Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Did you see the latest--?"

"Yes, with Elidibus this time!"

"I can't believe they had him giving head. I won't be able to look at the Emissary's lips the same way..."

Lahabrea hears no more of the twelfths' muffled conversation, pentangle and sword moving down the hall out of earshot. More and more he caught snippets of these salacious rumors, but frustratingly never their source.

With a sigh he strolls into the empty meeting room, aiming for the plush reading chair, before pausing at the carved wooden end table. An unfamiliar book catches his eye, binding ratty and cheap. Such a tawdry thing has no place in his pristine library, and he picks it up, intent on clearing it away. Instead, the binding gives way and its papers fly freely over the floor in an unabashed mess. Growling at this additional frustration he bends down to pick up the pages. Words catch his eye, fragments of the story, and he stills as he realizes what he's holding.

--ragged gasps leaving his throat, he cannot help but whine as her thrusts pick up pace. Spurred on by the Speaker's incoherent moans, she wrings animalistic howls from a throat designed for discourse. Not this carnal mating, and his voice is beginning to show the disuse. Golden hair shifts in time with their coupling, an entrancing display in contrast with the dark, much mussed bedsheets.

"Come now love, won't you sing for me?"--

Eyes widening at the lurid prose, he grasps for another page.

--slick, needy fingers pry him open, flicking deep, deeper, until his back bows off the bed in soundless pleasure. Stars erupt behind his eyes while those clever fingers continue pushing, prying, working him wide enough to take her whole. Then, the fingers are gone. Absent their pulsing presence he groans, tugging his bonds until--

Another.

--Starlight drifts in through the wide, floor-length windows, illuminating the twined figures sprawled upon the canopied bed. Soft moans pervade through the room, as the smaller figure visits playful nips along the bound one's form.

"Harder." The order echoes across the room, voice unmistakable and velvet smooth. A voice made for command, despite its owner's thoroughly restrained state--

They're all like that, he realizes with growing dismay. Tearing through the remaining pages, he hurriedly searches for a title page or author's name. Finding neither it occurs to him this is a stolen copy. Gathering the remaining pages to him, he rises from the floor with an urgency he hasn't felt since the last Calamity. Calling the thick ambient aether to him, he teleports.

"Elidibus!"

The Speaker spills out of the black portal onto Zodiark's bleak moon. Striding over to the placid Emissary, Lahabrea shoves a bundle of poorly gathered paper into his colleague's hands. Elidibus glances curiously at the paper then back to the agitated Speaker.

"What--"

"Read it." Lahabrea hisses, anger roiling tangibly through his aether.

Elidibus scans the pages thrust into his hands with mild bemusement until his eye catches a particular description.

--The music of his piano wraps around them as though the song were a living, breathing, participant. Elidibus' breath trembles as he plays his heart out to them, one audience member amongst many, knowing that his melody will carve its way into their being much as he wishes to visit upon their pride later this evening when--

Elidibus looks up, the beginnings of rage simmering in his voice.

"We must find whomsoever wrote this drivel."

"Good, it isn't you then." Lahabrea's laugh is a cracked, ugly thing. Elidibus' gaze snaps to his, piercing the Speaker in place.

Closing his eyes Lahabrea cards an agitated hand through his hair, inadvertently knocking his hood loose. A true sign of how perturbed the Speaker is, to reveal his countenance with his hood down and not immediately rectify it. Mask or no mask, any reveal of their guise is an intimate display, one not usually shared between these paragons.

"Whomever the author is, they nailed our appearance. Given they know our titles, our features, I thought it might be one of us."

The pair share a look, then turn their gazes up to the innocent blue orb of the Source.

Solus' bones ache. Creaking with age, he pilots the vessel into his private chambers with what little grace remains in its frame. Twin pools of darkness drip into existence as soon as the door swings shut behind him, distressingly interrupting his path to his favorite armchair. As the tendrils recede and deposit his fellow paragons into his chambers, Solus puts on a turn of speed and makes around them to the armchair before they start nagging. Sagging into its luxuriant comfort, he waggles a gnarled hand in their direction.

