison of Ice (Vermintide II)

[djpain619]

Warhammer Fantasy/Warhammer The Old World/Blood Bowl Homebrew Lore

The Tyrant of Totengrad

On the Eastern Fringe of Sylvania, shrouded by Mists, Nestled atop a Tall Foothill of the World's Edge Mountains, Lies a Fortress City. With imposing walls forming a ring encircling the Hills Base. At the Cities center, pearched at the peak of the Hill, is a single Gargantuan Tower. Squat in Proportion, but Formidable in sheer Bulk. So wide is this tower in fact, that atop the Tower Is Constructed a Small Citadel with a Humble Keep.

This Citadel is none other than Castle Totenkopf, its Master is none other then Lord Baron Sigfried Von Totenkopf, and His City is None Other then Totengrad.

Totengrad was Founded during the first Vampire War, By a Volunteer Army of Kislevites and Middenlanders Lead by The exiled Kislevite Noble; Igor Blyatcycavitch and the Middenlander Knight Errant; Archibald Todbringer.

With the Help of the Knights of Morr they defeated a Massive undead hoard by Massing upon a Large Hill and holding the high ground against Wave after wave after wave of the Living Dead. When overwhelmed and pushed back they retreated and found respite in the Ruins of a Dwarven Fortress at the top of the Hill.

From these Ruins they were able to weather the onslaught and eventually turn the tide. Expelling the Zombified masses from the ruins, and casting them down as they counter charged downhill. During the counterattack, Archibald and Several Wolf Priests of Ulric lead a push that created a large bulge in the Zombie line. Through this bulge, Igor, his Winged Hussar Companion Calvary and the Knights of Morr managed to break out through the undead battleline and charge the necromancer leading the horde. Igor himself claimed the Necromancer's Head with two blows of his axe. A horizontal slash to the neck severed the Sorcerers Spine. Then a downward blow to the cranium embedded the axe in the wizards skull. A firm yank of the axe tore the remaining sinew and flesh, freeing the Necromancer's head from his shoulders, but not from the head of Igor's Axe. Igor Roared a mighty Battlecry as he raised his axe and the attached head above his own in triumph.

Once the Wretched Warlock was mercilessly dispatched the undead horde crumbled to dust and the day was won.

The Middenlanders erupted with cheers in Reikspiel; "Totenkopf, Totenkopf, Totenkopf". "Deaths Head, Deaths Head, Deaths Head". The Kislevites soon joined in, as the Army celebrated its hard won victory.

The Kislevites and Middenlanders then settled down and founded the City of Totengrad upon the hill and Igor Blyatcycavitch changed his name to Totenkopf after the name his new Middenlander subjects had bestowed upon him.

[toggle1-mrfipp]

Opera Omnia Burst Theme 5/?

Time for the second set of music selections for other possible characters.

Final Fantasy XII Larsa Ferrinas Solidor: The Stone's Secret Vossler: Among Savages Reddas: Ascent Rasler Heois Nabradia: The Fates Filo: Giza Plains (Zodiac Age) Kytes: Dalmasca Westersand (Zodiac Age) Ba'gamnan: Drums of War Dr Cidolfus Demen Bunansa: The Esper Mydia: Battle With An Esper (Zodiac Age) Feolthanos: The Ultimate Trial (Zodiac Age)

Final Fantasy XIII Yaag Rosch: Eden Under Siege Amador: Saber's Edge Galenth Dysley/Barthandelus: Fighting Fate Lumia: The Showdown

Final Fantasy XIV Urianger Augurelt: Nemesis G'raha Tia: Where All Roads Lead Estinein Wyrmblood: Revenge of the Horde Krile Mayer Baldesion: Magicked Skulls Minfillia Ward: The Aetherial Sea Moenbryda Wilfsunnwyn: Hard to Miss Loiusoux Leveilleur: From Ashes Kan-E Senna: Dewdrops & Moonbeams Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn: Ripples in the Sea Raubahn Aldynn: The Sand's Secret Gaius van Baelsar: Imperial Will Nael van Darnus: Rise of the White Raven Lahabrea: Thunderer Haurchefant Greystone: For the Sky Ysayle Dangoulain: Oblivion Aymeric de Borel: Stone and Steel Lucia Junius: Faith in Her Fury Hilda Ware: Melt Yugiri Mistwalker: Triumph Gosetsu Daito: Earth, Wind and Water Hein Rijin: Gates of the Moon Cirina Mol: Looping in the Deepest Fringes Sadu Dotharl: Most Unworthy Magnai Oronir: Drowning in the Horizon Fordola Lupis: Songs of Salt and Suffering Yotsuyu goe Brutus: Wayward Daughter Ryne: Insatiable Ardbert: Who Brings Shadow Lyna: To Fire and Sword Gaia: Promises to Keep Vauthry: Insanity Emet-Selch: Invincible Elidibus: To The Edge Venat: Your Answer Hythlodaues: Heroes Forge Ahead Fandaniel: Endcaller Meteion: The Final Day Zenos viator Galvus: The Worm's Tail or Endwalker depending on how he is represented. Zero: The Red Wings (FFXIV) Edda Blackbosom: Blackbosom Inspector Hildibrand Helidor Maximillian Manderville: Agent of Inquiry

Final Fantasy XV Ravus Nox Fleuret: A United Front Regis Lucis Caelum: The Final Battle Nyx Ulric: Battle for the Crown City Libertus Ostium: A Daunting Challenge Crowe Altius: Under Siege Somnus Lucis Caelum: [Untitled Somnus Battle Theme]

Final Fantasy XVI Clive Rosfield: Find the Flame Torgal: To Sail Forbidden Seas Cidolfus Telamon: The Outlaw Jill Warrick: Winter's Bound Joshua Rosfield: Away Dion Lesage: Ascension Gav: No Risk, No Reward Byron Rosfield: A Rose is a Rose Wade: Sixteen Bells Bendedikta Harman: Control Hugo Kupka: Titan Lost Sleipnir Harbard: On the Shoulders of Giants Barnabas Tharmr: The Riddle Ultima: Hymn of The Penitent

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[wintersweetbou]

Nyx Ulric Week 2022- Day 1: Hunter’s Moon

Hi Guys! I am a little late uploading these, but here you go! 

Summary: The Hunter’s Moon Festival is tomorrow and Nyx has yet to make a kill worthy of being offered to the Great Huntress. Libertus bets he will bring down the biggest buck of the festival. Nyx takes the bet and forges unwisely on. Who brings home the biggest buck? 

Nyx huffed in impatience, wanting to stalk his prey instead of waiting. He crouched in the ferns covering the forest floor waiting for the sound or sight of deer before night fell. The weight of his task kept him from vibrating out of his skin. 

The Hunter’s Moon Festival was tomorrow. The elders and young worked with the adults to complete deer drives and gather enough vegetables, herbs, and spices for a feast on top of preparing for winter. It was the duty of the ascending clan members to offer their kills to the great huntress in thanks and proven skill, showing the strength of the clans. Not having a kill to offer was better than offering a kill sloppily made, but Nyx had bet Libertus that he would be bringing in the biggest buck for the festival. He had prepared well- trained with his bow until his shot was perfect, scouted out game trails until he found the perfect spot, even burned wet leaves to coat himself in smoke to mask his scent. He had to bring at least something home, dammit. 

The sun slowly fell towards the horizon and Nyx felt despair wash over him. Nobody could hunt in the dark- that was when the larger predators came out. Coeurls claimed the forest at night, if something else didn’t end up killing you first. The smart thing would be to tell Libertus that he won, that fate was not with him this year. There would be no shame in that, just a slightly stung pride. 

