post pictures of your wol, completely vanilla. no custom poses. no shaders. no mods. (some light photoshop touchups okay). i wanna see them in their natural habitat.
this game is beautiful on its own, and i think we forget that sometimes. i also want to see all of those console wols!!!
ffxivwrite2021, day 6. R18, but more importantly: everything about this fic is MAJOR SPOILERS for the post-rolequest capstone, so under the cut it goes
cyella/mjrn + cylva/ardbert, nsfw, angst, drunk sex, cyella has a magic werewolf dick for funsies, ~620w.
***
Glynard has long departed for the sweet embrace of sleep, leaving Cyella to pack the stragglers off to bed. Giott, claiming she only speaks Ancient Dwarven and that they don’t have a word for “closing time”, has been bodily slung over Granson’s very sober shoulder, and Unukalhai is helping a yawning Taynor convey Cerigg homewards. Mjrn is—not as drunk as he could be, but drunker than he normally enjoys. Giott brings that out in people.
Cyella offers him a hand up and he takes it gratefully, leaning into her more than he strictly needs to. She’s been sitting close to him since she got off shift and joined the rest, and the smiles she’s thrown out at the rest of the table tonight looked real to his eyes. “Walk me home,” he says, suddenly very sure, and her pale eyes gleam with… fondness, maybe. Mjrn isn’t good with people sober, either.
He stumbles on nothing at the door to his room, and when she steadies him, he’s pinned himself against the wall for her.
Even the proudest wolf cannot resist a rabbit placing its neck in her jaws.
By the time they reach his bed, the Shadowkeeper’s teeth have turned the meat of his shoulder to a bloody ruin. Her nails prick sharp at his sides through his light summer dress as she forces him down, mounts him, pulls whimpers of pain and delight from his throat. Her length presses heavy between his thighs, teasing him with the promise of soreness in the morning, and she laughs when he pushes back against her, demanding.
She makes him come twice with nothing but her fingers on his clit and her claws in his flesh before she finally gives him her cock, splits him open and turns him wild. He nearly screams when she lets him go, lightheaded and wrung out but without her seed to show for it.
His cunt is raw and pulsing with aftershocks, but she doesn’t let him rest, dragging him on top of her to help her out of the last of her clothes. Sweat sticks her hair to her face, and she is grinning, one fang shining in the pull of her lips. His chest feels hot at the beauty of it. “Your turn, hero.”
He means to return savagery with savagery. But something in him gentles his hands, makes him—tender, as he plays with her breasts, nuzzles at her shoulder, slides down her thighs to take her in his mouth. It makes her shake, and she grips him by the hair and holds on tight, making his scalp sing with hurt but surrendering herself to his pace. She must be close—every touch of his tongue has her gasping, pained, like she’s been struck.
She wrenches his head back. Her eyes are wide, her smirk long gone. “Your fingers—“
He presses two inside her, then a third, proud when it makes her hand spasm, scrabbling at the sheets. “Faster,” she says, and one wrist is thrown over her eyes, and she is crying.
“I can’t,” she says tightly, “I can’t,“ and she sounds terrified. He doesn’t stop, but pulls himself up her body and leans in, pressing skin to skin against her in some kind of desperate reassurance.
“Cylva,” he says.
And she comes, striping her stomach and clenching on his hand, the lines of her drawn bowstring-taut, her voice a two-syllable choke breaking to a helpless, sobbing wail. When she brings their lips together, there is blood at the corner of her mouth that doesn’t taste like his.
Mjrn curls himself into the cage of Cyella’s still-trembling arms, and as his eyes close, he knows this will be the first and last time.
ffxivwrite2021, day 2. zenos/mjrn/g’raha, modern au aka hannibal au, ~310w.
***
Mjrn adapts well to luxury. He wasn’t born into this kitchen, with its clean stone countertops and gleaming appliances, but he looks right at home there, a knife that matches a month of Raha’s rent in his hand. They haven’t seen each other since they were kids—the class loner and the dropout, spending their Saturdays in the public library because it was open until six and generally free of other people their age. It is always that Mjrn he remembers, head pillowed on his crossed arms, one eye open behind worn, scratched glasses, asking questions of what he’s reading aloud that Raha would never think to ask himself. It’s… startling, to see this Mjrn, with his perfect nails and his indoor garden and his trust fund boyfriend. Raha feels unset from his own reality.
The boyfriend will be joining them for dinner tonight, apparently. Raha is—aware of him, a drawl on the other end of a phone, a coat hanging in the entryway, a bruise on his childhood friend’s throat. His tail flicks, and he adjusts himself on the kitchen stool. “You never used to cook this well,” he says. “It was always pasta and sandwiches with you.”
Mjrn hums. “It was a challenge. I’m good with a knife.”
Silence blankets the kitchen again. Raha used to be the one who filled that perpetual quiet that always surrounded Mjrn, and now his tongue sits heavy in his mouth. He considers leaving Mjrn to his preparations and setting himself to wander the apartment, and then there is a heavy knock at the door.
The knife pauses. There’s a sharpness, suddenly, to the line of Mjrn’s shoulders. When he turns, his eyes are bright—not sparkling, like a lover’s, but gleaming, like a predator’s. “That’s him,” he says, and his customary monotone seems to vibrate with restrained energy. “Raha. Get the door?”
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