"Elidibus, Lahabrea, to what do I owe the dubious honor of receiving you? If it's about my imminent demise, not to worry. Both front runners have been riled up and--"

"This isn't about your blasted empire, Emet-Selch!" Solus' hand twitches at the interruption. Slowly drawing his hands together, he perches his wizened chin upon them and regards his colleagues of chaos.

"What, pray tell, has brought you both here to me then. I've had no reports of calamitous tidings from the front, and Eorzea is currently struggling under Baelsar's shadow."

"Is this prose familiar to you." Elidibus passes him some wrinkled paper, printed ink still clear. Solus squints to read it, squinting harder as he processes what he's reading. Finally he sits back in the armchair letting loose an exasperated sigh.

"Well that's certainly not how I would have gone about pegging our dear Speaker--"

"Answer his question you thrice-damned fool--"

"Lahabrea." Elidibus cuts the ranting Speaker short with a light tap of his gold-taloned hand. Turning back to address the reclining Emperor, Elidibus invokes the man's title to prise the truth of the matter from him.

"Emet-Selch, Angel of Truth, we would know your answer. Is this writing familiar to you." The normally calm Emissary's tone is sharp, with something bitter running through its undercurrents. Solus regards him quietly, mocking affectations gone, once more an Ascian amongst Ascians.

"No. This is my first time reading this fiction."

"Fiction--" Lahabrea barks out, indignant, only to be admonished by Elidibus' talon once again.

Solus' bushy eyebrow raises at his outburst, humor not entirely suppressed, measuring the Speaker anew with this confirmation. Pegged by Igeyorhm. Who would have thought.

"This bodes ill, Emet-Selch. If you are not the author, and we are not, then who among us is the culprit?"

For it must be an Ascian, they agree, as who else could know of Amaurot?

Chapter Text

Extended excerpt from Ass**** Adventures volume III: Undone

Another day, another debate, another smoldering coal requiring their mutual addressing. They depart their day's duties and abscond to his top floor suite as soon as evening falls. High, so high, where birds soar by and the view of their city is unparalleled. There they sin in equal measure. One, voice lost to pleasure. The other, dangerously indulged.

They start with the ropes. Silken lengths crafted with exquisite care, they bind Lahabrea tight to his bedspread. Wrists, ankles, secured with experienced twists--tight but not unbearably so. Igeyorhm takes her time, teasing touches through their robes. Fingers drag furrows through the soft outerwear, claims that leave no mark. Her delicate hands intent on dissipating his clothes, piece by careful piece, aether tickling his bare skin.

“Yours as well, my dear.”

The Speaker cranes his neck upward, muscles straining, for the barest touch of tongue to skin. She chuckles as he laves at her, practically begging for equal footing this night. Lips caressing the column of her neck, she rewards him for his good behavior. A simple thought is all it takes to plunge the room into darkness, his eyes unprepared, and she begins her assault.

Starlight drifts in through the wide, floor-length windows, sole illumination for the twined figures sprawled upon the canopied bed. Soft moans pervade through the room, as the smaller figure visits playful nips along the bound one's form.

"Harder."

The order echoes across the room, voice unmistakable and velvet smooth. A voice made for command, despite its owner's thoroughly restrained state.

She obliges the trussed Speaker, the evening is young enough that Igeyorhm can afford to indulge him. Hard bites on mounded flesh draw approving murmurs from his lovely, lonely throat. Lonely tonight, but not always so. She trails downwards, arms pressed against his sides, as her mouth leaves dark, bruising evidence of her passage. A constellation of heat at her whim. She savors his long moan as she nudges his thighs apart, ropes holding tight to hands that convulse. Wishing to touch yet unable.

Lahabrea is ever a man of contradictions and conditions. Touch here, kiss there, but only by his say so. Mute him, gag him, but only by his chosen partner.

She dips her mouth to visit his aching member. Proud, upstanding being that he is, his cock is exemplary. Smiling against his fevered skin, she takes the head of him just barely, just enough for the Speaker to feel her moist mouth. So ready to hear him roar. Her lips dance along his length, pressing, nipping, sucking with hollow cheeks. All his favorites and then some. The Speakers guttural growl is her reward, hips bucking against her firm hands. Wanting, wanton, touch leaving him too soon. She pins him securely for this next game.