However, Nyx did not do the smart thing. Nyx waited on, fingers ready on his bowstring, ready to draw. Shadows lengthened and began to move- playing with his weak human eyesight. Crickets chirped and flies buzzed their last rounds. Suddenly, an ungodly crashing- incoming fast.

Nyx drew smoothly, raising his bow towards the deer that careened onto the game trail. It was a grand beast. Probably weighed more than Nyx himself did, barreling down upon the trail full tilt. There was no time to shoot but nyx shot anyway- the arrow still on his bowstring as it bit deep into flesh. 

The buck’s legs slackened mid stride but could not slow the crazy momentum. It slammed into the underbrush, taking Nyx with it. The impact drove the young hunter down into the ground, cracking his skull against a tree trunk. Predator and prey laid deathly still together on the forest floor as another soul approached. 

“...And then I found this idiot under my deer with a chocobo egg on his skull. Had to drag his delirious ass back to the village and leave my kill for the coeurls. My clan head was against offering a person, but I argued that I shot one hundred and fifty pounds of meat and dragged one hundred and fifty pounds of meat out of the woods, so it counts.” Libertus snickered to their gathering of glaives in the guts of Insomnia. 

“You don’t have to tell this story every hunter’s moon, you know.” Nyx whined and buried his face in his hands. 

“Do too. It counted! I brought home the biggest buck for the festival. Even got Elder Narue to allow it at the main feast- the old bat was going to croak from laughing on the spot.” 

“Shut it. My shot was cleaner and actually killed the beast while yours just spooked it.” 

“I didn’t get my ass knocked out in the middle of the woods. I swear common sense was knocked out of you that day.” Libertus chuckled and sipped his beer. 

The other glaives laughed and bumped shoulders, enjoying the blush that dripped down Ulric’s face and up his ears.

[whostarlockeda03]

@feral-for-drautos you posted the other day about wanting a fic where Titus got injured and kept bleeding everywhere and apparently this was the cure for my writer's block and it somehow became a 2000 word, slightly-off topic, pre-DrauCor-if-you-squint thing???

Anyway, I figured I may as well post it for you, so. I hope you enjoy it?

I might add it to ao3 later, idk. Anyway, have some Titus being terrible at hiding his injury under the cut!

Something wasn’t right.

The word swam around him suddenly, greying and narrowing, swirling and rolling, sparkling and then fading to black then snapping sickeningly back into focus in a horrific unending circle. His skin was on fire, heat rushing through his veins and settling alight his insides until he could barely move, barely feel, barely think. A piercing ringing split through his skull, turning what little was left of his brain to mush.

Titus groaned, and let himself tilt forwards until his head rested against the blessedly cool wall. More pain pulsed through him with each shuddering breath he took, emanating from his leg, making his breath hitch, which only led to his hand shaking, which pulled on the stitches he had already managed to put into the gash on the side of his thigh.

It took a worryingly long time for the nausea to subside.

He hissed as he drove the needle back through his skin, and had to pause again, stitch incomplete, when a dizzy spell hit and he thought he was about to stumble into his shower.

It shouldn’t hurt this badly, Titus knew, this was hardly the first time he’d put himself back together unaided. Their blade must’ve been coated with something. That, in and of itself, was concerning. His assailant shouldn’t have been able to access anything this… effective.

Fuck.

He needed to talk to Leonis, clearly. Except he couldn’t, because that would mean admitting to this.

Admitting that a moronic, switchblade-waving amateur had managed to catch him, a condecorated war hero, off guard.

He couldn’t admit that he got injured by a godsdamn mugger to Cor ‘The Immortal’ Leonis, grudging-friends or not.

He was trembling like a new-born by the time he was done, shakily depositing the needle next to the sink. The stitches were wonky, haphazard, and too few in number. A small voice inside his head screamed that it wasn’t good enough, that he needed to do better, but Titus ignored it. It didn’t matter right now, if it was a good job or not. No. Sleep. Sleep was all that mattered right now.

Titus staggered through to his bedroom, collapsed on top of his sheets, and gave in to the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision.

* * *

There was blood on the sheets, when he woke.

Of course there was.

On second inspection, when his head didn’t feel like it was about to split in two if he breathed too heavily, it really was very shoddy suturing. At least whatever shitty drug was in his system seemed to be long gone.

Heaving a sigh, he glanced towards his bedside table, then shot out of bed with a hissed curse.

If he didn’t leave in the next ten minutes, he was going to be so late for work. Astrals, and last night he’d thought that having to tell Leonis would be bad. If the glaives ever found out… oh gods, if Ulric ever caught wind of this, he’d never live it down.

He shuddered at the thought, but didn’t pause as he hastily wrapped a bandage as tight as he could manage around the injury then dressed. Thank all the gods he hadn’t been wearing his uniform when it had happened, or else he’d have much bigger problems, like figuring out how to hide the hole in his trousers.

Silver linings.

* * *

“Silver linings, my ass!” Titus spat as he finally, finally got to his office and flopped into his desk chair.

His leg throbbed something awful. The stitches really needed redoing, he reckoned, before they ripped, or worse, the wound got infected. With a groan, he pushed stacks of reports and forms over to one side of his desk and pillowed his head on his arms. A huge yawn overtook him.

Well, he’d had a rough night, a short nap couldn’t hurt.

His eyes fluttered shut.

* * *

There was blood on his chair, when he woke.

“Oh, great.” He sighed, pushing himself to his feet. He hated that he stumbled.

Godsdamnit, he was not weak!

Growling in frustration, he yanked open his desk drawer and grabbed the first packet of painkillers he could find, and popped all the pills onto the desk. Then, before he could do something stupid, like think, he grabbed them all and shoved them in his mouth.

There. That should tide him over, at least.

Ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his leg as he moved across his office, he grabbed his first aid kit and then locked the door. He was not going to be bested by a fucking scratch from some Insomnian low-life thug!

Pulling the stitches back out was, unsurprisingly, even more painful than putting them in had been. Titus gritted his teeth, and dropped the bloodied thread into his bin when he was done.

It was far far easier this time, even at the really awkward angle he was working at. Soon, the wound was closed again, this time with straight, evenly-spaced stitches that actually nipped the ripped edges of his skin together so they could heal.

Satisfied with his handiwork, Titus wrapped a fresh bandage around it, tidied up the first aid kit, then sat back down, intent on addressing the ever-growing stack of forms on his desk.

* * *

Three days passed in relative success, in terms of keeping his wound quiet.

But then he took an unexpected hit in a training spar, and a stitch popped.

He could feel the blood beginning to seep into the bandage. Godsdamnit.

“I’m out, I’m out.” He said with a sigh, half-heartedly waving for the fight to stop.

Across from him, Nyx Ulric looked like he was the one who’d popped a stitch open. Maybe he had, in that bag of crazy the man had the nerve to call a brain. “Wait, what? For real?”

Titus scowled at him.

“But no one ever beats you!”

“Well congratulations, Ulric, you’re the first.” He deadpanned, then sauntered towards out of the room before Nyx could say or do anything about it.

He did feel slightly bad, leaving Nyx without someone to train with. But needs must - he wasn’t about to own up to his injury now, after he’d managed to keep it under wraps. Besides, he was out of the danger zone with it now. It was healing. He had a massive stockpile of painkillers.

No one would ever need to know.

No, he could just stop by his office, assess the damage, and go about his business.

* * *

The next day, it started itching.

The day after that, he noticed that it looked quite red. It probably meant nothing, he’d been scratching at it through the bandage, after all.

The day after that, he realised he basically had a built-in radiator on his thigh. Although, that could just have been that he was sitting huddled under a blanket on his couch, at the time.

Then the day after that, there was a crusted layer of blood and a mysterious icky-coloured goo on the inside of his uniform trousers.

