Flames of hell

This used to be the URL of my Ifrit RP blog and since I didn't want to give it up, I now transformed it into a sideblog that will work as a sort of archive for my written work, some of it quite old. (@scorpiwriting on AO3)

[hellish-inferno]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For: @filhadereis / @phoinixrisen Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sleipnir Harbard/Barnabas Tharmr Characters: Sleipnir Harbard, Barnabas Tharmr Part 2 of: Crowned in ash Additional Tags: Throne Sex, Anal SexI, t's time for some good old fashioned dick riding, horse jokes? question mark?, there is some manner of pain play again, Hair Pulling, you can expect manhandling, and a whole lot of, Unholy devotion, mentions of blood and canon typical violence, Sleipnir thinks so much but I swear it's worth it, no beta we die like nameless npcs in the midst of an eikon battle, did I mention they're absolutely in love and have been married for 52 years?, oh damn I almost forgot there's some edging in here, headcanons abound

Summary:

Sat upon the throne he had created for himself, Barnabas decides to give Sleipnir exactly what he wants, while at the same time testing him throughout.

But for Odin's steed, this is nothing more than the highest of honors.

or.

Sleipnir actually gets to be the one doing the riding, while at the same time proving himself to his king.

[Continuation of 'Crowned', can probably be read on its own]

—

Author’s notes: I promise I won't flood the tag Please do read the tags for this one as we're in sum fuk territory.

[hellish-inferno]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For: @filhadereis / @phoinixrisen Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Sleipnir Harbard/Barnabas Tharmr Characters: Sleipnir Harbard, Barnabas Tharmr Part 1 of: Crowned in ash Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Free Hate For Mankind, some vague pain/breath play because the horse likes it, Hair Pulling, Heavy Handed Kissing, idk how to tag this these two are particular, their own version of dirty talk as foreplay, they've been married for 53 years your honor, headcanons abound since we know precious little, horse jokes? question mark?, this is horny unashamedly so, no beta we die like nameless npcs in the midst of an eikon battle

Summary:

After a less-than-satisfying mission is completed, Sleipnir finds himself reminiscing of the past and how very little has changed between him and his King, how the bond they share trascends what man can truly understand... But in the end, it's no less /human/ in its simple wants.

or.

Barnabas has hardly ever used his throne, but he will gladly welcome Sleipnir on it. And on his lap, for good measure.

---

Author's notes: Hi, it took a bit of self-convincing to finally start sharing my work on here and, eventually, on Twitter as well, so let's start with the first part of this small serie, dedicated to my partner in crying and screaming crime uwu Enjoy!

[elluvians-deactivated20260113]

[ciorane]

[hellish-inferno]

Past pretense

Prompt: So, Brenda drew fanart and I just stepped in like 'hey, what if I wrote something for that'- And this happened. Dare I say, enjoy?

Description:  Completely based on this fanart in particular. Dion and Joshua are rivals on the tracks, on paper and on magazines- Whatever happens outside of there, though, is for them alone to deal with. Rating: T (they get handsy and they very much kiss [hard])

Couple: PhoenixFlare (Dion/Joshua) - FFXVI

Words: 1345

The weather forecast hadn’t been merciful that morning: with the temperatures predicted to skyrocket way past the season’s standards, the upcoming preparations for the race were promising to be a veritable nightmare to get through, not only due to how busy the track would get, but also thanks to the seeming jitteriness that overcame people whenever the heat broke certain unspoken and unwritten limits.

While he normally did relatively well under the sweltering heat of the Sun, Joshua had to admit that the Dhalmekian summer hit a little bit differently than the Rosarian seasons he was so accustomed to- The rays felt heavier somehow, not caressing his skin, but rather dragging their invisible hands along his face, making him huff in dismay as a result. As if that weren’t enough to sour his mood to an extent, there was also the fact that he couldn’t seem to find Dion anywhere and that little game of hide-and-seek wasn’t exactly a balm for his tension, if anything, it made him feel even more stretched taut, frustration brewing under his skin and making his suit feel uncomfortable, almost cumbersome to wear- Not that it had ever been particularly nice to wear under horrid heat, but the more he walked around the garage, the more he felt like scratching his skin off in an attempt to find some manner of relief.

They had been pretty much forced to wear their suits for the sake of taking pictures for the one gods-forsaken magazine that would always put them on the front cover, thus there was no real way for them to turn the request down- Not when it was pretty much free advertisement for them. However, while Joshua had been stuck wearing the entire set for two long, exhausting hours (because of course they couldn’t stop at a photo or two, they had to go through an entire photoshoot worth of poses), Dion had been somewhat blessed with the chance of undoing the top part of his suit, because the photographer had insisted that a few ‘in the workshop’ inspired photos would do absolutely great.