Aetherical hands appear at her whim, summoned with particular textures, his favorite. These slick, needy fingers pry him open, flicking deep, deeper, until his back bows off the bed in soundless pleasure. Stars erupt behind his eyes while those clever fingers continue pushing, prying, working him wide enough to take her whole. Then, the fingers are gone. Absent their pulsing presence he groans, tugging his bonds until a new sensation probes at his entrance.

Eyes fly open to witness Igeyorhm's wicked grin, her desire unleashed, and he shivers at the sight. A beast before its hunter, he can only watch in eager awe as she flaunts her harness.

Teasing touches are all she permits after his earlier pleasure. Running the tip of her manufactured length around his rim, he cannot help but curse her.

"Wretch. Heathen. Cruel heart." Each insult delivered with clever tongue, clever mouth. She would not commandeer those tonight, no, tonight she will ruin him. Incoherence is all Igeyorhm wishes for, to have him undone. Laid bare. Her dearest contradiction, rendered mute of higher diction.

Gauging Lahabrea recovered from his initial high, she shoves herself into him with a feral grin. Unprepared, his voice catches on his half-spoken word. Breath leaves the Speaker in a heady gasp as she hilts within.

Then, she moves. Slowly, slower than he would like, but for the fact he cannot catch his breath to order her so.

Ragged gasps leaving his throat, he cannot help but whine as her thrusts pick up pace. Spurred on by the Speaker's debauched moans, she moves deeper, faster, wringing animalistic howls from a throat designed for discourse. Not this carnal mating, and his voice is beginning to show the disuse. Golden hair shifts in time with their coupling, an entrancing display in contrast with the dark, much mussed bedsheets.

"Come now love, won't you sing for me?"

She thrusts into him, aetherical hands coaxing flesh to quiver beneath her. Insubstantial yet substantial enough, the visibly invisible hands grasp his length as she spears the Speaker on hers.

His voice is diminished to coarse incoherence, head lolling to her rhythm. Debased, debauched, undone by her hand. All that remains is to finish.

Leaning over him, her unbound tresses pooling atop his limp form, she ruts against him. Sweat slick skin yielding to her ministrations, he can only whimper encouragement to never still never stop as she rides him to a new high.

Two, four, another brace of hands appear to enact her whims. The spectral hands roam his body, twisting, teasing, adding their fuel to the conflagration below. Igeyorhm shifts lower, fronts pressed flush, as her hips tuck against his. The changed angle brushes over that most intimate of inner walls, once, twice, thrice, and he is bucking again, howling against the restraints, coming loose against her as aetheric hands stroke him to completion. She leans back as he spills his desire across the sheets, gasping for air that will not sate his lungs. Another thrust and she finds her peak keening along with him, harness pressed tight against her dripping cunt.

They hold like that a moment, heavy gasps a lusty melody. Then, with practiced motions they attend the other, dark bites the only remaining evidence of their claim.

This is not the first, nor the least, of Lahabrea and Igeyorhm's associations. For more Ass**** Adventures seek out the Naughty Honors publishing house or wherever dirty novels are sold.

Chapter Text

It starts for you when you meet your first Ascian. He introduces himself to you in Toto-rak, this Lahabrea. Lahabrea. His name stirs something slumbering deep within. You don't get the chance to question him directly, as the diremite Graffias keeps you occupied fighting for your life. Afterwards, however, you note a particular figure niggling just out of sight, out of hearing, out of mind. Taking this frustrating phenomena into your own hands, you clear your schedule for the night. Candles lit, incense burning, you focus inward and meditate. It is then you're able to meet, talk with this ancient within. The fourteenth, they call themselves. They tell you of their cohorts, from a time long ago. Lahabrea, Igeyorhm, Emet-Selch, Elidibus. One name chains the next into existence. You spend many nights in this manner, communing with this fractured whole, until you two are one and nearly indistinguishable.

