#gratien

[wyrdzpiral]

BOOB MEME. (i legit think this is the first time gratien fata morgana art gets posted on tumblr)

[moonprisons]

he has never known any strife in his life and trusts me so much. he sits under my OFFICE CHAIR. CONSTANTLY.

[citationsdumonde]

Une guerre est juste si elle est menée dans une intention droite, sous la direction d'une autorité légitime et dans un but défensif ou dans le but de reprendre un bien injustement pris.

Décret de Gratien (vers 1150)

[gaius-says]

A pretty and smol brunette haired hyuran woman almost bumps into Gratien. With a squeak she puts a hand over the basket that's hooked over one elbow, the force of the movement sends a muffin flying up into the air.

It was one of those unusual moments that Gratien experienced while among Eorzeans.

He caught that muffin with little effort -- one of the benefits of the third eye, then hidden beneath a glamour -- and smiled warmly to the woman before offering it back.

“The fault is mine, miss. Are you alright?”

[greetingsfromeruhain]

Fangirl

there used to be a girl

few dates here and there,

a few nights out

gratien really liked her.

she was short, a bit plump

her body made him feel good about his body.

if someone so beautiful could look like him

then maybe he was beautiful too.

 but she did mention akiva. a lot.

gratien understood at first,

akiva moved her.

she used to only mention him a little.

here and there - a little hum of one of his ditties

- a little sliver of one of his poems -

it's a part of life, you know.

akiva is bound to get mentioned.

everyone loves him.

 he loved her smile, she shared his.

and the way his eyebrows would rise

above his dumb pink glasses

he was always blown away by the gentleness of her singing voice.

she knew verses, music from centuries ago.

gratien just guzzled down on fast food and drank soda, while

she'd read ancient melodies from so long ago.

gifting them a music his mind could never fathom.

 but there is always something, isn't there?

akiva would slip into other conversations.

small at first, but always growing in intensity.

he was her idol.

she aimed to compose, to move crowds as he did.

soon, his mangled, handsome, transplanted face would enter every sentence.

ripping up the syntax, bursting from nowhere, infecting every conversation.

present in every private moment.

tearing her further away from him.

 and then gratien had a little gig,

down in the alehouse. a lute, mandolin, accordion.

twenty-one attendees.

she came to it.

he had endured the whole carriage ride over,

talk of how akiva was in town, across the river.

 and then, later on,

after the last strained polkas,

and the final rap verse, voice raw,

when the moon hung bright above the town square,

after gratien smiled and waved at the crowd,

and bowed, his frame aching with nothing but pride,

gazing at the twenty-one faces,

fulfilled

 he turned

and he saw her by the side of the stage

an akiva einhorn t-shirt in hand,

signed.

fresh ink.