this is unfortunately a blog for lahabrea from final fantasy xiv. my name is sol / ash, i’m twenty-four, he / she pronouns with a preference for he / him, but pls do not use they. i primarily intend to write with friends, so this pinned will act as my rules. be decent and we shouldn’t have a problem. THIS BLOG IS UNDER HIATUS UNTIL ENDWALKER.
RULES *
01. THIS BLOG IS NOT SPOILER FREE * i will tag endwalker content when it releases, but shadowbringers content is not tagged. if you have not played the game, save yourself and follow me later. 02. ffxiv deals in heavy themes. obviously, lahabrea is a villain, but aside from that, his themes revolve heavily around disassociation and loss of self. curate your space and stay safe. you must be this tall ( 18+ ) to ride. PLEASE TAG ANYTHING RELATED TO PREGNANCY FOR ME. 03. be patient with me, my activity is extremely sporadic. 04. i ship exclusively with friends / people i talk to ooc. please do not send ship-based memes if we haven’t spoken! that being said, any ships with lahabrea are bound to be extremely toxic just because of... him, so keep that in mind.
NAVIGATION *
pinterest 🔥 prompts 🔥 meta 🔥 multimuse
other blogs : @foulwaters @alesaria
SOAR ABOVE THE STARS! forget what’s behind, don’t stare up at the setting sun or the light of dawn. RISE, RISE, beyond the trail of stars : to lands forged by demise / to the shores of death. the blooming meadows seduce and intoxicate with a deceiving scent. / / low maintenance, oc heavy. authored by kasz.
@constellatory 「 that kiss prompt im too lazy to find 」 ↬ 😘 forehead smooch from Promethea <3
to say that memory makes mockery of him would be an understatement. a cataclysmic undoing, by each molecule; the loss of self, which becomes trickle, which becomes a stream. whatever is before her, it is not what it once was. a ghost in the names of all the dead between them, each consequent loss that has left marrings in the make-up.
but she hasn’t survived either -- the tells, which speak in blood. which life slew you? which left their wounds? which feasted on the pain? all of them, all of them. the intimacy of his own knowledge, which sits somewhere between rot and fury. a conflux of the two.
she cannot play savior when her hands are so bloodied, but he will accept the absolution. any of it. the soft ghosting of lips across his forehead, his eyes fluttering closed on it, like a knife twisted between his ribs. it hurts -- of course it does. it’s a wound that has never healed properly, a bone never set. a tourniquet, tight against feeling. she presses her hands to his shoulders and he feels the awakening like agony.
“ would you forgive me so easily? “ an ember of his voice, rough and disservice by its own self-hatred. his fingers curl around her own, a press of claws, unbreaking. forgiveness; a word he could spit. there are worse cravings to have, but this one makes him bleed. “ for all i have done? i hadn’t thought you so foolish. “
there is a thin line between expectation and assumption, but if he is to take penitence, he’d prefer it by her hand.
To say we were 'in love', that vague weakened phrase, cannot express it. We loved each other, we lived in each other, through each other, by each other. We were each other.
@mortulo 「 no prompt 」 ↬ in the comforts of cozy study, once more gracing lover with his most eminent presence, emet does not simply lounge and doze in the quiet of familiar lap. he's come with a purpose, hands find golden tresses and card fingers through in adoration, mindful of claws, as to not ruin such beauty. a gentle sigh, lips bowing into subtle smile through concentration, weaving few strands and hints of ley lines into thin braid. what he secures it with is not conventional, but an adornment he's fashioned for such an occasion.
❝ for you, ❞ he hums, allowing white pearl and gold fastening to linger on palm for lahabrea's viewing pleasure, returning the braid to owner's shoulder soon after. ❝ so wherever we may roam, we shall always be together. ❞ ever sentimental. a kiss finds beloved's lips, lingers longer than necessary, before they part and he nestles his head into collar.
a breath, a sigh, a heavy air thick with the weight of something ( grief, or maybe its counterpart; exhalation of relief, which speaks in the soft tongues they have denied themselves amidst Ardor ). he does not react to emet’s presence, which speaks where words have never sufficed. the vulnerability of neck, for most beloved predator. the smooth, untensed line of shoulder. the curve of his mouth, dipping only slightly as he mouths words to himself, unbothered by presence. he balances a tome precariously in one hand, and it is only the movement of his eyes -- pausing, blank on one word at the corner of the page -- that gives away the delicate shift of his attention.
the light catches and holds, a flicker of flame that licks at his cheek, ever adoring. he can hide nothing in its radiance, and least of all the adoration, the awareness which hums in aetheric resonance as soon as lover makes touch. fingers binding through his hair, drawing tallow strands to catch in ember shade. his head tilts into the touch, ever patient under ministrations. he reads the same line, again and again and then once more, before he gives up, his concentration shattered effortlessly beneath touch. lashes, long and dark to carve spiky shadows along his cheeks, flicker and close.
an uneven breath, as his research goes abandoned. tossed to the table, so he may turn his body into lover’s company. it is not an act he would do for anyone. another of those things, which he cannot hope to disguise into anything but what it is : a declaration of love.