The next day again, the skin around it looked shiny, and - huh, was it possible that the blood in his veins going away from the wound looked darker than before? Nah, surely not. He was just too tired. Checking it last thing at night was daft. He told himself that he’d see he was being stupid when he checked again in the morning.

He didn’t check again in the morning.

* * *

Twelve days after he got the injury, he came down with a fever.

It was entirely coincidental, he was sure. Just a run-of-the-mill flu, no serious infections in a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding no matter what he did to stop it here, no siree.

He also had a meeting with the king, his shield, and that eternally-annoying-yet-somehow-loveable brat they called the Marshal.

It went about as well as it could have, which was to say that within minutes of him mustering enough energy to make the short walk - it was a five minute walk, tops, so why did it feel like he had hiked here from Galdin?! - between his office and the king’s, he had two grown men hovering over him like godsdamn mother hens despite his continued reassurances he was fine, while another grown man watched from the corner of the room and snorted to himself in amusement.

Titus glared at Cor.

The bastard smirked again.

“No, that’s it.” Regis said abruptly, breaking off Titus’ admittedly feeble attempt to convince them he was in good health. “I’m sorry, I’m pulling rank. You are clearly ill, Titus. I’m sending you home.”

“He’s right, you know. You need to rest up.” Clarus chimed in, looking down on him with the expression that was permanently stuck on his face, the one that never let anyone forget that he was a father, tasked with looking after wayward children, and had been ever since Regis was born.

Gods, Titus hated that constipated look of worry being directed at him.

He wilted in his chair. “Fine, fine. But we might as well have the meeting, since I’m already he-”

“Do I need to have Cor escort you to your car?” Regis interrupted him, tone dry, one eyebrow raised.

Titus sighed. Heavily.

He gripped the armrests of the chair and pushed up onto his feet. He swayed a little, his vision blurring for a moment as he regained his balance. That was fine. All normal flu things.

With another displeased huff, he took a step towards the door

And he absolutely did not whine when he put weight on his injured leg no he didn’t ow ow ow!

Oh, who’d have guessed that the floor of the king’s study was really comfy?

* * *

The next thing he was really aware of the rustling sounds of someone flipping pages of a book.

Titus blinked blearily, and after a few seconds of ow-too-bright the light of the room seemed to dim to something more manageable, and as he suddenly realised he was in a hospital, he turned his head to see none other than Leonis, sitting at his bedside with a cheap magazine in hand, looking up at him with a shit-eating grin.

“Aw, look who’s awake.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, not you.” Titus muttered, turning his head away, and half-heartedly trying to push himself into a sitting position.

Cor had the audacity to laugh, the bastard, but he did drop the magazine in favour of helping Titus shuffle up the bed.

“Would you rather it be Ulric?” Cor asked, sprawling back in his chair once Titus was situated. “You kinda owe it to him at this point. Poor bastard nearly had a heart attack when I had to go tell the glaives that their esteemed Captain had an injury right in the same place he managed to get a hit on you in training.”

“I don’t owe the poor bastard shit.” Titus huffed, crossing his arms defensively. “This barely even counts as getting even with him after all the stunts he’s pulled on me over the years.”

Cor snorted again, before his expression sobered.

Titus felt a twinge of guilt beginning to grow in his gut.

“Ti, you’ve been out for three days. Your temperature’s still running high, but thankfully we caught the sepsis before it was too late, and they’ve got you on antibiotics for the infection.” He said, watching Titus closely. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Titus refused to fidget, although he didn’t manage to keep eye contact. “It was such a small wound. I thought I’d dealt with it.”

Cor only blinked.

Then he sighed heavily.

“Look, it’s not like you don’t also take care of small injuries yourself!” Titus pointed out, and he hated how defensive he sounded. “The first suture, I’ll admit, was terrible. But I redid it and I kept it clean and I thought it was fine!”

“Wounds don’t get that bad overnight, Titus.” Cor said quietly. “You must’ve noticed it getting worse. Or the fact that it wouldn’t stop bleeding puss everywhere.”

Titus inhaled sharply, forced himself to count to three, then let out the breath.

“How did you get it, anyway?” Cor asked, before Titus could explode and say something he would almost certainly regret.

“Some asshole tried mugging me. Got in a lucky hit.” He admitted slowly, staring at his lap and refusing to meet Cor’s eyes. He could see his lips twitching from here. “Don’t you dare-”

Cor burst out laughing.

Not a smirk, no, a proper, full-bellied howl of laughter, that made him bend double in the chair he was in and left him clutching at the handles so he didn’t fall out of it while tears gathered at the corners of his eyes.

Titus grabbed a pillow and thwacked him over the head with it, trying - and failing - to maintain a scowl, but his own lips were twitching, despite his best efforts.

“I’m telling Ulric you got stabbed by a mugger.” Cor said, wiping his eyes as he finally stopped laughing, and stood up, instead.

“So help me gods they will never find your body!” Titus hissed, frantically trying to grab him and prevent his departure.

When Cor dissolved into giggles again and let Titus drag him back down to sit on the edge of the bed, he knew, despite it all, they’d be okay.

[dailycharacteroption]

Arsenal Chaplain (Warpriest Archetype)

 Among the faiths of the gods of war, there are plenty of warpriests, but then there are also those who go beyond being warrior priests to becoming something more, figures that support their allies in battle.

Also known as Molthuni Arsenal Chaplains, today’s archetype revolves around the priests found within the aries of Molthune, a budding empire that is very much on the rise, rapidly preparing itself for the great conquest they seek to expand their territory and their power.

Outside of that context, however, these chaplains might appear in any military, and devote themselves more to supporting their allies than seeking personal glory in combat.

As we’ll see, they take on a much more supporting role than you average warpriest.

 This archetype starts with the blessing of war, which is the only blessing these holy warriors gain. This blessing grants two different combat-related buffs, but they can use it much faster than others, and eventually, they can use it at range by expending more energy. What’s more, they later learn to utilize it on multiple allies at once near the zenith of their ability.

However, this costs them their mystical enhancements to their sacred armaments, keeping the harm their weapons can cause to mundane levels. However, they do make up for it by being uncannily accurate with said weaponry.

A simple archetype, but one that promises the ability to quickly provide buffs to allies while being on the back line or fighting alongside allies. While they aren’t as heavy of hitters as other warpriests, they still bring a lot with their buffs. I’d recommend either balancing with support and combat, or else focusing support to keep allies in the fight longer and only fight directly as a last resort.

 The role of chaplain is to provide spiritual guidance to soldiers in the military, reconciling their beliefs with a life of warfare. Given their association of war gods, this is likely easier than it would be with other faiths.

On that note, however, this archetype’s primary experiment lies in enhancing a single blessing, so it might provide a useful template for homebrewing similar archetypes that focus on other blessings.

  The siege of Burnagrad’s Keep has gone on for months now. If it were not for the magic and ministrations of the keep’s chaplain, Father Ulric. When he is murdered, the soldiers and civilians within are on the verge of panic. Either the siege is broken soon, or the keep will fall to starvation and infighting before the enemy even makes their final push.

 Like most exploration wars, the invading force often vastly underestimates the unfamiliar terrain and natives, but the push into Gorewood has been especially punishing, the fey within fighting back with hit and run tactics and vexing magic. What’s more, the chaplain must push in again, for the unthinkable has happened, a chaneque fey managed to steal the soul of the prince leading the expedition, and the holy warrior must find the enchanted skull that holds it to restore him.

 The party enters the World Below, and finds themselves in the no mans land between two sides, the imperial drow, and the rebellious driders who have decided to overthrow them. What’s more, the driders have a new god that has taught the faithful the ways of blessing their troops in the field, making the driders especially dangerous even though they are relatively few compared to the dark elves.