It had taken all of Joshua’s self-imposed composure to ask what about a very, very shirtless Dion screamed ‘workshop’ to them, but he bit his tongue and pretended not to see, nor to care. If they wanted to parade him around like some manner of prized horse at a fair, they were welcome to do so away from his eyes.

However, once that obnoxious part of the photoshoot had ended, it seemed as his rival had all but disappeared into thin air, leaving everyone around with a single, pressing question:

Where the hell was Dion Lesage?

The man was many things, but funny was never an adjective Joshua would’ve used to describe him. ‘Irritating’ was a fitting one, maybe ‘annoying’ could also fit the bill, ‘smug’ perhaps- But never funny. And he seriously doubted he’d grown a sense of humor in the span of the three weeks that had separated them before this hellish photoshoot.

(Three weeks, three unbearably frustrating weeks.)

Whether it had been his irritation, or divine intervention, Joshua didn’t know for sure, but the moment he turned the corner, set on going back to his station, a hand shot out from one of the offices and dragged him inside: a normal man, any other man, would’ve yelped out in panic, would’ve fought against being manhandled in such a way, but Joshua was all too aware of who had just slammed his back against the wall (how very rough of him) and thus didn’t put up any sort of fight- Not yet, not when he’d been dying to be pressed between concrete and a body nearly as warm as his own.

“It took you long enough. Didn’t you pride yourself in always being on time…?”

“You know the journalists pushed that on me. That’s simply called being decent and not making everyone wait for you.”

Dion was an extremely patient man, with a mind often veering into strategy rather than blind instinct, so it made sense to think that he’d been biding his time, waiting inside that half-unused office for his chance to strike and catch Joshua off-guard. Prolonging the wait, making himself scarce, it had all worked in Dion’s favour, making his ‘arch-rival’ feel frustrated, thus forcing him to be less alert and… That’s exactly how he ended up in his current position, with heavy hands gripping at his hips and amber eyes boring into his own, burning so bright he could’ve considered blaming him for the rising temperature outside.

“Are you quite done staring, then?” Prodding the blond man was one of his favourite pastimes, feeling a twinge of pride every time he managed to wear down the resistance he was so well known for- And no one but him would ever get to see the walls crumble, the control slipping away from his eyes as he leaned forward, pressing their lips together in a kiss that had little more to it than teeth and grunts. Who would ever believe him if he said that Dion Lesage, controlled and beautiful as a statue when on the track, would turn into a hungry, starving beast when pushed in the right direction?

In the back of his head, Joshua regretted not having had the time, or rather the presence of mind, of taking his gloves off while wandering aimlessly in the corridors- Dion’s skin was right there, covered in a very light sheen of sweat that nearly begged to be touched, to be felt, but taking his hands away completely would mean wasting precious time, time they didn’t have, and thus, some sacrifices had to be made.

(But he would make sure to spend an inordinate amount of time just touching Dion next time they got to be together.

Whenever that would be.)

Joshua had little interest in talking further, but the moment his right hand found purchase in Dion’s hair (giving it a well-deserved pull, making the other man groan into the kiss), he felt a very familiar obstacle hindering his fingers and he could not, for the life of him, avoid the annoyed noise that escaped his throat. “I hate your sunglasses so much.” That cursed set was always, always neatly perched on top of Dion’s annoyingly perfect hair (as if wearing a helmet didn’t factor in at all) and every time, without fail, Joshua would end up colliding with them somehow- Even so, Dion sternly refused to remove them.

“Oh, just as much as you hate me, I’d wager.” The man had the gall, no, the audacity to smirk even with their lips still half-pressed together, but he swiftly made Joshua forget all about the sunglasses the moment he slid his hands lower, pressing fingers into the redhead’s backside with enough strength to make him feel it even through the layers of clothes and then lifting him off the ground with nary a grunt of effort, keeping his back firmly pressed against the wall as a manner of support. There was something about being moved like that, something Joshua couldn’t put into words, but that tickled some part of his head beautifully, making him moan somewhat harder than when being groped- Was it the show of strength in itself, or perhaps the beauty of being wanted so bad?

Despite his head feeling hazy from the kissing, Joshua still had it in him to pull at Dion’s hair once again, forcing him to tilt his head back just enough for their eyes to meet again- And it was a miracle that the air between their faces didn’t catch on fire.

“Today-“ Oh, why did he have to sound so breathless? “You will eat my dust, Lesage.”

“Why settle for the dust, when there’s much richer prizes I could sink my teeth into?” Dion’s hold on his rear had tightened considerably, punctuating his words in such a way that Joshua couldn’t really bite back an almost embarrassing gasp. “Wouldn’t you find that so much more enjoyable, too?”

“Gods, you’re such a braggart.”

[hellish-inferno]

The Sunset

Prompt: ‘Christ, I know no one will ever write about them, so I better do it.’ - Posted on AO3 as well.