The writing is an exercise, at first. Putting memory to paper preserves it, your journal providing the grounds to explore the past. It's an accident, your mind had wandered, when you first find a scene so explicitly written your face flushes red as a dzemael tomato. Your trance disrupted, you close the offending journal and call it a night. That memory, though, is transcribed in such detail that you find your fantasies infected with threads of it.

Nights spent wanting, to read the rest and revisit the memory. Your will crumbles after a particularly frustrating day, and you put ink to paper once more. This time the scene features your past self, and you revel in the recollection.

Soon you find memories supplanted with past fantasies. Thoughts of these cohorts brought low, debased, fantasies within fantasies.

Then disaster, Alisae finds your new journal open.

"What's this, Warrior?" Alisae holds your latest journal, fair to bursting with accumulated recollections. You'd thought it safe enough, here in your room, to leave it out while fetching your lunch. Thoughts racing you seize on the first excuse that comes to mind.

"Oh that old thing? It's a ten gil romance I picked up in Ul'dah for a lark. You know you can find anything in Ul'dah."

Alisae nods sagely, agreeing that those Ul'dahns are a raunchy bunch.

"Might I borrow it? I've been looking for a new series." Your mind blanks in panic, and you nod dumbly.

"You should start here, then." Pulling out your first journal, from when you gave over to writing down these fevered memories, you place the ratty thing in her hands and exchange it for the overfull current volume.

"Thanks friend! If I like it, mind sharing which peddler was carrying them?"

"Oh, uh, I'm not sure how many are published yet? I can get back to you after my next visit to Ul'dah."

Alisae nods, accepting your deflection, and salutes with the Twelvesdamned journal while exiting your doorway.

Now, how to salvage this predicament. Actual publication was not something you'd considered before, but if Alisae liked it... You'd preserve your anonymity of course. No one could know the source of such penned debauchery was their bringer of light. The mortification might strike you dead on the spot. Having to sell Alisae a tale on the journal's origins was harrowing enough! You turn back to your desk, a fresh journal chosen from your inventory, and consider what to write.

Chapter Text

Finding which of the Sundered had left behind the book is a task all on its own. As the bearer of bad news to his fellows, Lahabrea is tasked with finding this infuriating author. He is more suited to these kinds of investigations than his fellow Paragons in any case. Unfettered by diplomacy or an empire, his mobility is unparalleled to sow chaos across the face of the star. That, and he always did relish solving difficult problems.

Elidibus offers to help once the Ultima machine is complete, rightfully wary of Sabik's heart consuming more than untethered primals. Lahabrea, as co-creator of that particular Concept, is the only safe candidate to interface with it when active. And the day it is unleashed draws ever closer...

"Pentacle, Sword, meet me in my office."

The pair exchange a glance, black masks concealing what their aether does not. Worry radiates off the Sundered minions as they follow him into his well-appointed lair. They remain standing, tense at the Paragon's invitation, as Lahabrea primly seats himself at his writing desk. Dense carpet underfoot absorbs their uncomfortable shifting silently. The Speaker steeples his hands and adopts his best 'Professor questioning students' posture, evoking days gone by when their most significant trials were classwork and Concepts.

The Sundered's latest task comes to mind, evaluation of the new Warrior of Light, and concern grows that their evaluation of the threatening adventurer was perhaps lacking. Their report had yet been fresh on his desk when the Warrior inexplicably appeared in Coerthas to meddle with Garuda.

"If this is about our report on Haukke Manor..." Sword takes the plunge to address the presumed subject.

Lahabrea pauses, gathered thoughts derailed from his line of questioning. The Warrior of Light? While the recurring thorn in their side is certainly a concern, it is impersonal. Just business. Two primals diametrically opposed, sending their advocates to advance their respective agendas and inevitably be drawn into conflict with the other. Besides, he has an 'in' on tracking and hindering this Warrior's progress with his latest vessel. The Archon Thancred, already wearing his dark crystal, a convenient puppet for what is to come.

This author however, this accursed individual, has made things intensely personal.

Lahabrea waves off the fragment's attempt at conversation.

