It was that ache again. The one that tasted like salt and smoke. A longing he feared would only grow stronger with each passing year. A regret in the making.

-- Rebecca Ross, Divine Rivals.

Why yes I have thoughts and feelings on Thancred Waters, the trained spy and emotional disaster rogue, being able to let go of control and trust his partner.

Found family

/loveheart critical hit sorry for all the spam today btw I'm just feeling kinda good about tumblr rn so I'm posting my backlog.

bad end

[i'm a sucker for a lightwarden au hehe]

so there you are

Embarrassing photo from a Scion party sometime during ARR that resurfaces to haunt them occasionally. Taken back when they still hated each other (but they're both too wasted to care).

They still don't know who took the photo to this day, and no one will spill the beans.

the sillies

Commission for Rinzukodas (@ twitter)

"He told me about himself somehow, his failures and his hopes, the people he swore to protect but ultimately left behind. Five years went by, and I learned his pain. He waited for the hero who would save the day, not knowing he was somehow mine. There was someone he often speak of, a hero who saved his life, but who he hurted. I remember how he said he never had any regrets, but I knew he lied, because that day he became very silent. If he could be given this chance, one day, I hope he could mend things with this person, and tell them how he feels..."

How about the first kiss the ffxiv boys initiate - bonus Magnai and Artoirel please? 🥺

We're being cute today u_u

First kisses (ff14boissss)

Thancred is quite used to trusting his instincts and acting before he fully finishes a thought. His hands and body move faster than his brain, grabbing at your shoulders, spinning you around, pressing you against the rough stonework. His lips slot against yours like theyre meant to fit together, that nearly-chapped texture, the slight indent beneath your tongue, as though there is a scar across his mouth you never noticed until this very moment. The slight intake of breath as a takes a half step towards you, brings your bodies flush together, one hand curled around your neck, his other arm braced against the stonework beside your head.

The sounds of clanking greaves passes. Thancred lingers, your noses brushing, his half-lidded gaze taking in the blush high on your cheeks. Just to be sure the danger has passed, he tells himself as he forces himself to pull away.

Certainly not because he never wants this moment to end.

Urianger is as meticulous in this as he is in all things. He made reservations at the Last Stand. He memorized the route he was going to take you through the Noumenon. He had an tall, gnarled, private oak tree all picked out.

What he didn't account for was the way a storm predicted to pass just south of the island would be suddenly, violently caught by a high wind and blown over the city. The two of you rush for the cover of a nearby pavilion, your coats thrown up over your heads to protect yourselves from the worst of the sudden downpour. Or, at least, to try to-- Urianger ends up looking like a wet rat, and you not much better. But the sight has you doubled-over laughing, and, not soon after, him as well.

Your first kiss is there, under that random pavilion in the Sharlyan harbor, tasting of rainwater and serendipitous joy.

G'raha wakes slowly in the unyielding cradle of the throne in the Crystal Tower. His body feels... odd. Logically, he knows that he has been asleep for a very long time. His muscles should feel stiff, his eyes crusty. But the preservation of the Crystal Tower is complete-- his neck doesn't even crack as his head rolls.

And then the memories hit him.

He flings himself from his throne, colliding with your at-speed and taking you both down onto the unforgiving crystal floor. The soul vessel cracks with a clear tone. His arms cradle your head, but his knees crack against the floor, but he doesn't care. He's alive. You're alive. You're both alive.

His first kiss misses your mouth by a malm, but on his second you grab him by his braid to guide him better. You're both crying, gasping against each others mouths, but you're alive.

You're alive.

Estinien tries not to feel nervous as you invite him into your room. The two of you. Havent really gotten to talk. After ghimlyt dark, and then you were swept away to The First, and now the world is falling apart again, and. It really does feel like now or never. If he is going to fall at the end of the universe, he wants to do so with no regrets.

Your back hits the door as it closes, and estinien looms over you, his hair tickling your cheek where it comes to rest feather-light against your skin. His eyes are blown wide, and his thumb brushes oh-so-softly against your lower lip.

"If you dont want this," Estinien growls, "then just say the word, and I will cease at once."

But your arms come up around his neck, and you never do.

Aymeric is getting sick and tired of being interrupted during his carefully-planned dates with you. Dragons, primals, assassination attempts, cats. He's trying to be a proper Ishgardian gentleman about this, but there is only so much a man can take.

Today you're wandering the Jeweled Crozier together, ohhing and ahhing at the new leatherwork on display and the new selection of fabrics for the season and even the new selection of lances from the Skysteel. It's a rare sunny day, and it can almost be called warm, and, just as Aymeric is about to slide his hand into yours, your linkpearl rings.

Something or another pulling you away from him again, you try to explain apologetically, though Aymeric doesn't let you get more than a few words out before he is leaning forward and kissing you, gently and soft.

"Come home soon," he says with a smile, and it's a good thing it's nothing urgent because you definitely spend five whole minutes just composing yourself.

Haurchefant tries not to appear impatient as he works through the last bits of paperwork for the day. It's so late it's nearly early again, and you're still not back from patrol. You're competent. More than competent. He doesn't need to worry about you, but. he does anyways.

And he breathes a sigh of relief when you try to slip soundlessly through the door, the crunching of snow caked to your cloak and armor giving you away. He doesn't bother trying not to look eager as he jumps from his seat. The two of you argue, as you shrug your armor in front of the fire and he fixes you a cup of steaming hot cocoa. Youre beautiful and passionate and infuriatingly stubborn when you choose to dig you heels in, and he nearly spills your drink all over your front as he shuts you up with his mouth.