Description:  A particularly hot day in the Steppe is usually the least of anyone's problems, but when even the Oronir, direct children of the Sun, suffer because of the heat, then it's a whole other story. The night cannot come soon enough, but apparently, not even the cool air can bring respite to some.

Couple: Magnai/Sadu (Estabilished relationship-ish)

Words: 1536

It had been a dreadfully slow day, so much so that even the rhythm of the Dawn Throne felt somehow stuck, with the Oronir barely leaving their posts to work and the Buduga hiding in the shade, as if they wished to escape the heat that plagued them, for the Sun was high in the sky, his rays beating down on whoever was brave or foolish enough to brave the light.

Daidakul had tiredly reported to him that the hunters had ‘heroically’ fought against not only the mammoths, but also the dreadful temperature for the sake of bringing back something to eat- Magnai barely held back an unimpressed huff, his eyes narrowing down to slits as he stared at the Buduga’s Khan, every onze of his disappointment showing on his face- And clearly putting the other Xaela on edge. No one really wanted to face the former Khagan when enraged- Albeit extremely rare, it was not an impossible happening.

“…Fine. The Sun today has put a toll on our warriors. May they be refreshed and the meat delivered to our cook.” His elbows were firmly planted onto his knees, his gaze unrelenting. “I do hope for his health and everyone else’s that he is not away wasting his time with that Dotharl. There is an end to my patience.” And one could judge from his tone that he was not joking- As he never was. “That shall be done, Khan.” If Daidakul was unhappy, he did not voice it- Perhaps he was simply bothered by the fact that his Buduga hunters hadn’t been the ones to bring back dinner.

Oddly enough, that managed to fill the Oronir with a manner of satisfaction that, albeit short lived, left a positive note on his mood. He could only hope nothing would come about to wipe that away as well.

—

The Oronir worshipped the Sun, but as the Great Father was setting, they could only feel relief, welcoming the shadow that brought a light, yet refreshing breeze. They couldn’t help finding satisfaction in that, some even wondering if that could be considered as blasphemous, others simply enjoyed the breath of air and the surprisingly abundant dinner offered by an ever so happy Esugen.

Magnai, on his part, didn’t spare any extra compliments that night, actually making sure to stare at their cook as soon as he placed the dish in front of him. A steady, intense glare. The other Oronir apparently didn’t need words, as he visibly flinched before bowing slightly and muttering some half-understandable apologies over the time he had spent training instead of doing his job. “Consider yourself forgiven. But do not stretch it… The Sun can be kind, but there is a limit to that, too.” It seemed to be enough to give the smile back to Esugen, who straightened his back before thanking profusely and scuttling off to the side.

An odd Oronir that one, but the Khan had to admit his ability when it came to cooking: a fine addition to his ranks nonetheless. The taste of the meal spoke for itself- despite it being mammoth meat, it was undeniably soft.

“A good addition, indeed.”

— From inside his room, Magnai could see that the Sun had completely set behind the horizon and that the Moon was high in the sky, shining with her pale, yet welcoming light. He had never seen it under that point of view, not until recently- Though it was just one of the many things that had changed in his life upon the arrival- No, the barging in of that udgan.

“…One would think I had summoned you, just by thinking of you.” The very light shuffling behind him hadn’t escaped his attention, his hearing refined by years of hunting. “Oh, you were thinking of me? How unexpectedly sweet of you.” Did she really have to sound as if she were mocking him all the time? His pride always felt a sting, one way or another. Instead of answering, he turned around, his eyes immediately finding Sadu’s silhouette in the dim light offered by the lamps- He should’ve really lighted some more of them. As if her comment hadn’t been enough, her taunting grin just added to the prickly sensation he felt. “Something wrong? Did the gedan get your tongue~?” Was that some sort of double joke about him usually calling her a gedan- No, he wouldn’t let her confuse him. Or rather, not clearly show that she got him confused. “…Speak your business. And learn how to use doors.” That seemed to throw her balance, just for a second, but it was enough for Magnai to grin satisfied: ah, yes, score.

“…Do I need to have business to come here? I was under the impression we were far past that.” The Dotharl tried to hide her face by turning away from the Oronir Khan, pretending to be suddenly very interested in a particularly large fur on the bed. “Are you acting SHEEPISH, Udgan?” The word apparently sent a shiver down her spine- And not of the good kind as she whipped her head back and immediately went for Magnai’s face with her fist. Which was luckily stopped before it reached its objective. “Take that back, lumbering matanga.”