[ertrunkenerwassergeist]

I have a question. I read the selkie!Nyx and I'm wondering how that could tie into Heart of Thunder. Because didn't Cor give Nyx white coeurl pelts? So let's twist that a little what if he gave him back his pelt that was confiscated? Wouldn't it still kind of be the same marriage proposal? Also how would everyone's reaction from the King himself all the way down to Cor what would their reactions be when Nyx puts on the pelt, lo and behold, there now stands a coeurl...who Cor is now engaged to?

Hi!

Thanks for the prompt! *jumps around* I’m an excited little gremlin when it comes to prompts. I just hardly ever get any XD

The pelt Cor gave Nyx in Heart of Thunder, was grey with silvery spots. In that ‘verse and Born Into the Wilds white coeurls are a species native to Galahd that went extinct. The colours of the others haven’t been mentioned yet.

But.

Let’s make an AU of an AU.

One where there is an Official Thing in the National Museum of Lucis, and Cor has to be there as protection for Regis. He’s bored out of his skull by all the pomp and tamtam.

Until, in a room dedicated to Galahd, he finds a pelt. It’s from a coeurl and pure white. Cor has also seen it before. Years ago, back when he helped to process all those refugees. But he would recognize it anywhere. It had been a personal possession. How has it gotten here of all places?

The plaque isn’t of any help. It describes the fur as a donation from a generous source that wished to remain anonymous. Which is basically code for ‘rich noble’.

Cor smells something foul is afoot. So he starts digging.

It takes him some time, too many all-nighters and headaches to count. There’s not enough coffee in the world to pay him for this. But he does it anyway. Something tells him this is important and he has always trusted his instincts.

(Some days, when he feels like he shouldn’t intrude in another culture that already has been mistreated by Lucians for so long, he feels like something is tugging him further down a path Cor cannot see.)

By the end of it, it’s not just the pelt he gets to take with him, but over half of the Galahdian exhibition. He probably would also manage to take the rest with a bit more digging, but for now this is enough.

(No it’s not, something nameless on the wind screams and Cor wonders...)

So when all is said and done (for now), and even more nobles hate him now than before (which is really an accomplishment at this point), he packs all the stuff he got into a truck and drives straight to the Kingsglaive HQ.

They’re not exactly enthusiastic to have him there. Especially when he practically orders every Glaive present outside, where the truck is parked.

The first thing he takes out is the white coeurl pelt. Because it’s not only hideously expensive for its rarity, but there is also something about it. Something that makes it important.

The moment they see the pelt in his arms there is

Silence.

Then, a strangled cry.

And a man stumbles forward. Cor recognizes him as Nyx Ulric.

There has always been something strange about the man. Something jagged and broken. The way he seemed trapped and not quite there sometimes. Now there is an expression of such deep longing on his face, Cor cannot comprehend it.

There’s also naked hope there, and a deep seated despair, and it makes Cor’s throat constrict. Just looking at Nyx’ face and the way his whole body trembles as he takes stumbling steps forward hurts. Libertus Ostium and Crowe Altius are close behind him. Their eyes daring him to do something stupid.

All words Cor had wanted to say, die on his tongue. So he just hold out his arms and waits. It feels like an eternity.

The moment Nyx has the pelt in his arms, he breaks down and cries. Heaving, ugly sobs, as he sinks to his knees and buries his face in the white fur. Words tumble over his libs, unintelligible to Cor’s ears.

He cannot believe-

He never thought that he would-

Nyx Ulric looks up at Cor Leonis, the man who brought back half of his soul, half of his very being, and he swears to follow this man above all others.

He can do nothing less.

It is like a damn broke. The other Glaives crowd close, and Cor finds himself with no time to contemplate what Nyx just did. Voices rise as they ask after lost possessions, old heirlooms, things the Lucians stole and called “payment” or their “just due”.

That evening, Cor finds himself in Little Galahd amidst a joyous people. There are tears of gratitude, words of thanks and declared debts. “Friend” is the most harmless of titles people call him. It makes Cor decidedly uncomfortable.

And he cannot help but wonder just how bad the Galahdians - the Galahkari, as they introduced themselves - have had it in Insomnia. He knows it’s an answer he won’t like.

[heartlessfujoshi]

xvtober day 4: skull

Title: Glaive Markings Fandom: FFXV Pairing: NyxNoct (Noctis Lucis Caelum x Nyx Ulric) Rating: Mature (PWP - NSFW - Sexual Content) Word Count: ~1380 Prompt: Skull 

Summary: Noctis admires all of Nyx’ tattoos, especially drawn to the most recent addition of the Lucian royal family symbol. 

A/N: Here’s my next offering for XVtober! :) Please enjoy! 

***

Noctis’ hand traced the tattoo right next to Nyx’ hip bone, both of their bodies covered in a fine sheen of sweat after an impromptu ‘private’ session between the two of them. Noctis let some of the thunder magic arc from the tips of his fingers as he traced along the Lucian symbol that was immortalized on the Glaive’s body, the work still mildly fresh. “Why did you get this?” He asked, returning his head to Nyx’ shoulder as he touched the raised bumps, pulling back on the magic for the moment. 

“All Glaives have it somewhere on their body.” Nyx shrugged his shoulder, one arm tucked behind the back of his head while the other was now resting comfortably around Noctis’ body. “You wear it on your clothes. I don’t have that luxury, Your Highness.” 

“You could.” He felt his cheeks heat up at the sudden use of his title, rather than the use of his name, which he’d been moaning only five minutes ago. His fingers kept tracing the skull, the design much like his family’s symbol. “I can suggest that the Glaives-” 

“No.” Lifting his head, he saw Nyx shake his head. “It’s been this way for hundreds of years. No reason to disrupt the status quo because you’ve taken a fancy to a Glaive.” 

The Prince of Lucis put his face against Nyx’ shoulder. “This isn’t just some passing fancy. I’m sorry you feel that way.” 

“I don’t.” A hand touched his cheek, carefully turning his head to look up at him. “But we both know that nothing good can come of this.” 

“Should I leave?” Noctis’ stomach twisted into a knot as he tried to calm down his racing heart, feeling very self-conscious at the moment, considering where their conversation had gone. “I wasn’t aware that you felt this way.” 

“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” The thumb on his face gave it a tiny stroke, Noctis closing his eyes as he leaned into the touch. “I meant that if the Glaives were to sport the symbol of the Lucian line, we would already be doing so. This is our way to pledge our devotion to the King.” 

“It’s a rite of passage.” 

Nyx smiled, and nodded his head. “Exactly, Your Highness. The skull represents my allegiance, although it was already there to begin with. It’s more a formality than anything else.” 

“I want one.” 

“You don’t need one.” 

“Are you telling me to not get a tattoo?” He reaches up and touches the tattoos on Nyx’ face. “You - who has….how many?” 

“Just because I have them doesn’t mean you need them too.” Nyx kissed the tips of his fingers, a slight electric current running up his arm at the touch. “Your skin is beautiful the way it is, Noct. Leave it as such.” 

“Both Gladio and Prompto have tattoos.” His heart jumped at the mention of his name, but played it off by putting his head back against the crook of Nyx’ neck. He let his hand wander down a little lower, the tips of his fingers now brushing near his pubic area. “I want one too.” 

“You’re going to carry scars in a way that they won’t.” A kiss touched his cheek, his eyelids fluttering closed as he turned his head to give Nyx access to his lips. That little gesture was enough to warrant a kiss directly to his lips, making him moan softly. “Keep your skin ink free. For me.” 

It was a promise he knew he could easily make. “I will.” Noctis whispered against Nyx’ lips, as they began to kiss each other with more interest. “I won’t get it on my body.” 

“Any tattoos, Noctis.” 

The command sent a shiver down his spine, as he began to nod his head in agreement. “I won’t, Nyx. No tattoos of any kind. For you.” 