"Dont worry me like that again," he pleads, and you can make no promises for the way he kisses you again.

Sidurgu stares at the empty space where Fray once been and just. Breathes. He expected. Something. Some kind of feeling to twist his chest. Guilt, maybe, or grief, or. something. But Fray and Myste had stood together and smiled as they were swallowed again by the Abyss, tucked again into your soul, and he feels...

relief that you are alive. Happy, to have seen them again, but also to have this whole situation behind him. And when you turn to him, blood spattered on your face and your hair all flyaway and he loves you.

It's easy to drop his blade. To step away from the violence and cradle your face gently in his hands. Less easy to pause there, staring into your eyes, waiting, because he wants this, but, more than that, he wants you to want this. And he feels joy, when your lips meet his. He feels whole.

"Ewwwwwwww," Rielle whines and makes a fake gagging noise, and you and Sidurgu both feel nothing but fond irritation.

BONUS

Magnai can't get the image of you out of his mind-- standing in the light of the ovoo, resplendent and beautiful, Khagan of the Steppe. It haunts him as he celebrates with the rest of the Oronir, drinking far too much fermented mare's milk to try to chase it away.

It doesn't work. Especially not when you're right there, laughing as Hien shakes your shoulder and retells the events of the day, how you turned from the ovoo immediately into scything down Imperials like you hadn't already been fighting all day, and you're impossible, you're--

looking up at Magnai with big, startled eyes as he leans down and plants a kiss on your lips. It's sloppy, and he tastes of fermented mare's milk, and the whole of the Oronir and the Buduga and your friends are jeering and cheering, but neither of you pull away until you're out of breath.

Artoirel is only partially drunk when it happens. It's late, just the two of you and the last two glasses of a full bottle of wine, the fireplace long burned low into smouldering embers, the barely-there orange glow casting your laughing face in beautiful, dramatic shadows. The way your nose scrunches up and you half-hide your mouth behind you hand and it strikes him, then, just how close you two are sitting, your thighs brushing beneath the table, your head knocking against his shoulder as you collapse into helpless giggles.

It's the most natural thing in the world for him to cup your cheek in his palm and tilt your face up towards his. To take in the way your eyes go half-lidded and your mouth parts around the whisper of his name. Your whole body strains towards him as he leans down the last few ilms and lets his mouth meet yours.

Forget whatever preconceptions you even held about this man: there is nothing gentlemanly about the way he kisses.

It's for tugging. We all know it. :3

When everyone else is asleep

Full image on Patreon

how do you know my dad

For a WoL QotD that was something like "your WoL is turned into a small animal, how does their partner react?"

Thancred would be fretting at first, trying to work out how to look after a small bird... but I thought about tiny magpie Albi tucked into his jacket and them humming little tunes together :)

FEBHYURARY XX: PRIMAL

The final day could not dawn, for there is no dawn in everlasting light. Nevertheless when the hour came, Ryne sought him out. She demanded he not go, tears brimming in her eyes. She clung to him desperately, stumbling over her words as she pressed a cartridge into his hand. Specially charged. Crafted to destroy the one they love, designed to prey on her single weakness. A single shot to the heart and it will all be over. He embraced her as he said his farewells, murmuring words of strength and courage he does not have. She will need it in the coming days. Ryne will be the last after him. The last to remain. The last to survive. He knows he will not return, and yet he must go. Some day soon—for Norvrandt’s are numbered—she will understand. And so he climbs the mountain where the primal lightwarden has made her nest. He cuts through her horde of light-corrupted minions, some distant part of his mind numbly acknowledging the twisted faces of friends he once knew. That is what she does; she does not bring death, but transposition. He does not flinch when their claws sink into him; nor does he pause when he strikes them all down. He is battered and bruised when he reaches the apex. Caked with blood and dirt, his gunblade dulled, his cartridges spent save for one. The air here is stale and still, the scent thick with the stench of primal magicks. She is nowhere to be seen. For a brief moment he wonders if he was mistaken, if she has abandoned her home. His heart beats. One, two. One, two. Blood pulsing in his veins, fear and hope and love thumping in his ears. The last shred of his humanity, and he is oh so alive— The creature with Aureia’s face bursts from below, a storm of ice and fire suspended in each hand. Her eyes glow vermilion in twisted mimicry of her natural deep red. Wings of darkness and light in perfect unison, an equilibrium she never achieved when she lived. Hair purged to white as it had been when she was first infected, the red streaks the only remnants of what it once was. Fingers turned to talons soaked in blood. So familiar, yet so alien—she has become a warped fracture of herself, everything he loved about her burnt out of her by blazing light.   He raises his blade and steels his mind. He has come here to slay her. All it takes is one shot. A shot he does not make. Time slows when the end comes, the passage of his mortal life stretched out in perpetuity. Her claws are a vice grip on his chin, the power of her magic scalding his eyes. She holds him in her unblinking ruby gaze as if transfixed, some memory within her ascended mind recalling what he was to her. He wishes for her to end it. If he but moves just a little… her claws would cut his throat… and he would deprive her of her greatest desire. But as he knows, she does not kill, she transforms. Even in this form her love for him burns fiercely. More fiercely than he can comprehend. It washes over him, powerful, overwhelming, the command to submit tugging at his mind, silencing the purpose he came to this mountain to fulfill— It is all gone in a burst of blue and red. Defeat has never tasted so sickeningly sweet.