And I've got a big question for y'all. I'm told that, due to timezone differences, our friends in the Europe struggle with the usual 12:00 pm PST prompt drop.
In order to accommodate...
Should the prompt drop time change to 9:00 am PST?
Sure!
No, thank you - keep it 12:00 pm PST
Voting ended onAug 11
The 24-hour time limit for prize eligibility would still apply. So, as an example, for PST folks, the 24-hour window would shift to 9:00 am 9/1 - 8:59 9/2 on prompt #1, and so on.
9:00 am PST is the only option on the table for a potential prompt drop time adjustment. Please understand that there is no prompt drop time of day that will work perfectly for everyone. Adjusting to a 9:00 am PST start would allow a fair range of writing times for a broader majority.
So, please vote! Share this post with your FFxivWrite participating friends so that they can vote as well.
In 1 week I'll check back on the poll, and I'll take the results into serious consideration as I prep for September 1st, 2026! The final prompt drop time will be announced in the official rules post that will go out roughly 2 weeks before the challenge begins.
Characters: The Phoenix and The Moth @twixtbound
Content Warning: NSFW. Contains violence, blood, consensual sexual interaction, bondage.
"Breathe me in and forget to exhale."
Smoke sprawls across pallid skin, the curl of his smile caught in the swirling wisps exuding over his lips. The tilt of his head casts a shadow over his face, igniting his eyes—embers trapped in kohl. His bronze-skinned hand glides over a slender arm, fingers moulding to the shape of muscle and bone.
Up, up, up…
A slender blade punctures the centre of a palm, pinioning the limb to the rough wood. The quake of muscle in the body pressed between him and the wall draws his attention downward. His lips purse with a croon of pity and false soothing, yet his eyes burn with fresh flame newly stoked.
"Mine."
The single word hums against an ear, vibrating down the spine of his moth. Pleasure burns through him, fingers twitching to pluck delicate strings until they snap.
Another blade slips from the sheath strapped to his thigh. The leather encasing his body designed to move with him like a second skin, to withstand the unruly heat burning in his core.
He can never stop at only one.
The second hand joins the first, fingers interwoven, and that blade driven home without so much as a word of warning. He wants uncertain anticipation coiling like a snake in his moth's gut —to watch pain chase itself through his eyes until it bleeds out over his face as it does down his arms.
Fingers paint, smearing dark blood across pale skin, tracing over shadowed veins and streaking long down a breastbone. Lips tremble and part—an invitation without true intention.
His.
"Mine."
He claims that offer, a theft formed of mouths combined. A slow inhale steals breath, sound, sense. The invading sweep of his tongue savours the wreckage he's crafted. The bite of his teeth turns their kiss to a darkened wine.
Heat flares through him with the hook of his fingers into the waist of the pants now in his way —the last shred of modesty clinging to his pinned moth. The blade slices along heaving ribs, and the moth dances on tip toe, his wings bleeding out onto the floor.
A thumb presses into the cut, joining the many already marring his moth's torso. A reminder of their fun earlier in the evening, when argument led to their current predicament. The answering groan drives him. Ties pull loose and cloth slinks down slender legs, left to gravity's claws.
He crowds in close against his moth, lips a whisper against his ear. The blade scratches promises along his lower rib, the tip sinking deep to mark each hitch of breath. A lethal ellipsis carved down his abdomen and ending in the heat of his hand coiling around his moth's blood-soaked cock.
"Mine."
A fine line lies between pleasure and pain—one he crosses with brutal finality.
The bite of metal through battered skin punctuates each stroke of his opposing hand. The sink of his teeth persists—against a pale ear, into the softness of a lip, the angle of a jaw. He grants no mercy, no hesitation. The moth had his say, and now all rules but one will shatter at their feet.
The remaining rule he will hold the moth to, again and again. This twisted dance of agony melding with ecstasy delights him. The way the moth bends, dissolving into the ruin offered up by the demand of his hands, his blade. He feasts on the sight of him— the glazed expression in his eyes, the spattering of broken sounds from his lips.
That inevitable shattering when the two no longer divide.
"Mine."
Mercy comes only in the oblivion granted when the world goes black.
Characters: The Phoenix and The Raven.
Content Warning: Mind fuckery; Violence
…Down in the dark he dwells…
The change in the forest grows more palpable every day. The Ghostlands steadily heal, and the clinging gloom flees the rising dawn. Such pockets now only linger in the terrible places, where the trauma runs deep. Mother’s bones tremble; the ingrained taint meets fresh insult. The ground turns, pushing out ashes. The grace of air casts sparks, igniting what should’ve been forgotten.
Hunkered down in the security of the shadows, he watches the Sun come and go. Once, twice. A third time–like he could not stay away. Yet for all the fire in that one’s soul, he could not see through this darkness to his hidden core. He creeps out only when the warmth the Sun left behind has dwindled into near nothing. A trace of heat under his palm that his own nature banishes with his thoughtless touch.
…His voice electric in the static noise…
“Jade.”
The soft call of his name sends chills down his spine. The turn of his head meets the trickle of cool fingers around his warm throat. Spectral in nature–or a figment of his imagination. Jade rubs at his throat, fingers bumping over the scars set in a starburst pattern in his skin. A mark he shares and —though his lies say otherwise— a scar that isn’t his own. The burden of silence is not his to carry, but he does.
The Shadow speaks with his voice, a warmth stolen and a thought best left forgotten. Ire fires in his gut. His gloved hands fist at his sides. He could go back. Back to the phantom safety found in the group of people he’d strode away from in the Row. A ruse that will bring harm to them as well as himself thanks to his presence, his ash scenting their existences.
A lingering song he cannot resist.
…Drive into us…
A scrape screeches in his ears. The street slants beneath his feet. His fingers claw for the solidity of marble tipping into obscurity. The city falls away into a swirl of fog rising to catch him. The obliteration of his senses carries madness. Phantom faces rise in the smoke, pressing close to him and leaving their chill behind. Their touch burns him, a different sort of burn than those his embers create–spikes of ice drawing sigils into his flesh, suppressing his flame.
The binds around his wrists fracture, splinter into shards of gold and emerald. Alarm flares in his mind, but the grapple for the pieces of his bracers proves fruitless.
The Shadows never disappoint.
…These stakes born of broken claws…
Lips spread on a soundless cry. The splinters of gold and emerald drive into him, piercing his flesh one slicing fragment at a time. They fracture further, spiral out as vines growing in his skin, their thorns biting deep. Agony pierces the darkness, and the fog swells.
He’s drowning. Suffocating. Endless.
“Jade.”
The word is an insult on the lips that speak it. No name to stain his tongue–only a stab at the lack of identity the thief has. Another pain to crawl into his soul and remind him…
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