Apologies for being late! Please welcome the prompt list for #wolgrahaweek2026!
ALL ships with G'raha and WOL/OC are welcomed - platonic and romantic! Any media counts - art, fic, gpose, video, however you want to celebrate our favorite catboy!
I also want to emphasize especially in the wake of recent events that WolGraha Week is meant to uplift ALL WolGraha creators - an event to celebrate the breadth and depth of work to be found in our little community! It is for EVERYONE and all are welcome here as long as there is love in your heart! Please support your fellow WolGraha artists during this time - we definitely will!
Looking forward to seeing everyone's work in August!
When they last saw one another, it had been in the infirmary following the dragoon’s possession. Aymeric was steadfast at his bedside, clutching his hand and biting back tears as he sat vigilant and restless.
He hardly slept then, either. Instead he whispered prayers and muttered confessions of love and devotion through choked sobs. It kept him up to wonder if Estinien had heard his desperate pleas, and if that was why he hadn’t returned. Much like a cat, he frightened easily and was left bristling and wary at the first sign of change.
Estinien seemed a new man when he awoke, no longer bound by the shackles of his vengeance, his grief, or the slow corruption of his aether. Had they been alone together at that moment, Aymeric was sure he would have kissed him.
Aymeric is left with big and difficult feelings after Estinien left that infirmary, having confessed to him while he was unconscious but never getting the opportunity to talk things out. Now, they do.
→ Read it on ao3 ←
Rating: Teen
Character(s)/Ship(s): Estinien x Aymeric
Content warning(s): Spoilers for FFXIV Patch 3.3
Word count: 3,321
"Do you remember what you asked me," Ariane asked, "when we'd just arrived?"
The flush that crept out to Urianger's ears said he did indeed remember. "…Forsooth. Thou must have thought me the very picture of vanity."
"Only a little," Ariane said, with great fondness. "I only wonder how things might have gone, had I said just then what I wished to."
A smile crept over his face. "Thou must not tease me so, save if thou meanest to indulge me."
Ariane stepped closer, and reached up to touch the adornments at the shoulder of his chiton. "I should have liked to say, 'You look beautiful.'" Toying with the points of a golden star, she grinned. "I do love this on you. But the truth is, you'd have been a beautiful sight to me in a burlap sack, my dear. I'd missed you so…"
Urianger's hands came to her waist, and Ariane laid her head against his other shoulder, felt his lips brush her hair. "And I thee…" he said softly. "And I thee."
I have this AU i'm working on in my free time where SHB happens earlier in the timeline, and while it's not noticeable on the source, it's enough of a time difference to affect the first. Hence: Ryne is just a baby!
It's fully readable over here! I'm going through all of shb and patch msq through the lenses of this time divergence!
more about her under the cut!
10 months old
Babbling composed of “Aeuu!”, “Abababa!”, “Baaauauaeu!”, "Awaeu!" and other similar sounds.
Polite child, rarely complains unless there is true danger lurking about (sin eaters being one such exception)
Little Ryne can crawl around on all fours, the telltale tiptaptiptap of her hands on the floor is a good indicator of her whereabouts.
She tends to keep her hands close to her mouth, if not into it directly, to seek for comfort at all times after what she’s already been through.
Feo Ul calls her “little blessing”, which played a major part in Thancred’s name pick for the little one.
Says her first word after nabaath areng, knows a total of 2 words in the whole story: “dada” for thancred, “iaia”for gaia.
The sun creeps slowly toward the line of the horizon, its warm rays flushing her skin and painting the waters a sparkling golden hue. Aeryn draws a deep breath of the misty sea air. The breeze is filled with gull cries and the din of myriad voices shouting all along the dock. Bells ring to signal the coming and going of ships, and their creaking hulls cut through the waves, stirring them into cresting foam and swirling froth.
It should be overwhelming, this explosion of discordant sounds. Anywhere else it likely would be. Yet in spite of its chaos, Limsa Lominsa has always felt strangely comfortable to her, as if the wind welcomes her with its constant push and pull, and the noise folds over her like water over sand.