“ ah. “ he traces the gem with careful fingers where it sits upon palm, and then draws a caress to ghost along the pulse at the inside of emet’s wrist. carmine flickers and tracks over a face more familiar even than his own, drawing its own stroke from eyes, to mouth, to the ear that bears the matching jewel. his fingers catch it, rolling it between his fingers before he strokes the curve, the lobe, the side of his jaw. “ we match. “
the smile he gives cannot hope to impress the depths of his own ache, the limitless hunger of his own adorations. this ugly mess of his chest, a bruised fruit that he cannot help but mishandle. his throat works in a slow swallow.
“ i haven’t come prepared. “
he has no gift of his own, he means, but it reads more as a confession. like he is knelt at his feet, offering up this tender, misused thing. the rot of his heart. do something with it, anything. and with his mouth on his, the swallowing of his shuddering breath, he is absolved. he is home.
it seems such a silly thing, to shatter into so many pieces and then return to the world as if nothing has changed, but that is what he does. he digs his fingers into lover’s hip, and reaches for his book, and though the words before his eyes are blurred with the ringing of his ears, he accepts this tender gift without drawing blood.
this whole thing is nsfw husbands, pls avert thy eyes *
@mortulo 「 unprompted girl help 」 ↬
cheek to thigh, hand carding absentmindedly through dark tresses, he peers up to beloved through long lashes. longing, loving, adoration in his very eyes. as though he's witnessed the divine and sipped upon heavenly sweet nectar. there is no exchange of words, untense silence blanketing them in the inviting dim of candlelight. thus, he acts of his own accord. he who has never needed directing writes the scrips along hips, trailing hands up, fingers splayed clumsily upon waist, thumbs pressed into abdomen.
pause. flutter of lashes, pretty and false innocence, wolf playing sheep's role. but there is no masking claws that waltz upon skin, threatening to prick but daring only to leave pretty raised welts. not enough to break, to draw forth forbidden lifeblood. ever the tease, leaving lover waiting in anticipation, wondering if he will be patient or seize him by fistful of hair.
ah, but patience is rewarded proper. tongue finds the dip of zipper, full flat of tongue starting at its base and trailing over the hills of metal. slow, attentive to the feel of every ridge, ensuring his efforts translate through the confines of cloth. a further test of other's patience.
his eyes, trancelike, never once break shared stare. tongue's tip finds its prize, flicks pesky tab up from resting place against chain, and pointed incisor catches loop. slow blink, deceptively virtuous cant of the head, and he waits. for what? nothing. counts the seconds in his head, one, two, three, four, and onward to ten, ever the temptress, before dragging the slider down.
and how prettily he sits at lover's feet, poised between parted legs, cheek finding its home upon inner thigh once more. he could fetch his prize, but he'll wait for it instead. ❝ please ? ❞ he begs, with a smile, with the flash of fangs and tantalizing sweep of tongue across bottom lip.
a tragedy, the great and terrible loss of his patience, for he has burned himself to the wick. more, harder, meaner. if it does not draw blood, if it does not leave him singed and reeling, it has no place to feed the flame. ah, but his lover is a study in every line of him : what they have collectively forgotten, lost to the Ardor, their bodies remember. a muscle memory of adoration, that feeds into that well of loss that sits in the base of his chest.
if he cannot have himself, he will take instead. excess, desperate and pining even when this face presents his impatience. he arches into claws, daring them to break ground, to salt the earth -- leave nothing left but you, hades. he has need for nothing else.
it is a daring proposition, to give oneself over so wholly, but he is beset by bad choices and bad decisions. worse, by love, which takes whatever good intentions he might’ve had and rots them in his chest. he wants to bruise for it, to bleed. the tenderness, even as it teases, is his undoing.
he breaks first. a flicker of lashes, a sink of his hands into lover’s hair. he doesn’t pull, but his finger’s settle insistent against the curve of his neck. begging, without having to use his voice. his aether gives where he disguises : a flicker, deep and red of scarlet in bloom, that winds within counterpart to lick against skin in a harmless flicker of flame. it solidifies into touch. a tendril at the waist. a lick at the throat. a caress at the inner thigh. his own head falls back, a telling jerk of hips as finally, finally, relief finds the slow drag of zipper.