Now, THAT sent a pleasurable shiver down HIS spine. “Did I ever mention how I appreciate your fierce nature?” And one could tell by the swish of his tail that he was far from being concerned: Sadu wasn’t angry. He knew her enough to tell when the rage was real. “…Consider yourself off the hook for now, Oronir.” She tried to take her hand back, but apparently Magnai had none of it and simply closed his fingers around it. “…In the mood for holding hands, Khan?” “Would it physically pain you to use my name?” The Dotharl’s eyebrow shot up in what could be defined as curiosity. “Is it important to you? You call me Udgan, after all.” Magnai seemed to be surprised- had he really never noticed? “…If that is the case, we should both put some effort, don’t you think?” After what looked like an almost offended (…or pouty?) expression, the Khatun sighed. “I will entertain this idea for a while, O-” Cough. “…Magnai.” Oh, yes, he liked how his name sounded, especially if pronounced by her. “Now that I made YOU happy, how about you make ME happy?” She took full advantage of his moment of distraction, using her free hand to pull at his fur collar to yank at it and force the taller Xaela down. “Is that all you came here for? I might start to feel used.” He didn’t sound remotely offended, yet his furrowed brows could fool anyone. And her groan felt pretty sincere too, probably because it was born from honest discontent. “Do you really want to pull that, when I only wish for some enjoyable time together?”

Before he could reply to that, a noise, a strange gurgling sound interrupted him, making his eyes go wide. Was that- “- Your stomach?” Sadu’s eyes were probably equally dilated, but there was also a light, yet visible flush on her face. “No. Nothing. Kiss me.” She just yanked him again, crashing their lips together- That could hardly be defined as a kiss and more like a clumsy and misdirectioned headbutt. “Would you stop that?” He sounded miffed at best, while the Khatun looked almost… Irritated, but not quite. It felt more like she was uncomfortable, all of a sudden.

Then it hit him. “…The heat.” Her tail suddenly flicked to the side and that was enough to tell him he was right. “Your hunters couldn’t manage the heat, today.” She was biting her lower lip, brows furrowed. If they had problems, what could be said about them that lived in the desert? “They did manage. But not enough for everyone.” Magnai’s hold on her hand had relaxed enough for Sadu to get her hand back, but she somehow regretted doing so. “…You gave up on your part. But you’re the Khatun, why-?” By rule, she’d deserve the best piece, wouldn’t she?

“I am a healthy adult. Some needed it more than me.” He knew she wouldn’t offer much more of an explanation than that, so instead of prying he frowned and went for the door, making almost a beeline for Esugen’s tent, barging into it unattended.

“K-Khan?! W-What-” “Leftovers. I want them all.”

—

Magnai was sitting on his bed, back against the headboard as an incredibly ravenous (yet small) Dotharl woman feasted upon the mammoth’s cooked leftovers, comfortably nested inside the Khan’s crossed legs: she had allowed her to eat there just because when he had come back she had already settled on the furs and knowing her, she wouldn’t have moved away.

“Quit offering me the bones, I am not the gedan here.” The Oronir scoffed, feeling tempted to pull at the tail that was currently laying on his thigh. “The bones are easily the best part. Don’t you like the marrow?” A disgusted sound was tell-tale. “You are disgusting sometimes. How can you eat it? It is so… Slimy.” Apparently, that was enough to make her bark with laughter- But this time it didn’t feel like mockery.

[hellish-inferno]

Prompt: 'Oh hey maybe I should write.’

Description: Late evening meetings aren’t always planned, nor do they go as one would expect them to. 

Couple: Aymeric/Estinien - ish? Nah, not ish, it’s totally that.

Words: 1657

Whenever the neverending blizzards that plagued Ishgard placated, Aymeric would stay on his room’s balcony, his gaze lost somewhere in the intricate labyrinth of buildings and towers that surrounded the Congregation, as fog lazily rolled about the lowest levels of the city: part of him worried about what would happen in the Brume at times like this, when the mist that usually stayed outside of the Holy See’s high walls seeped into the alleys, in the narrow roads that connected the slums to the other districts. From his position, he was safe from the fog, but his mind was just as clouded as the streets below his eyes- He wouldn’t dare express his worry, lest he ended up sounding like a worrywart, something he wouldn’t hear the end of, especially if certain people were to catch word of it.

The mug in his hand was a pleasant source of warmth, a sharp contrast with the still chilly wind that lingered about, reminding him that this moment of calm was but the eye of the storm, a temporary break from their eternal punishment. He took a sip of the tea, enjoying the pleasant feeling of the warm liquid going down his throat, pooling in his stomach and giving him the sensation of being considerably warmer all over. Yet, something was amiss- What could that be? Lowering his gaze, the Lord Commander pondered over what could be preventing him from feeling alright- Did he forget about his birch syrup? No, he clearly remembers adding it to the mug before exiting on the balcony.