“Good.” The thick muscle of Nyx’ tongue was pushed into his mouth, his body going limp as he let himself get swept away by the intense kiss. He left him breathless, panting softly as he stared up into Nyx’ eyes. “You ready for a little more now, Your Highness…?” 

He put one leg around Nyx’ waist, and pulled him to be between his legs. “You know that I am…” 

Nyx teased him with the tip of his cock, and then he felt it slip back into his body with the same ease that their tongues seemed to share with one another. One day they had been sparring with one another during a training session, and then the next, they had found that they had an undeniable attraction to one another. Noctis didn’t care that Nyx was older than him - and no one else seemed to mind at their closeness. Not that it was any of their business who he chose to keep company with. The sex with Nyx was always amazing, the two of them winding up in his older bedroom in the Citadel more times than not. Like right now - right now they should be downstairs training, but no - they had more important things to do in the bedroom than what  they had to do in the training room. 

Rolling them, he wound up on top of Nyx, his hands going to the tops of Nyx’ thighs, as he pushed himself down onto his cock. He heard the Glaive moan low, and felt his fingers dig into his hips. His thumb pushed right where the skull tattoo was on Nyx’ body, and made him moan low at the touch. His ass pushed down on Nyx’ cock, rocking his hips back and forth as he got the thickness to start pushing against his prostate, making him whine low. 

“Yes, Noct…” Nyx murmured, one hot hand touching his cock as he really began to bounce up and down on him. “Come again for me, baby…” 

He put both of his hands down next to Nyx’ shoulders and began to come hard, the hand on his cock pulling his orgasm out of him. Noctis felt his entire body go numb as he rode it out, his inner walls squeezing tight around the thickness inside of him. He heard Nyx moan low, and then a rush of liquid heat began to coat his insides, making him moan again as he felt Nyx come deep inside of him. 

Rather than move off of him, he instead dropped his head down to Nyx’ and kissed him hard, moaning into his mouth as he was pushed back onto his back, both legs now wrapping themselves firmly around the Glaive’s body. “One more….” Nyx stared into his eyes. “One more, Noct…” 

“O-One…” He tried to finish the thought, but the pleasure began to run through his body again, and he gave into that rather than try to speak like a normal human being. 

Sweat dripped down the side of his neck, Noctis’ chest rising and falling as he looked down at his cum-covered stomach. He laughed, shaking his head as Nyx got up from the bed and went to go grab a towel for them to use. “We really should go train.” Noctis’ eyes returned to that skull tattoo, and without really thinking about it, brought his lips to it and gave it a soft kiss. He looked up at Nyx and offered him a shy smile. “I’m happy you want to protect my father, and me.” 

“I do.” Nyx cupped his chin, smiling down at him. “I’d do anything for either of you.” 

“I know.” 

They got their clothes back on, and then headed back down to the training room. Noctis could feel his body feeling a lot lighter than it had before they’d made their escape upstairs. He pulled his favorite sword from the weapons pile, and saw Nyx hold his kukris. “Ready for a little more now, Your Highness?” The phrase wasn’t lost on him, his cock twitching a little inside of his underwear as he looked across at Nyx. They shared a smile, and then began their real workout for the afternoon. Noctis looked forward to their next session together, as he knew they would once again wind up back in his old bedroom, and really - he couldn’t wait to admire his ink once more. 

XxX

Cross-posted to AO3

[secret-engima]

Got any Deleantur verse or Nox verse snips you feel like sharing? Pref Del verse but eithet, as you likr.

Sure! I haven’t written in either of those verses in a while but I should have something from Deleantur at least. Here we go! Have a long snippet, but then I think I’m out of snippets, sorry.

...

     Deleantur’s magic rippled outward as he reached the doors, forced them to fly off their hinges without physically touching them as he charged inside without slowing. The first of the ten Reds was killed by the doors, smashing into at just the wrong angle and sent flying in a limp sprawl. The fourth was the one who actually saw him and managed to scream a warning before Deleantur’s blades found his heart and he kicked the corpse to the far wall —the second and third were already dead with a torn open throat and a knife through the skull—.

     The remaining three whirled away from the Elders they had been about to tear apart for trying to shield the sobbing little ones, one of the Reds lunged at him with a spear while the second bounded sideways to get a clear shot at him with her bow and arrow. Deleantur ducked under the spear lunge, sidestepped the next two swipes before stepping into his opponent’s guard and bringing one blade slicing upward.

     The wooden spear haft shattered into two pieces, the Red holding it leaned away from Deleantur’s other blade going for his throat and began spinning the two halves of the spear like they where dual weapons. Deleantur let his magic curl under his skin and pull him half-in-half-out of reality so that the spear head slid harmlessly through air where his temple was-but-wasn’t then threw one blade out and away to —strike down the arrow the woman had finally dared to fire before it could reach his ribs— free up one hand to grab the blade-less spear half coming for his neck. The Red faltered, gaping in surprise and disbelief at Deleantur’s warp dodge, then he screamed in fearful shock as Deleantur clenched his hand on the spear haft and willed it to freeze —not burn, there were other things that might catch fire, just like how he couldn’t bring these people to their knees with his raw magic because there were children and elders nearby who would die from the weight of his power—.

     The Red abandoned his offense, jerked his frostbitten hand away from the frozen over spear haft then gurgled in pain as the blade he’d forgotten Deleantur still had slid through his ribcage once-twice-thrice. Deleantur kicked over the body and turned toward the archer woman —the last, the elders and one of the tweens had fallen on the third and killed him with their own hidden weapons and fire hardened walking sticks—. Deleantur took a deep, slow breath to keep his magic from unfurling and crushing everything around him in the weight of his fury when he saw that she had dropped her bow and now had a small dagger in one hand while her other arm…

     “Woman,” Deleantur hissed and in his voice he could hear-feel-remember the thunderous tones of the Lucii —Rogue and Oracle and Fierce and Father and so-many-too-many-others—, “release the child and you might live.” The woman’s already bloodless skin got paler at the sound of his voice —their voices, the voices of kings and queens long gone but here and furious— but she didn’t let go of the whimpering toddler pinned against her body by her arm.

     She pressed her dagger blade closer to the vulnerable skin of the child and wheezed, “Stay b-back-! Stay back or he’s dead!”

     Fury said to lunge, the Old Kings and Queens seething in the back of his mind said to just let go of his magic and let the pressure drive her to her knees and steal the strength from her bones —but those would kill the child, those would possibly kill everyone else in the building and Deleantur didn’t want that—. He narrowed his eyes and took a slow step back in obedience. She jerked her chin towards the blade still clenched in his hand, “D-drop it.” His fingers squeezed tighter on the hilt, then he slowly crouched down and set the blade on the floor. With a flick of his wrist he sent it sliding across the floor to rest at her feet. He looked up and saw her muscles beginning to relax, one foot coming up to step on the blade and pin it down.

     Her foot was still half an inch away from the scrollwork of the blade when Deleantur mentally tugged with his magic and fell into the spaces-between-worlds-time-reality-life-death. He ripped clear of the gaps with a crack of magic-power-light, hand already closing on the hilt of the blade at the woman’s feet as he lunged upward with it in one hand while his other reached for the child’s neck.

     His blade slid home in the same instant hers tried to bury into young, vulnerable flesh as a flinch response to the crack-snap-light of his warp. The dagger instead skidded against his black gauntlet, bit into the flesh of his forearm and got stuck there in the mix of leather armor and skin-blood-bone. Deleantur breathed past the pain and watched the life bleed from the woman’s eyes with a grim rumble of, “I told you to let the child go.” Her body went slack and Deleantur used his bleeding arm to pull the child clear of the body while his hand absently tugged his blade free.