On the dock some short distance away stand her companions: Lyse, Alphinaud, and Tataru. The shortest of the three scurries underfoot of the Misery's crew as they hurry this way and that, some gathering ropes and nets, some hauling crates, still others with wrapped bundles slung over their shoulders—all busily fitting the ship to sail. Every so often, Aeryn catches a glimpse of Carvallain on the deck above, gazing into the rich gradient of the late day sky as one transfixed.
She adjusts the pack slung over her shoulder and leans against the rail to peer into the swirling waters. Their journey is meant to take two moons, at best, and more realistically close to three. Carvallain has assured them they may cut that time by navigating wild aether currents found deep at sea (a trick the good captain claimed to have a knack for), but they remain, nevertheless, uneasy about the duration of their expedition.
And yet…
Aeryn draws a deep breath again, feeling an odd tremor low in her back. It's neither apprehension nor wariness. No, though it defies all reason, she is, somehow, in spite of it all…
She's thrilled.
Her limbs shiver with excitement. She's restless and impatient. She wishes to be aboard now: out on the open water, surrounded by the waves and wind, with nothing but the sky overhead and the ocean below. To let the current carry her where it will—to brand new places where there will be so much more to see and learn and experience.
To lie under the stars of a different sky.
The winds pick up as the sun sinks low enough to tickle the distant waters. It whips her hair to and fro, causing small wisps of it to tickle her face, such that she moves on reflex to pull it back and re-twine her braid-
Only for her hand to meet with nothing long enough to gather.
The missing weight to one side of her face again becomes evident. Her fingers twitch in the air where her braid once was. She lowers her hand.
It had been so easy to forget her recent defeat, here. To allow the buzz of dockside activity to drown out all else but her excitement over their imminent departure. So easy, and ephemerally blissful to, for but a moment, release the weight of their staggering losses—the reason why they sail east at all.
To fight a war that's been lost more than once before.
To once again cry the same rallying chorus to those who no longer wish to hear it. A chorus that had been so swiftly silenced at Rhalgr's Reach.
She wonders if it will really work. She wonders-
"Well! That took significantly longer than expected!"
Aeryn turns to find Alisaie moving with haste across the white stone path toward her. There's a leather satchel at her hip, and she has a bundle in her arms not unlike those carried by the Misery's crew, which she deposits on the ground between them with an exaggerated huff.
"I'd begun to worry I'd be late!" She leans back to brush a sheen of sweat from her forehead, then looks just over Aeryn's shoulder with raised brows. "And I thought I was traveling light! Surely that can't be all you mean to bring, can it?"
Aeryn briefly examines Alisae's bundle. It's not oversized by any means, though it is roughly twice the size of her own bag. She looks back up at Alisaie and shrugs with a sheepish smile.
"Oh, don't you dare make that face," Alisaie mutters, folding her arms. "At least tell me that sack of yours is magicked to carry more than it seems, or something else to make me feel better."
Aeryn covers her mouth to hide a breath of amusement, then turns to look back up at the deck.
"Alphinaud and I set sail on a vessel not much larger than this when first we came to Eorzea, you know," Alisaie says, smiling up at the great mast and its white sails. "Gods, but that feels such a very long while ago, now. Mind you, ours was a ship of trade and not some ramshackle pirate's vessel."
Aeryn's smile broadens. "She doesn't look so ramshackle to me…"
"Hmph. Well, I suppose not," Alisaie concedes. "I suspect you must've sailed a great many times before this, hm?"
I don't know, Aeryn thinks, but before she can settle on a less complicated response, a voice she would never expect to hear over the hustle and bustle of the Lominsan docks cuts through the breeze:
"Twelve be praised! Full sure was I that I had come too late."
Aeryn whirls, eyes wide, to watch as Urianger descends the steps to greet them.
"Urianger?" Alisaie blurts. Aeryn notes her brief look of shock, which Alisaie quickly hides. "Whatever are you doing here? Tell me you haven't come all this way just to see us off."
"Nay, my lady," Urianger replies, offering them both a small bow. He nods toward Aeryn before addressing Alisaie again:
"Though I would feign deny my desire to bid thee a fond farewell, 'twas an additional matter that didst so direct my feet hither."
"Hm," Alisaie folds her arms. "In that case, it's good to see you."
"Thine sentiment be most assuredly mutual."
"Well? Out with it then. I daresay we'll be leaving, soon."