Then it hits him. Smiling, Aymeric wrapped his free arm around his own abdomen, taking another sip from his mug before voicing his thoughts out. “Do you intend to linger about, without saying a single word?” With the corner of his eyes, he hadn’t missed the ever so slight movement from behind himself, a light thumping sound alerting him of the presence of another person- Someone who apparently had a keen disliking for doors and company alike. “I was never a man for talking. That is your job.” The Lord Commander would be lying if he said that voice hadn’t sent a pleasing shiver down his spine and he was no liar- Still, some thoughts were best not voiced out. “Touché. But if it weren’t for my gab, you’d be forced to talk so much more- Can you imagine that?” Even without turning, Aymeric could almost see the Azure Dragoon’s grimace, or at least, he could imagine it thanks to the unimpressed grunt the other Elezen let out- Estinien’s behaviour wasn’t a novelty for him and thus he had learnt to read it quite well, something he was sincerely proud of, as the man was quite the difficult person to interpret.

“Do you intend to keep on staring at the roofs?” He didn’t sound too happy, but neither was he giving out the impression of being sincerely irritated- Aymeric allowed himself to chuckle a little at that, drinking some more before actually answering. “It is such a rare sight, to see the Holy See without the blizzards constant and suffocating embrace- Can you blame me for tying to drink it in as much as I am allowed to?” For a little while, he waited for the dragoon’s answer, but when none came, he merely turned his head just enough to see the other Elezen properly, noticing how he had already crossed his arms over his chest without even taking the helmet off, as he always did when he was certain no one else but the Lord Commander was in the room. “…Is something amiss, friend?” He was about to place the mug down to get closer to Estinien, when the man simply huffed, shaking his head a little. “Only you’d find it interesting to stare at this bunch of grey buildings.”

The knight sighed, his shoulders slumping just a little as he looked back at the landscape the Holy See offered, drinking the last of his tea before placing the mug down to step in front of the dragoon, looking at him with an almost coy smile. “You know I am a… Particular person. You more than any other should be used to my little quirks.” His eyes lingered on the helmet, whose visor was still stubbornly pulled down- What was Estinien trying to hide? If he was trying to hide anything, as the Azure Dragoon could just be acting like his usual aloof self. It was something to take into consideration. “I know you well enough.” The Wildwood’s added dryly, arms still firmly crossed as if he didn’t want to allow Aymeric to get any closer to him, mouth drawn into a thin line: everything about his behaviour spelled ‘tension’ at best, but why would he be tense? “…Has something happened in your last raid?” There was a light twinge of worry in his voice, but that was to be expected: perhaps there was no visible wound, but what if Estinien had some manner of internal wound? The stubborn dragoon could’ve come all the way there with extensive bruising without even flinching or letting anyone know. “It went as smoothly as could be.” What anyone would’ve seen as a simple and brief mission report sounded simply odd to the Lord Commander’s ears: not that the dragoon was a talkative person, but when dragon slaying was involved, he tended to be more keen on sharing details, at the very least.

Aymeric was a respectful individual, but even so, he raised both of his arms to take a hold of the man’s helmet, ready to force it off him if he had to, but he wasn’t surprised to have Estinien’s hands immediately grabbing his wrists. “Don’t.” It was a growl, a low rumbling sound that came straight out of his chest and that could’ve sounded sincerely threatening, if the Lord Commander wasn’t moderately used to that as well. “Come now, Estinien. You should know better than hide things from your Commander.” The dragoon growled again, but released the man’s wrists with a defeated huff all the same, and even from behind the visor, the glare was clear. “Using your position, are you?”  The Duskwight couldn’t even hide his satisfaction as he carefully lifted the helmet away, almost sighing in relief. “I do that every once in a while, whenever I feel like you need a reminder- Oh, by the Fury, Estinien.”

If the Lord Commander looked shocked at best, the dragoon surprisingly looked almost sheepish as he turned his head to look at the buildings, as if he had suddenly found out why it was so interesting to look at the landscape. “What happened to your face?” Maybe he sounded too surprised, but it really was a first to see his friend’s face as bruised as it was- It almost looked like he had been ran over by a rampaging wild Chocobo. “…I had a close encounter with a particularly angry Mylodon.” Which wasn’t a lie. As he was walking past Falcon’s Nest, delving deeper into Coerthas, a familiar roar had caught his attention, but a slight mistake in his calculation had ended with him receiving the most painful blow in his face: while the helmet had suffered no real damage (not counting a visible scratch), Estinien’s face beneath of it suffered the consequences of metal pressing against skin: a sign that he had yet again forgot to have his armour repaired properly.

“And I suppose you had no one look at these bruises, did you?” He cupped his face and the mumble he received in response was more than enough for Aymeric to decide: of course he had to take matters in his hands. “You’re coming inside right now and you’re letting me take care of this.” It was clear there was no negative answer for that, yet Estinien had no qualms in huffing loudly and trying to pry his face away from the other Elezen’s surprisingly resistant hold. “Do not be a child.” The Lord Commander frowned, his lips pursing a little as he insistently tightened his hold on the dragoon’s face, making it a point to absolutely (and firmly) keep him still. It was obvious Estinien didn’t like being cornered and he liked doing things he didn’t want to do even less, so after a moment of apparent surrender, the Wildwood almost lunged forward to press his lips against the knight’s, finally unfolding his arms to place both of his hands on the man’s hips.