     For a moment, there was no sound beyond the muffled chaos outside and the sob of the children. Deleantur tilted his head back toward the ceiling and breathed, carefully pulled his magic back into his core and pushed back the clamoring voices of memories that didn’t really belong to him. Then he lowered his head and opened his eyes again —when had they closed?—. He gently let go of the toddler and turned toward the elders he could sense skittishly approaching him. He spotted his other blade, the one he’d thrown earlier, in a gnarled old hand and frowned, “Give that-” he paused, tugged tiredly at his limited knowledge of Galahd and his strained manners, “Return that to me. Please.”

     The old woman, hair done up in an elaborate nest of braids and beads and ribbons that must have meant something very impressive, glanced shakily from the blade to him, then firmed, “This belongs to a chieftain and a chieftain alone. How did you come by it?” Deleantur stared at her in momentary confusion, then fully realized what blades he had pulled out of his armiger to fight. He almost laughed at the irony —“This is not an order from a king to his glaive this is a plea from one man to another-” “Rule well, Young King”—. Ulric’s Kukris. The blades he had pried free of the corpse of a daemon in the last days of Insomnia, the ones he had sensed-known-recognized from memories that weren’t his own and offered back to Libertus Ostium —they had belonged to his friend after all, his brother-in-arms and fellow Galahdian— but Ostium had just told him to keep them with tears in his eyes, insisted that Nyx would want them to still be in service to the king even if he wasn’t there to wield them. He hadn’t … he hadn’t realized they belonged to chieftains.

     It explained a few things though.

     He carefully pulled the dagger free of his arm, pushed a wave of healing magic into it without a thought and then held out his hand for the kukri, “It is mine. I …” words caught in his throat, a hundred thousand ways of explaining a situation he didn’t think these people would believe and a million more ways to just lie. Finally, he reached up and tugged on his braid to draw her attention to it, then held out his hand again, “Please. It belonged to a great … a great man of my kin,” because Nyx Ulric might have not been a Lucis Caelum, but he had been a Kingsglaive, he had been with Regis when Deleantur’s father had died —and Noctis hadn’t been there, hadn’t even known— and he had wielded the full magic of the Lucii for a time. He deserved to be remembered as family, and if Deleantur had lived in his own time, in the aftermath of the Endless Night, then Nyx Ulric would have been added to the royal tapestries and his name would have been added to the memorial plaque with the rest of Noctis’s family —alongside the rest of the Kingsglaive who fought and died for him and those others in ancient times who had been adopted for their light and bravery and loyalty that Deleantur remembered far more clearly than he had any right to—.

     He looked into the elder’s pale face and repeated softly, “He was kin. These blades passed on to me when he died.” He saw her hesitate and took a shuddering breath —he wasn’t going to fight these people that he had just saved, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t, let them withhold the blade—, “Please, Great Matriarch. It’s all I have left of him.”

[mortuarymorticia]

did you find ulric?

i'm so flattered that a small corner of the internet remembers ulric -- yes! i did find him, he is safe & will be featured in my mid-week post on wednesday. i'll relay the concern to him.

[jazzraft]

waltz among the tombstones

Day 2 for @ffxvhalloweenweeksfw Themes: Vampires/Graveyards Ships: Noctis Lucis Caelum/Nyx Ulric Rated: General Audiences Words: 1395 Also on AO3!

Personally? This was not Nyx’s idea of romantic.

Sure, it worked for some people… well, more like a lot of people. There was a whole subculture of the outcast and the misunderstood who found solace in the more macabre interpretations of romance. He’d never judge of course, not for a single moment, but Nyx wasn’t sure he’d ever get it, regardless.

When he walked into a cemetery, Nyx felt more melancholy than lovey-dovey. And at night? He felt more uneasy than intimate. I mean, you’re surrounded by dead people, he said to himself, as he lurked along the little gravel path. Being faced with one’s own mortality did nothing to inspire his inner romantic. Maybe it was a thing for people; maybe it reminded them to love what they had because it didn’t last forever? He really couldn’t guess.

But when it came time for Noct’s Hallowtide escapades, Nyx learned to stop asking. If his prince wanted a moonlit rendezvous in a creepy old cemetery, Nyx was powerless to deny him.

For digging your own grave, you sure picked the right place, he texted along the way.

He was sure that flaking out on the royal masquerade that evening was a death sentence, if not literally then socially. Some might argue that the latter was worse than the former. In which case, Noctis was still going to need a hole dug to bury himself in.

I’ll let you pick the plot, Noctis texted back. Since you’re going down with me. He added a skull and crossbones emoji at the end. Nyx shook his head, but smiled nonetheless. It shouldn’t have lifted his otherwise morbid spirits, but it did, because it was Noct, and no matter the setting, the circumstances, or the potential for social ruin, Noct always made him feel at ease.

Nyx found him sitting at the bottom of the stairs to an old, stately looking mausoleum, the ancient stone rain-washed and sun-bleached and overgrown with wild ivy, which it wore like an elegant emerald cloak against the chill in the night air. For a moment, he mistook Noctis for one of the carved figures that guarded the wrought iron gates to the crypt, heads bowed beneath somber stone robes.

Noctis was bent over his phone, the light from the screen casting his pale face in an ethereal blue glow. He was dressed in the deep black finery of the Lucian masquerade, as if tailored straight from the shadows of the cemetery itself. He wore a smoky colored silk waist-coast with silver buttons crafted in the shape of the royal seal, and a tapered, high-collared tailcoat of deep, dark blue that draped to artful tatters at his heels. A silver mask was shoved up over his hair, with long, pointed fangs dripping from the bottom.

“Damn,” Nyx said, with a low, approving whistle. “I know you’re supposed to bury treasure, but it’d just be criminal getting that dirty.”

Noctis rolled his eyes, not in the least bit startled by Nyx’s sudden announcement from the shadows, as if he had some sort of preternatural sense for his approach. “You wouldn’t be saying that if you had to be the one wearing it,” he scoffed.

Nyx knew that Noctis hated being dressed up for royal occasions, and try as Nyx might to sympathize, it was always difficult not to appreciate how great he looked when he did. But then he was biased. Because he thought Noct looked just as stunning in jeans and a sweatshirt as he did in thematic royal regalia.

“If it’s that uncomfortable, why don’t you take it off?”

Noctis quirked a brow at him, lips crooking back in a smile. “Why do you think I asked you out here?”

Nyx grimaced then, glancing around at the cold stone structures all neatly aligned around them. “Dunno, Noct. You know I don’t mind a little sacrilege now and again, but this might be pushing it.”

Noctis chuckled, unfolding to his feet. His coat settled around him like a bat’s wings, soft as a whisper in the dark. “I’m just teasing you,” he said. “Bit too cold for that.”

“Bit too creepy,” Nyx added.

Noctis shrugged, indifferent to the deathly stillness of the cemetery. “It’s quiet,” he said by way of a compliment. “Private.”

“So is my apartment,” Nyx suggested.

He sidled closer to his decadently dressed paramour, feeling far more inferior than he usually did in the ragged gray hoodie he’d thrown on in his haste to answer Noct’s siren call. He hoped he could tempt him to a much warmer, much less fatalistic escape from the expectation of royal responsibility. But Noctis was one of those people who saw something romantic in the moonlit night, something Nyx would have otherwise understood, if they were anywhere but where they were now.

“It’s too nice of a night,” Noctis mused, taking a few steps from the mausoleum to better breathe in the autumn evening.

Nyx determined not to think of breathing in the fumes of rotting corpses beneath their feet. Instead, he narrowed his attention to Noctis, watching the gossamer black cuffs of his sleeves fan out as he stretched his arms. There was certainly something hypnotic about him in that gothic costume, in the ghoulish gray moonlight swimming through the creaky branches of the trees. If Nyx closed his eyes and forgot about where they were, Noct was right. It was peaceful, almost otherworldly in its silence in the middle of such a massive, chattering city.