“ you are cruel. “ his voice does not waver, but it is low, and quiet. bitten off with the violence of his own impatience. please, beloved asks, and it earns stuttering groan. one of them is on their knees, and the other is the one begging. how quaint.
a travel of his fingers, exploration across known canvas to rake claws across tender throat. firm, he grasps his chin, lifting his head. contact unbroken. his eyes feast long before touch ever does. the aether follows, red wending through hair to wind and pull until he is a pretty arch, a perfect offering. disastrous and divine, and so very his. he wants to ruin him, to be ruined. anything that will leave a mark. it is a sight he shall never grow tired of, one which haunts him with heavy breaths and aching desire when they are apart.
“ do you dream of this? “ it is a taunt, even as his thumb slides along lower lip, traversing until sharpened incisor finds that tender flesh. the threat thrills him, burns him. he is alight with his own adoration. “ i dream of you. on your knees, taking me in your mouth, fucking you with my fingers, and more, until you are a shivering mess. “
vengeance, even as he aches. let them burn together. it will be a sweet end.
“ would you like that? “ a shift of aether, licking embers up the inside of lover’s thigh, teasing, teasing. he frees himself from the confines of small clothes, releasing the grasp on chin to trail lower and curve a tender grip against his throat, thumb braced to the underside of his jaw. he shudders with his own desire. “ you will have to convince me with more than a please. “
@noatheria 「 book starters 」 ↬ ❛ Give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for. ❜ // FROM AZEM
son of mourning, draped in the colors of evening; a spill of purple across his mouth, the light of fire across his throat. a beautiful slit throat, carving blood in rivulets across the floor. his exhaustion wears him. a coat of burnished gold, halo lit to be divine salvation. how much is it a façade, and how much of it is real? he cannot parse the shattering from the becoming.
the halls echo like a graveyard, every footstep one step closer to their end. they have suffered for this. they shall suffer more.
it sits at the back of his throat : this is your doing. if it fails, you shall bear the price. is it worth it? is it enough? will it ever be enough? pale, fading flame, a shadow of himself as he extends a hand -- fluttering, a ghost of touch to jaw, before he draws back.
“ no. “ he sounds more confident than he feels. great orator at work. he shall lead them to their beginning, or to their end. there is no way forward without blood ( let it be his, let it be his ). “ you are too important. not you. “
speak not of that selfish clench of his chest, the press of his mouth. not you, anyone but you. a mantra, which digs claws into his heart. this loss will never bleed enough to satiate the hungry. there is no hesitation in his smile, the offer of comfort. a wound, disguised to be a blade. “ you shall have to keep them safe while we finish. i will see you at the end. “
❛ But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. ❜
❛ He showed me his scars, and in return he let me pretend that I had none. ❜
❛ Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep. ❜
❛ It is a common saying that women are delicate creatures, flowers, eggs, anything that may be crushed in a moment’s carelessness. ❜
❛ If I had ever believed it, I no longer do. ❜
❛ I thought once that gods are the opposite of death, but I see now they are more dead than anything, for they are unchanging, and can hold nothing in their hands. ❜
❛ I cannot bear this world a moment longer. ❜
❛ I have a better idea. I will do as I please. ❜
❛ All my life has been murk and depths, but I am not a part of that dark water. I am a creature within it. ❜
❛ You cannot know how frightened gods are of pain. There is nothing more foreign to them, and so nothing they ache more deeply to see. ❜
❛ When we are young, we think ourselves the first to have each feeling in the world. ❜
❛ When I was born, the word for what I was did not exist. ❜
❛ But perhaps no parent can truly see their child. When we look we see only the mirror of our own faults. ❜
❛ I will not be like a bird bred in a cage, too dull to fly even when the door stands open. ❜
❛ This is what it means to swim in the tide, to walk the earth and feel it touch your feet. This is what it means to be alive. ❜
❛ You threw me to the crows, but it turns out I prefer them to you. ❜
❛ Yet because I knew nothing, nothing was beneath me. ❜
❛ If now I am wise, it is only because I have been fool enough for a hundred lifetimes. ❜
❛ You can teach a viper to eat from your hands, but you cannot take away how much it likes to bite. ❜
❛ Give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for. ❜
❛ I have been old and stern for so long, carved with regrets and years like a monolith. But that is only a shape I’ve been poured into. I do not have to keep it. ❜
❛ I wake sometimes in the dark terrified by my life’s precariousness, its thready breath. ❜
❛ Understanding the world is a matter of keeping very still and showing no emotions, leaving room for others to reveal themselves. ❜
❛ Beneath the smooth, familiar face of things is another that waits to tear the world in two. ❜
❛ The truth is, men make terrible pigs. ❜
❛ My father has never been able to imagine the world without himself in it. ❜
❛ This is the grief that makes our kind choose to be stones and trees rather than flesh. ❜
❛ Witches are not so delicate. ❜
❛ Those who fight against prophecy only draw it more tightly around their throats. ❜
❛ I learned that I could bend the world to my will, as a bow is bent for an arrow. I would have done that toil a thousand times to keep such power in my hands. ❜