Despite his initial surprise (which caused him to loosen his hold up just a little), Aymeric simply didn’t let go, actually tightening his grip to return the kiss with equal ardour, to the point of dragging Estinien a little bit closer to him. “Was this supposed to help you flee?” The knight carefully caressed the dragoon’s cheeks as the Wildwood huffed, rolling his eyes. “T’was worth a try.” He could’ve moved away the moment he felt the other’s hold on him had slacked, but the most egoistical part of himself wanted to savour that kiss (the first one in such a long time), so he ended up falling deeper into the trap he himself had set. “So, will you allow me to tend to your wounds?”

“They are barely of importance-“ Certainly, those bruises hurt, but he had suffered wounds much worse than the bruises caused by a Mylodon’s blow, so he saw no reason to care- For Aymeric, it was different, apparently. “Does the idea of being taken care of sicken you so?” If there was something that always manage to pull at Estinien’s strings, it was certainly when the Commander looked worried- For some reasons, he just couldn’t take it. “…Suit yourself.”

Looking evidently happier, Aymeric let go of the other’s face just to grab his wrist first and his mug second, dragging him inside his chamber. “I should have some of that magnificent healing ointment left-“

[hellish-inferno]

Prompt: Cats, cats, CATS. @healingsands and @gridaniancoeurl

Description: Nothing more than me being smooshy. Sort of slice of life-ish.

1. There is always a starting point

It was a necessity more than anything, really. He had insisted to let his guest sleep in his bed rather than on the sofa, even if said guest pointed out that it should’ve been the other way around, since he was the ‘extra person’ inside the house, but his words fell on deaf ears, since Zahyu’ra had already thrown himself onto the sofa, even making fake snoring sounds as if to say that it was way too late to even discuss things anymore. P’ahro sighed, shaking his head in disbelief, but still going to lay down on the surprisingly comfortable bed: luckily enough, there were also blankets, because even if it wasn’t a particularly cold day, the Seeker wasn’t used at all to those temperatures, which were absolutely lower than those he had back in Sagolii.

In a way, he was ashamed because he felt he was stealing someone else’s place, but at the same time the sensation of finally being somewhere warm and cozy was quick to act on his senses, making him fall asleep surprisingly quickly. As for the Keeper of the Moon that was sprawled on the sofa, his sleep was something relative: he moved, turned and tossed, even while in deep sleep, used to the considerably larger space he had on the bed, he couldn’t think about how much more narrow the sofa was- So at the umpteenth turning, he found the welcoming embrace of the void first and the floor second. Smacking his face on the wooden flooring proved to be quite the immediate way of waking him up, but that didn’t mean his brain was anywhere close to being properly awake: the only thing that fazed him was that he wasn’t on his bed, so, thinking he had fallen asleep on the sofa by mistake, Zahyu’ra simply walked back into his room, not even wondering why there seemed to be someone else sleeping in his bed- He just threw himself onto the blankets, going back to sleep as soon as his face met the pillow.

There could’ve been many reasons why the both of them ended up unconsciously getting closer to eachother and one of them was that they were probably both naturally drawn to whatever felt warmer- Yet, when P’ahro opened his eyes in the morning, the last thing he expected to find half laying on him was his host. Somehow, during the night, not only had he came back inside the room, but he had also ended up throwing an arm around the Seeker of the Sun, shoving his face against the other Mi’qote’s right side. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable (unexpected, without a doubt), especially because Zahyu’ra felt surprisingly warm against him and he had just woken up, so his lingering drowsiness made him just think that the sensation was actually pretty welcome- Not to mention that is seemed as even the Keeper of the Moon was, unconsciously, liking it, as the slow swaying of his tail from side to side and the low purring were clear enough signs of appreciation.

P’ahro almost felt like falling asleep once again, the extra warmth proving to be quite relaxing, but he suddenly stiffened when he felt the Mi’qote moving, shifting a little- Perhaps the Seeker of the Sun looked a little bit too startled with his ears standing straight up and the fur on his tail standing on an end, but even as the Keeper of the Moon opened his eyes and noticed where he was and what he was looking at, he didn’t seem fazed at all. “…Heeeyyyy…” His voice was incredibly drowsy, so much that it didn’t sound like anything more than a drawl, perhaps a sign that Zahyu’ra wasn’t properly awake yet. Before P’ahro could ask anything (‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Why aren’t you surprised?’ ‘Do you not find this awkward?’), the other Mi’qote wiggled his ears and wagged his tail a little, as if he was absolutely happy to see him there, and he even crawled a bit forward, bumping his forehead against the cheek of a completely confused Seeker of the Sun that could only stare wide-eyed at what the other was doing.