"Aye, and ere thou quitteth these shores for eastern climes, I wished to share some words of seeming import." The lingering sunlight glints off his goggles as he recites what sounds like verse in his soothing timbre:
"Look ye where the sun doth rise, see crimson embers, dark'ning skies. Look ye where the sun doth fall, see azure lost amidst the squall."
Aeryn can make no sense of it, but she finds herself, as ever, caught up in the little spell woven by the rise and fall of his voice—and in the calming sensation brought by his arrival. His presence soothes the wound of her defeat and eases the rising sensation of inexplicable excitement all at once, as if she has stepped ashore and found not shifting sands, but solid ground.
"Well, that sounds suitably foreboding," Alisaie says. She's pursued her lips, though the curve at one corner of them suggests she's withholding a smile. "Another one of your prophecies, I presume?"
"Of Far Eastern origin, aye," Urianger nods. "'Tis mine earnest hope that this ancient wisdom may serve to guide thee on thy journey, for what dangers lie in wait upon those distant shores are yet beyond my knowing."
"A parting gift befitting of your roundabout ways." Alisaie sighs dramatically, but she finally smiles. "Thank you."
"To thee, my lady, I would bear more than words," Urianger replies, to which Alisaie tilts her head. He draws from a scabbard Aeryn had not noticed hanging from the back of his belt a rapier, its blade forged of some glowing element she doesn't recognize. "Though it be undeniably powerful, thine aetherial blade taxeth you greatly in the wielding. Not so this rapier, which shall serve thee just as well 'gainst all but the most formidable foe."
Urianger offers both the weapon and its scabbard to Alisaie, whose awe at such a gift is evident in her gaze. Aeryn smiles when she tells Urianger she'll treasure it. Amends have begun between them, and it's just as warming as the parting rays of sunlight on her skin.
When Alisaie has finished affixing the scabbard to her belt, she nods to Urianger, then says:
"While we're on the subject of gifts, I've a slight confession to make."
She then kneels to open her bundle, from which she retrieves a familiar parcel that robs Aeryn immediately of her good humor.
"I do hope you'll forgive me for being so remiss in my promised duty," Alisaie practically sings, pushing the parcel into Aeryn's hands. The latter is so startled she very nearly drops it, which Alisaie ignores, bending to gather her pack into her arms while speaking quickly:
"It simply didn't feel right for such a gift to be delivered by my hand in place of yours. It would seem that might now be remedied, hm?"
"Ah- but-" Aeryn gasps.
Before she can speak further, Alisaie interrupts:
"Farewell, Urianger, and do keep out of trouble in our absence this time, won't you?"
Urianger smiles and bows low, which seems all the parting that is needed between them. Alisaie grins at Aeryn once more, then takes off at a quick jog to join their companions on the dock. Aeryn hardly sees as Alphinaud, Tataru, and Lyse all wave and call farewells to Urianger from the gangplank, nor does she properly notice when Carvallain disembarks, shouting orders at his crew.
She's still clutching the parcel she had thought long-since delivered, hardly moving, when Urianger's shadow appears beside her—and then, too, so does he. She turns, peering up at his goggles. Urianger reaches as if he might touch her ruined hair, but he stops and lowers his hand.
"Would that there were, in such a moment, yet anything I might do to aid thee."
Though she means to keep her composure, her brows knit.
"Let not thy brilliant light be smothered by the shadows of defeat, Aeryn, but press on, that all might follow in thy gleaming wake."
"Honored guests!" Carvallain calls behind her. "Say your farewells, for the moment of our parting draws nigh! A fair wind blows, and I mean to follow it!"
The sounds of bells clanging and sails billowing overhead signal a quick end to this moment she now wishes could last. Aeryn steels herself and looks down to unwrap the parcel in her hands, revealing the intended gift within: a long blue scarf. She draws two measured breaths before holding it out to him, head bowed low.
"I-In the- in the evening," she begins. "On- on the roof, when you- um, when you stargaze. I thought- maybe, you might-?" Her voice breaks, then fails her entirely. She can't bring herself to look up, but she watches, fixated, as Urianger's hands reach for the scarf to draw it slowly from her trembling hands. He brushes the pattern, his fingertips sinking low into the plush fibers.