Crickets echoed each other from one side of the cemetery to the other, the faintest breath of cool autumn air murmuring through the dewy grass. Nyx waited to hear the despairing moans of earthbound spirits, waited to feel the cold finger of death stroke up the back of his neck. He waited for all of the superstitions he’d grown up with in Galahd to come rising from the grave, but none did. It was just him and Noctis, with the night to themselves.

“Well, I have to do something to keep you warm,” Nyx sighed. Taking his cue from the fangs on Noct’s mask, Nyx bowed, presented his hand, and said in an exaggerated accent, “May I humbly ask for this dance, Count Caelum?”

Noctis snorted, pursing his lips to keep himself from collapsing into a full fit of laughter. Instead, he straightened the heavy lapels of his coat and pulled the mask back down over his face. Then he cleared his throat, assembled himself into the formal Lucian stance of acceptance, and alighted his hand in Nyx’s.

“That you may, my faithful glaive.”

Nyx drew Noctis to his chest, mimicking the way he’d watched a hundred foreign dignitaries clip into a waltz from his nightly watches over the Citadel ballroom. Once Noctis was close, all grisly thoughts of bodies in the ground were chased from his head. Noct smelled like lavender and cinnamon, some seasonal cologne that Ignis probably impressed upon him for the royal occasion. His hands were cold, but his breath was warm where it washed across Nyx’s jaw.

It was a stumbling, silly waltz amongst the tombstones, neither of them following the proper etiquette, but neither of them cared. That was exactly what Noctis had fled into the night to get away from. Nyx knew that he felt more alive here, among the dead, than he did among the cold indifference of the living elite. Maybe there was a certain romance to that after all, Nyx thought.

“You should have told me you were coming in costume,” he teased. “I could have dressed for the part.”

“Oh? And what part would that be?”

“The eternally devoted consort to my undying prince of the night.”

Noctis smiled underneath his mask, then craned his neck forward to playfully nip his teeth against Nyx’s neck. The elongated points of his fine silver mask scratched against his skin. For a moment, Nyx’s gaze was filled with midnight black hair, his nose filled with the earthy autumn air and the homey floral scent of Noct’s cologne. His lips felt hot and cold on his throat, making his blood race.

“There,” Noctis declared as he drew away, his grin glinting in the moonlight. “Now you’re mine for eternity.”

He was only a vampire for a night, but his love would still be just as undying once the sun came up.

[wrathbites]

A kiss...

... to distract

Characters: Lunafreya Nox Fleuret/Nyx Ulric Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings/notes: cross-posting older fics from AO3

Listen, she asks of him and so he does, to the quiet of the world and the whisper of wind through the leaves above, the patter of rain sliding off them to the ground below and landing in fat drops on his head, slicking through his hair in a matter of minutes and plastering Luna’s to her skull, and even soaked as she is, she looks radiant.

He listens to the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance, prowling after the clouds bursting overhead, and would scowl at the sky if he could, at the Astral hidden somewhere up there, gracing the world with his presence now when it was needed so long ago.  He could have intercepted the Niflheim invasion, he could have struck the Chancellor down the moment his foot touched Insomnian soil, he could have turned Leviathain into fried calamari for being such a bitch, he could have struck Izunia with one of his famed lightning bolts and saved Luna the knife in her stomach, the twist of it coming loose, he could have reached a hand down to the roiling sea and scooped her out of a watery grave before it sealed around her.

Nyx has no love for Ramuh.  None.  Going to the Chosen’s aid didn’t excuse leaving the Oracle to die at every goddamn turn.  That any of the gods think they can show face now and be respected, worshiped, when they sat on their asses and did absolutely fuck-all for years - 

Cold fingers slide over his cheek, the only warning he gets before Luna’s pressing close and backing him up until he’s trapped between her warmth and a tree, escape cut off when her other hand settles on his shoulder and plucks at sodden fabric like she means to peel the shirt from him and this - it’s - dangerous territory he hasn’t let his mind wander to since that night on the roof, charmed out of silence by her questions and what steel lay beneath her smile, to have survived Niflheim all this time.

“Luna -”

“You think too much, Nyx,” she says, cutting him off with voice as well as touch as those fingers follow the line of his jaw and her thumb plays over the trails on his skin and she catches a water droplet at the corner of his mouth and smears it over his bottom lip and - gods above and below he’s weak to her whims, the light in her eyes, the playful curve of her smile - and he dips down to kiss her, lays his hands on her back and spreads his fingers wide, tucks her in close as she says his name on an exhale he steals with his next breath.

He forgets his ire with the gods soon enough, too caught up in the feel of her, the taste of her, the strength in her, the magic coming to life under her skin and buzzing everywhere he touches until he swears there’ll be constellations on her back if he was peer over her shoulder and follow the path of his fingers.  But Luna isn’t one to be denied, nipping at his lip when he draws back and -

“Eyes on me, Nyx.  Only on me.”

- there’s no stopping her.

- - - - - -

She steals one of his jumpers, all but swaddles herself in the brown hideousness of it as she curls up on the sofa and tucks her feet under Umbra’s rump, content to strain her eyesight and read by the light of the fire until he goes around turning on the lamps she doesn’t care for, meeting his scowl with a sunny smile before burying her nose in the pages.

He can kiss her now, he knows, can deviate from his destination and drop a kiss to damp hair and another to her mouth if she tips her head back to receive him and the hands he can lay on her shoulders, her neck, slide down over her stolen garment in wicked tease until she shrieks and squirms and whacks him for the tickling.  He can, and he will in a minute, so long as he doesn’t see shadows tearing themselves from the grounds, doesn’t hear the groaning wails of daemons rousing from slumber, so long as he peers through the tear tracks down the windows and doesn’t have a face of nightmares reflecting back at him when the next lightning strike hits.

It’s been months of peace, of that quiet Luna had him listen to earlier, months of the Scourge burning up in daylight and retreating from the land one sunrise after another after another, months since the teary reunion with Noctis and the return of the Trident to her possession.

But a habit of lifetime is a difficult one to break, and so he stands guard, silent as he watches, waits for the illusion to pass, struggles to breathe deep when it doesn’t, still can’t quite believe it.

It’s over.

[gwiiyeoweo]

Lunafreya and the boys go for a walk around town.

Pairing: Lunafreya/Prompto/Noctis Rating: M

Luna is used to having all eyes turned toward her, has even practiced pretending to not see all the wide-eyes stares full of wonder aimed right at her as she passes by. Oftentimes, she doesn’t care for it; other times, she just wishes she could cover a shawl over her head and disappear from their sights. If she were in Insomnia or Tenebrae or even Niflheim, no doubt there would be pedestrians trying to crowd up to her and paparazzi snapping away their phones and cameras for their latest magazine articles. 

But instead of the grand cities overrun by fast people and faster cars, she’s finally able to stroll around in public and enjoy the tepid weather without fear of being overtaken by fans looking for an autograph. 

Here, in this little cozy seaside town, she can even show off her pretty darlings.

She’s fancied them up in dresses from her most recent collection, a line of summer clothes ready to debut next season. The fashion world and big brand stores have been eagerly waiting for her next big pieces to line their shelves and fatten their numbers, but genius isn’t meant to be rushed, and she hates being rushed. So she’ll wait a bit longer to let the news slip and enjoy this time she has until her babies meet their big reveal. 

For now, her models will be her boys and the runway this little town. 

She’s had them styled accordingly, of course, with soft extensions pinned to their hair and light makeup to brighten up the ensemble. 