“G’morning. Hope you slept well.” After having said that, Zahyu’ra wiggled his ears again, pulling away to grin at his guest before rolling off the bed to stretch (letting P’ahro notice for the first time that morning that his host was almost completely naked, save for a pair of underwear.) and yawn a little, scratching his side as if that was a day like any other. “What do you want for breakfast? I have some Anole’s eggs, Hog bacon…I think some Faerie Apple juice?”

 2. Definition of friend

“Anoles are territorial fiends, who are ready to viciously attack anyone who dares get too close to their nests, to the point of grouping against a single enemy…”

P’ahro had the misfortune of seeing that for himself when he had to go get some of those monster’s eggs for a couple of especially lazy Wood Wailers that used every sort of excuse to say that they were too busy to move from their standing point to retrieve said eggs. While the Seeker wasn’t convinced at all about the reasoning, he felt like he either did that or the two soldiers would’ve never gave him the informations he needed, so he just begrudgingly accepted to do it, only to regret it dearly when he found himself chased down by a group of exceptionally angry reptiles: how could monsters so little be so incredibly dangerous? They had bit him all over, without giving him time to use any sort of healing magic without risking being bitten once again, thus making all of his effort futile.

He wouldn’t say that he was on the brink of desperation, no, he was more on the edge. Literally, on the edge of a cliff that meant he could either throw himself down and hope to land on his feet (and that his legs would bear the brunt on the landing) or stay there and fend off the fiends with his bare hands, since there was just no time to cast a spell- Why did he agree to do this, again? His ears flattened down against his head as he bared his teeth in an attempt to look at the very least scarier, hoping that would convince the Anoles to step back. Hissing angrily, he kept his eyes trained on the Anole right in front of him, the one who looked way too interested in biting off his face and he swore on the Sun, that if he’d survive that, he would punch one of the Wood Wailers in the face, without giving any reason.

Truth was, he was worried. Not that back in Sagolii nothing like that ever happened, but he never had to deal with such a large number of monsters all together and he usually had at least a single person to back him up- That was the whole point of being a healer. P’ahro wondered if he could quickly cast Stone, but doing that would’ve left him open to attacks, which would mean he’d get further wounds and… No, it was too counterproductive. With the corner of his eye, he saw an Anole jump forward, attacking him out of the blue and without any sign that he was going for the kill- He had been tricked by a group of monsters.

He was ready to feel the bite on his arm, hoping the teeth wouldn’t sink too deep inside his skin, knowing that prying it off would hurt more than one could imagine (those curved teeth were made to tear off flesh, he knew that), but the bite never arrived- Rather, the Anole staggered and fell onto its side, twitching a little with an arrow driven deep inside its hip. The rest of the group looked confused, some of them looking around as if looking for the source of the attack, for the offender that just wasn’t in their line of sight. P’ahro himself started observing his surroundings and it was then that a shower of arrows came raining down on the Anoles, piercing their skin and making them panic enough to disperse the group, leaving the Seeker of the Sun looking disheleved and quite confused until a Mi’qote landed in front of him, a bow attached to his back and a smirk plastered on his face.

“Zahyu’ra?” P’ahro was in disbelief, but there was a part of him that felt particularly relieved to see that it was a friendly face and not some savage poacher that had driven the Anoles out just to mug the Seeker themselves. “The one and only. What were you thinking, angering a whole pack of Anoles? They are little, but they bite a lot.” The Keeper looked around, with his tail curled up close to him, as if he was ready to jump at any given moment. “…I owe you a favour.” The Seeker sounded dead serious, but he was only met with a rather loud laughter and a powerful smack on his shoulder. “The hell are you saying? You’re my friend, there’s no favour to be owned.”

3. It won’t work. Or will it?

“Hey! It stings!”

“If you stood still, it would sting less!”

P’ahro sighed loudly, half glaring at his friend who still insisted on attempting to run away from his cures, whining like an unhappy child. “Can’t you just use an healing spell or something like that?” Zahyu’ra’s tail was stiff and standing straight, like that of a scared cat and even his ears were droopy, as if looking pouty could work on the Seeker of the Sun.

Well, it actually did, but that was not the point. “This wound is not only too deep, but it’s also jagged. Even if I used Cure, it would take too much for it to heal, so you will have to stay still and rest.” He forced himself not to look at the other’s face, knowing he was strong, but maybe not strong enough to resist the face the Keeper was almost certainly making. “But- I can’t just lay in bed all day!” Suddenly, Zahyu’ra grabbed P’ahro’s shoulders, shaking him a little and earning a tired groan from the Seeker. “Who will cook for you? You have no idea how to even properly roast the meat and I have to hunt a-“ He was promptly shut up when the other Mi’qote shoved his face against his, pressing his cheek against that of a quite confused Keeper who didn’t loosen his hold on the other’s shoulder, but still looked quite confused.