"Doubtless crafted by thine hand," he says, and she nods. "That thou hast toiled in efforts to create a gift of such consideration with what few moments of peace art known to thee begets a gratitude which defies expression in this fleeting moment. Yet though such words be wholly insufficient, with brevity, they must do for the present: my thanks, Aeryn. My deepest thanks."
Aeryn reaches out to curl her fingers in his sleeve and holds fast to it.
"Aeryn! Hurry up!" Lyse calls out behind her.
"W-will you- will you walk with me?" she asks.
"Aye, Aubétoile."
They reach the gangplank sooner than she wants, contrary to her previous impatience. She takes two steps up the ramp but finds, as the moment of their parting draws nearer, that she doesn't want to release Urianger's sleeve. She turns and looks down at it, then up at him.
"'Twould not do to try the patience of they whose steps are guided by the coming and going of the tide," Urianger says, smiling down at her. "For wild as the wind and current fly such souls. They may be like to depart without thee."
I could catch them, Aeryn thinks—but that's so unbearably foolish, as is the thought which follows:
I don't care.
In the end, the only response she can offer is to curl her fingers just a bit tighter into his sleeve.
There is another cry of, "All board!" just over her shoulder. Another clanging bell rings out on the deck overhead.
Surprisingly, Urianger offers no further suggestion to hurry her departure. Instead, he reaches with his spare hand to brush the stars on her cheek. Then he slides his fingers past her ear and through her uneven hair, this time without hesitation.
It's pleasant, the sensation of his fingers in her hair.
She doesn't understand how she can simultaneously like and dislike closeness such as this. Were it anyone else, she would have avoided their reach and sought for a comfortable distance. But like his voice and the scent of his robes, Urianger's reserved nearness seems uniquely suited to put her at ease, and she once again welcomes it in spite of how strange that makes her feel.
She's going to miss him. And this time, when the sentiment occurs to her, she doesn't withhold it:
"I'll miss you." Aeryn doesn't stumble over the words. She speaks surely, and after a short breath (an effort to calm her pounding heartbeat), she looks up. The way his lips have parted in surprise warms her as surely as the sinking sunlight. "I, um- I'm really going to miss you so much."
"And I, thee," Urianger replies, his voice low and quiet. "Proceed with as much caution as thou mayest. Be safe. Pray, be safe."
When the bell sounds again—along with a cry from Lyse not far behind her—Aeryn drops his sleeve and folds her hands together across her middle, holding close a sensation within that, as usual, defies any definition she can fathom.
Urianger's fingers slide away from her hair, then slip down to his side.
"I shall remain to see thee safely departed, mon aubétoile," he says, and though her skin flushes anew over this slight alteration to his name for her, she nods, and turns.
At the urgent waving of Lyse at the end of the gangplank, Aeryn takes off at a quick jog. But she tucks close the sound of Urianger's voice wishing her well—calling her his—that she might carry it with her until next they meet.
"Gods, but you do love to cut it close!" Lyse blurts when Aeryn joins her. At the latter's shrug, she chuckles. "Have a nice chat, did you?"
Aeryn ignores, taking a moment to get her bearings—to feel the rock and creak of the ship beneath her feet—before she spies the stairs she suspects lead to the deck. She offers Lyse a little grin, then turns and bolts up both flights, taking the steps two at a time, such that she's breathless when she breaks free of the lower decks. Stars have begun to twinkle in the watercolor wash of the early evening sky. The wind careens wildly through her hair, whipping in her ears.
There is just as much activity and noise up here as there had been down on the docks, and she is curious to watch it all, but-
She moves to the edge to look back toward the dock. Urianger has backed away to safety behind the railing. He peers up at the ship and gestures in the air with one hand. She thinks, perhaps, he's drawing spell runes.
The scarf draped over his arm sways in the breeze. It matches his robe.
The bell sounds once more, insistent, and the ship comes alive with such noise, bustle, and motion—but she can't look away.
She watches until Urianger is a blur, fading into the atmosphere of the evening Limsan sky.
─────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────────
Took a lot of liberties with both the existing dialogue and some story elements. Annnnd I definitely use Limsan and Lominsan interchangeably and haven't been able to determine if one is more correct than the other. (Or neither? Possibly neither.)