They cross the street, waiting for their green light and following the crosswalk like the good “girls” they are, but that still doesn’t stop some heads from turning. That fills her up with a certain sense of pride she’ll never tire of; no matter how the camera flashes in her eyes or how the obnoxious voices of reporters frantically vye for her attention, she absolutely loves it when that attention is more centered on the two lovelies beside her.

There’s no paparazzi here though, only the town’s residents and some tourists, but she recognizes those little bated breaths and envious and admiring eyes.  

She’d like to see the public’s reaction when they learn the collection was not only a very personal one but also designed specifically with Noctis and Prompto in mind. 

And they both feel the gazes too. Noctis and Prompto trade glances with one another and with Luna, then decide to put on a little show. 

Prompto reaches a hand to his shoulder and tosses his hair back, soft waves of gold that flow down to his waist. The silver sapphire earrings jingle with the movement, catching light and returning a shimmer as they settle back into place. His other hand smooths down his front, delicately padded to give the illusion of a chest, and brushes over the pale chiffon that cascades his dress in layers, light and floral. He pretends to dust something off, hiking the hem just a few inches higher and showing off the white lace garter wrapped around a smooth thigh. 

Loose and flowing, Luna designed it with his body image in mind, something offering breathability yet closure; Prompto still struggles with clothes that fit too snug, reminding him of his childhood days of tight waistbands and choking collars. Yet now, he’s a little too thin, not yet recovering from his ‘overachievement,’ and constantly teeters in his self-confidence. But seeing him like this, glowing with pride and wearing a coy smile, Luna remembers her clothes are more than just a temporary fashion craze. 

Beside Prompto, Noctis is a stark contrast with his dark, form-fitting ensemble. He’s clad in high-waisted shorts that hug this thighs, emblazoned with two columns of decorative silver buttons that follow the curve of his waist. Luna had Nyx Ulric handcraft those buttons specifically for that pair, feeding into Noctis’ knack for skulls and the like, and seeing the little smile on his lips as he ran his fingers along the metal was worth listening to Nyx’s little quips. Loosely tucked in is an awfully sheer halter top, revealing his toned stomach and the padded bra, studded with the same metalwork along the top outline of the cups. There isn’t much left to the imagination, but it’d only pale in comparison to the real thing anyway.

They’re near opposites of each other. Prompto with his blonde hair, a light and colorful dress; Noctis with his entirely black outfit and even darker hair. 

When Noctis wraps a hand around Prompto’s waist and leans in dangerously close to whisper some pretend nonsense in his ear, they all hear a loud thunk and a clatter. A few feet away, a man has hit his head against a streetlamp, a broken phone screen on the sidewalk and a coffee stain on his shirt.

Something must have distracted him, seeing that the metal pole was quite out of the way of pedestrians.

Luna covers her smile with a dainty hand, trying to hide her amusement but her giggle is apparent. Noctis and Prompto don’t even try; they huddle into one another in free laughter. She corrals them across the street before they cause more havoc, in case they actually do stop traffic and cause a car accident with their antics. 

She’ll have to punish them later. Or reward them. It’s all the same, really.

Shower them in kisses and praise as she takes them to bed, the perfect size for the three, and slowly take them apart as she would the threads of their clothes. Her works look magnificent whenever her two darlings are concerned, dressed up and prettied with a certain freedom her clothes grant them, but damn do they look good on the floor of their bedroom as well. 

Maybe she’ll have them do a little striptease for her. For each other. And maybe she’ll sit back and have them take their clothes off each other, slow and with teasing hands and with more teasing lips. Watch their fingers ghost over their waists and hips and ass, tangle a hand in their locks and pull to reveal that gorgeous arch of a neck and leave blooming marks across it. 

She’d definitely like to put her lips on them, paint their pale skin with red lipstains like roses on a blank canvas, and press their faces into the sheets, stain their pillows with makeup and rouge. Spoil them rotten and leave them breathless. 

And have their lips be put to good use — on her.

Noctis blushes when she whispers all the lovely things she has planned for them tonight, but Prompto nearly bounces with excitement as his eyes light up in attention. He even gives his own suggestion with a, “Ooh, can we use those fuzzy handcuffs?”

“On you? Or Noctis?”

“On Noct,” he says almost immediately, looking over to Noctis, “if you’re cool with it.”

“I — um, yeah, actually. I’d really… like that.” Noctis’ voice goes smaller as the pink across his face grows deeper. Bless his sweet soul; for as loud and demanding as Noctis can be, he shrinks like a precious violet despite all their bedroom rowdiness. But when they finally get to strip those thin layers and have him bare before them, oh how does he bloom in the most magnificent ways, wild and vivacious in both body and soul.

“Perfect.” Luna claps her hands together and brings their impromptu meeting to a close, then wiggles herself between them to hook one arm with one of theirs — Prompto to her left and Noctis to her right. “And while we’re on the topic, I’ve been wanting to design a line of lingerie. White leather and black lace.”

She’s sure to get plenty of inspiration tonight.

[charlottedabookworm]

That Cruellest Cut/I Swear It By The Styx fusion thing that is totally @hamelin-born‘s fault:

Styx had never really taken much interest in the Lucian military system.

Well, she knew a fair bit about how the Glaive worked, mostly by osmosis and the desperate need to know what Nyx had gotten himself into, but she hadn't cared enough to learn anything about the rest of it, to put faces to the names that she'd learnt out of necessity.

She just. She hadn't cared.

Now, with an extra twenty years of memories knocking about in her skull - memories of a life where this world had been a game - she regretted that.

Because she'd been living in this city for nearly a decade and, if these memories were right, if she wasn't making connections were there weren't any, then her and Nyx's parents were alive and one of them was in Insomnia.

And Styx hadn't known.

The moment that that occurred to her, the moment that she connects that name that she'd heard in rumours to the face from her new memories, she dropped everything she was doing and stormed to the Citadel.

She had to know, had to be sure before she could tell Nyx - who was on duty anyway.

It didn't take long to make her way to the office of the Marshall of the Crownsguard - because she'd memorised floor plans where she hadn't faces and isn't that fucking ironic - but when she got there, she was stalled.

Styx could sense a presence in the office, knew that only a wooden door separated her from a man thought long dead, but the secretary refused to let her through without an appointment - and, any other time, Styx would understand, but not right now.

"Fine." Styx snapped. "I'll make an appointment." And then she raised her voice to the point that it would be easily audible to anyone in the office. "PENCIL IN THAT STYX HELIOS ULRIC WANTS TO SEE LORD MARSHALL COR LEONIS - “ 

There's a deafening crash and then the office door is flung open, slamming against the opposing wall, and her faeder is standing there - dishevelled and wide-eyed and panting slightly and staring at her in shock and hope and he's alive.

She wanted to laugh at the shocked look on the face of the secretary, but her breath caught in her throat as she stared. Her faeder was alive.

She'd known, she'd hoped, but...

And then his arms were around her and she was clinging to a man who she was certain that she had watched die millennia ago and gods, she wished that Nyx was here instead of on-duty - wished their father was here, that their family was together again - even as she revelled in the comfort of her faeder's arms.

"Faeder," She sobbed into his shoulder, fisting her hands in the back of his shirt like she had when she was a kid and didn't want to let him go.

"Styx," The word sounded as though it had ripped itself out of his chest, but his voice was so familiar that it ached. She'd missed him, so much, and she hadn’t even realised how much she’d forgotten about him until now. "Your brother-?" He choked on hope and tears, unable to continue, and Styx rushed to answer.

"Alive." She said, feeling him relax. "He's alive. We both made it, faeder, they didn't catch us. Nyx is even a glaive." She laughed at the bitter irony, her brother and faeder had been working in the same place for years and had never once run into other.

The gods just couldn't let them have anything, could they?