For a little while, there was no sound in the room, as none of them moved or even spoke, but this time it was P’ahro to interrupt the silence, first with a light hum, then with a low purring that left Zahyu’ra momentarily confused. It didn’t last long, though, as soon enough he was chuckling, amused, before starting to purr himself, not so sneakily letting his tail curl up around the other’s, efficiently convincing the Seeker not to move away- Not that he had any intention to. “Is this a way to convince me that lazying about can be interesting?”

Instead of answering, the healer just shrugged a little, preferring to shift closer and place his head against the Keeper’s shoulder while he still bandaged one of the wounds on the arm, pretending not to notice that both their tails had started intertwining almost naturally.

[hellish-inferno]

Prompt: Discussions about Morbols and @janremi‘s misfortune with said plants.

Description: Are all Morbols brainless fiends who only wish for their next meal to come as soon as possible? [Aka, no better way to start a blog.]

It was a gloomy day in Larkscall, one like many others, but somehow it felt different when compared to the usual days that went by in the forest: something was missing, and had been missing for a long time…

The general opinion on Morbols was that they were some of the worst fiends to ever exist, brainless slimy plants whose only objective in life was that of feeding on unknowing young adventurers and unlucky travellers who had the great misfortune of getting lost in the lightless forest of the Sylphs or the intricate swamps of Mor Dhona- the worst nightmare of many, of everyone who had been hit at least once by their signature move Bad Breath.

Never had a name so perfectly described the horror of an attack, for that toxic exhalation made you wish you didn’t have a nose, as you feel your eyes well up with tears as your lungs desperately try to cough out what amount of gas you inevitably ended up breathing in and while you’re busy not trying to suffocate and you’re blinded by your own tears, you feel your strength fading, the grip you have on your weapon, whatever it might be, starts to loosen up and you feel nauseous, sick all of a sudden.

Who in their right mind would ever dare step close to a monster like that without a real, proper and sensible reason to? Only a few fiends shared their territory with Morbols and it’s usually monsters of considerable size, but even in that case, they never get too close to those hellish swamp plants either way. But how did Morbols live such a situation? On a first inspection, it would appear that they cherished the abundance of territory and the lack of real predators (if one didn’t count all those hunters who still go about slaying the maleodorant plants for their tentacles), as it allowed them to conduct a relatively calm life. However, it didn’t look like all of those monsters relished in the reign of terror that they unconsciously (?) ruled over, some of them even seemed to resent such a situation, as if the fact that people hated them made these fiends “feel” sincerely bad.

It is an undoubtedly odd behaviour, especially if found in monsters so commonly seen as brainless predators whose biggest desire was that of swallowing any moving creature that looked tasty enough. Yet, one Morbol in particular had caught some experts’ attention by acting way differently from the common, straying away from usual hunting paths to get closer to the tracks usually used by adventurers to cross Larkscall, clearly risking an attack from any hunter that wish to sell Morbol tentacles.

What could ever push a monster to act like that?

—

Morbol number 227 was deep in thought (as much as a fiend can be) as he “gazed” over the still empty road, with no sign of any adventurer, no sign of HIS adventurer. That one man who had stolen his green heart on that faithful day: he was just crossing the usual square field when his attention was caught by a running Elezen, one that barely stopped to look around as he dashed through the forest. Such a fleeting glance had been enough to move something in the Morbol’s heart, something that made him wish to see the Elezen more, so much that he actively sought for him whenever he “saw” someone enter his part of the forest and sometimes he even managed to see him, but as soon as he dared get closer, his pointy-eared love would run away, at times even yelling.

The Morbol often wondered if their difference were too great for their story to begin, but he often told himself that no difference was too great for his love. Love that grew stronger each time the Elezen ran by (he heard a couple of Sylphs call him ‘Janremi, the running one’) and, useless to say, he did run a lot.

As if the Twelve themselves had blessed that yet-to-bloom relationship, one day the Morbol found something on the road. A picture of his beloved, just laying there, in the middle of the path: had someone lost it? Or had it been put there on purpose for him to find? Whatever was the reason behind the appearance of that photo, the Morbol didn’t care: he now had the chance to see Janremi’s face every day, as a reminder of what he could have if he managed to finally catch his Elezen.

He’d spend hours caressing that photo, to the point of ruining it: ah, how he wished to caress that skin, to feel it!

But it was just a dream. An impossible love… Or was it?

—

Somewhere in Idyllshire, Janremi Estriaux woke up with a start from his unplanned midday nap, feeling sweat trickling down his temples: what an horrific nightmare! He dreamt of a Morbol being affectionate with him, caressing his face with those slimy tentacles… A real horror.

However he had to calm down: something like that could never happen! Morbols were brainless fiends, weren’t they? Of course they were.

… Yet, he felt like he should start paying extra attention around them from that moment on, just to be absolutely sure nothing would happen.