I feel a bit bad still calling these WoLianger Week. I'm determined to finish!!! ...but maybe I should stop using the tag? ^^;
A Letter to a Friend (Aymeric de Borel x GN!Reader 18+)
Summary: For one so partial to spontaneous grand speeches, Aymeric finds himself stumped by a mere letter.
Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact).
Word Count: ~2200.
Tags/Warnings: Reader is WoL, Masturbation, Catholic Guilt, Mental Gymnastics, Aymeric/Estinien maybe if you squint real hard, Jealousy. DAWNTRAIL SPOILERS.
pairing: warrior of light/urianger augurelt
rating: teen
tags: pre-relationship, femroe warrior of light, autistic warrior of light, autistic urianger, sharing a bed, set in the stormblood patches
word count: 1.9k
summary:
Urianger can tell Solkgeim hasn't been sleeping, so he's not offended when she falls asleep when their conversation stretches on into the night. Instead, he offers her his bed- but her paranoia won't let her sleep alone.
written for wolianger week 2026, day one: good morning
ffxiv. wol/artoirel, wol/minfilia & wol/magnai. 1,5k words, gen.
takes place during Stb.
read on ao3
The first time Nika left Magnai's room in the morning, he wasn't immediately, acutely aware that the entire Oronir tribe could have guessed what had happened. He was prepared for the possibility, distantly, but it did not register right away. The clothes he wore were his — style of the Steppe, yes, but they did belong to Nika — yet in hindsight, he was sure they knew.
Their friendship has never been devoid of a certain pull, a tug o' war between two men who refuse to back down. It's only normal, then, for Nika to end up pinned to the wall in Magnai's room and for them to make out about it.
Nika isn't sure he's even capable of not having that pull with his male friends, anyways.
The thought scares him in a way he can only express as a deep, exasperated sigh.
He should have known better than to come to Magnai's room again. He should have known better than to give in, and yet, there was Magnai again, a powerful man Nika could surrender to. He trusts Magnai in a strange way, despite his inexperience. There is an uncertainty in Magnai's eyes when they're naked and behind closed doors, a shaky ground they both insist on walking on, and that, maybe, gives Nika the comfort that Magnai understands.
There's nothing Nika hates more than having to explain himself using words.
The first time he had sex with a man was a relatively safe one. Estinien was alone in his hospital bed, bored out of his mind, and Nika was by his side, entertaining him with talk and music, until his hand found itself in Estinien's breeches. They could have been caught, true, but it was an embarrassingly quick thing. For more than one reason, including that same understanding he shares with Magnai, he knows Estinien won't breathe a word of it to anyone.
The closest he's ever come to sleeping with Artoirel is sitting beside him at the piano, touching covered skin while trying to not lose focus. He's a fucking professional, after all. Not a professional at sex, though it does give him a bit of pride how much women seem to enjoy their time with him. It's very attractive when a woman is enjoying herself.
Unfortunately, any such pretense gets lost when he's in Artoirel's proximity, when this damned elezen is all buttoned up and ramrod straight, when the only thing he wants is to muster the courage to do anything but just sit there like a dimwit.
Nika shakes the thought away. The Fortemps handkerchief sits comfortably in Tyche's pack, alongside extra bullets, some food and a water flask, as well as a notebook and a pen. The bird yaps impatiently as Nika adjusts his rifle on his back and takes his hat from Tyche's saddle.
"Just wait, will you? For fuck's sake." He glares witheringly at his chocobo. The fucker has the nerve to throw his beak in Nika's direction. "Fine, I'll let you get hit or something and just defend myself." The bird stomps his feet. "That's rude."
"Nika, please, let him be," Hien's voice calls. He then adds, from Nika's periphery: "That hat will not help either you or him."
"No, but the rifle will. Besides, the hat is very necessary, as any armor is." Nika squints. "Do you have something to say about my choice of armor?"
Hien cocks his head to the side and crosses his arms over his chest. He smiles knowingly. "And what do you need defending from at the present?"
Nika presses his lips together. "Hien, I need some time alone." He adjusts the braid beneath his hat.
"You do look as pressed to leave as your bird," Hien agrees. He then comes closer and asks, "Are you alright?"
"I am!" The sound comes off shrill. He growls at himself. "I am fine. I simply need some time by myself."
Hien lifts a brow. "Nika."
"Yeah?" Nika taps his foot on the ground. His heart and his rifle are heavy.
"Please, don't lie to me. You look like something is weighing on your mind."
Hien is a friend, Nika remembers. He hates using words, however. He hates it, it makes him feel awkward and awful. It drives him up the wall that he can never find the right one, and if he does, it just makes it feel worse.
However, there is something in the notion of honesty that grabs Nika's attention. Truth is a pair of shackles, but honesty looks like something you daydream about. He thinks about his songs, recalls tunes and words, all compiled in one of his many notebooks. Are they alright?
"I just need some alone time," Nika says, somewhat tiredly. That's all he can do. His throat aches and he rubs the skin above the collar of his red coat. That's all he can do.
Hien places a gentle hand on Nika's forearm. "If you want to talk about it, I am offering."
"Thanks, but.. It'll sort itself out when I'm back." Nika sighs and offers a small smile. "I'll just get going now."
Hien watches him leave. He just stands there at the edge of Temulun's yard, getting smaller and smaller as Nika rides on.
Nika doesn't understand why.
*****
The meadow he chooses is suitably away. Some wildlife runs beside him, true, but he is there in peace. Tyche is laying beside him, enjoying the afternoon sun. He gives a squeak of protest when Nika digs through the bag at his side for his note but otherwise doesn't move.
Nika's fingers brush over the Fortemps kerchief. He breathes out, as if stung, and pulls it out alongside his pen and notebook.
The song he and Artoirel last played, before he left, appears in his mind. Its weight pulls Nika's thoughts in its rhythm, colors them in soft yellows and warm greens. He used to think of Minfilia like that, but these days, thinking of her either makes him angry or makes him want to cry.
Now, he thinks of Artoirel's voice as he offers opinions on Nika's new lyrics. It's frightening how fast Nika allowed him to express his opinions on them openly. He thinks of that gravely sound, swaddled in something Nika can't name, and it dances so prettily with the gentle wave of Artoirel's music.
It reminded him of a love song, though he couldn't quite be sure. Artoirel never confirmed one way or another. But again, the last song Nika started working on was never confirmed to be one either.
He opens his notebook. Beneath the tentative title, he'd scribbled in a small font, To A.F.
He cringes at himself. He puts his hat by his side and buries his face in his hands.
The title is just plain stupid.
How many people has he fucked since Minfilia died? Estinien, Hilda, Magnai.
Has he written songs to any of them? No. Only for Minfilia.
Nika groans. It sounds like a choked cry. A force bubbles in him until it threatens to overflow. He can taste it on his tongue, between his teeth, holding his air flow hostage from inside out. Shame burns it up, the scent of scorched blood fills his nostrils.
Why is he like this? Would it have felt better if A.F was Anne, or Aurora, or Amelia? Would he have knelt in Magnai's bedroom, his hand in Nika's hair, if he wasn't like this? Would he have been able to look at a friend and not think about what it'd be like to kiss him?
Magnai would know, if Nika felt like he would get an answer from him. Magnai is all up his ass about his Nhaama - beautiful, womanly Nhaama, wife of the ages - and she feels made up, fictional, the same way Minfilia felt fictional in Nika's dreams. It's a good story, but stories don't get you shit but wish fulfillment.
Maybe Magnai finds his Nhaama one day. Maybe Nika is the odd one out, never destined to be with his Minfilia.
He doesn't register he's crying for a long time. All around him, there's just wind, grass, birds up above, a napping Tyche, yet this peace offends him. He feels the urge to kick something.
Instead he just screams into his glove. Again.
It seems to take something out of him. His shoulders sag and he lays back on the grass, stares at the wide expanse of the sky. Birds pass him by. The sun shines above him, uncaring for the ache in his throat and chest. He's a red dot on the green ground, the plants chant the music of the wind in his ear.
If Minfilia was looking down at him, she makes no sign of doing so.
He opens his mouth to sing, to scream.
Instead, he just speaks in his natural voice, the high, resonant voice he sings with, but this time unfiltered by the artistry of it all. "I'm gay," he says and makes a pained expression.