"This doesn't concern the crystal bearer." The pair's shoulders slump slightly in relief, only to tense back up at the Speaker's next words.

"Earlier this week you two were discussing elicit acts, found in a stolen book." His matter of fact tone belies the rage that memory evokes. "I would know where you procured it."

The pair before him quiver in fear over his plain statement of fact, the strong emotion throbbing harshly through their aether. It fair gives him a headache to stare at, and at his burgeoning frown the pair quaver further.

"We--I found it in Ul'dah." Pentacle steps forward, bodily shielding Sword. "One of the traders on the Sapphire Exchange was regaling passerby with passages to attract customers to their booth. After recognizing some of the names, well..." Pentacle trails off, aether fluttering with embarrassment and shame.

"Reading passages to passerby." Lahabrea drops his head into gloved hands, this is far worse than he had imagined. Their business was public. The public that frequents erotic book stalls, but still.

"Show me."

The trio of hooded figures disembark in the alley behind the Sapphire Exchange. Streets bustling with activity, no one takes particular note of the set of robed figures in the bright Ul'dah sun. Pentacle takes the lead and navigates through the dusty market until they reach their destination. It is an unassuming little booth in the row of paper goods stalls, for all that it has thrown eons of dignity out the window.

The lalafell shopkeep greets their visitors boisterously.

"Ahh! Treasured customers, come here! Lean close, and I will share with you--"

"Cease." Lahabrea's raised claws do little to dampen the lalafell's exuberance. The shopkeep bobs their head in a nod, small gesture exaggerated on the diminutive form, and gives the trio a knowing smile.

"Not a man interested in sampling the wares I see, you must already have something in mind! Tell me tell me, and I will have the volume ready for you post haste--"

Sword steps in before the Speaker makes a smear of the mortal across The Ul'dahn pavement.

"Last week you were doing readings of a novel with characters named Lahabrea and Igeyorhm. Do you have any copies left?"

"Ahh, you are a discerning customer with excellent taste my sers! The Ass-asterisk Adventures have four volumes in--"

"The WHAT." Lahabrea's voice rings ominously across the market. Shadows elongate across the ground despite the sun directly overhead, glowing orb unable to confine the inky blackness rushing to the Speaker's feet. Sword and Pentacle exchange a look, and turn to weave a shell of silence around the incensed Speaker and the offending stall. Look away, see nothing, hear only the expected sounds of the busy street, and forget the dark tone of an eldritch being. The passerby that had paused at Lahabrea's shout shake their heads and move on. Break in the otherwise ordinary day snuffed from existence.

"The, uh, the Ass-asterisk Adventures milord?" The lalafell shopkeep, finally cowed, attempts to soothe their volatile customer. Hands flung high in surprise slowly drift down to a more natural, supplicating posture. Hair prickles on the back of their neck, as the red masked man glowers.

"And who is responsible for that abomination of a title. What author dares."

"Well you see--that is to say--oh dear...the author is anonymous." At the Speaker's threatening step forward, the lalafell hurries to explain. "It's common for authors in this genre to remain obscure by choice! Besides, I'm a distributor. Only the publishing house would have access to their identity."

The lalafell's quick talking seems to appease the robed figure, slightly muting the murderous aura they're wrapped in.

"Very well. Give me any copies you have, your entire stock of that, and no harm will come to you."

The lalafell makes to protest, out of reflex, then eyes the shadows swirling still at the guest's feet. Pointy boots, the shopkeep notes absently.

"Of--of course milord. Pray hold just a moment as I prepare your purchase."

Crisis averted, deft hands quickly gather the dozen or so copies their shop owns and bundles them in concealing paper and twine. Tying off the knot in a handle, they offer it to the dark figure.

"May the Twelve keep you, milord."

The figure snorts a derisively at that. Hidden eyes pin the shopkeep in place as taloned hands delicately lift the twine handle. The pair flanking Lahabrea drop their arms, casting complete, and turn to face their Paragon.

Black tendrils rise from the puddle below and envelop the trio. A moment later and they are gone, as though they never were, ordinary sounds a sudden cacophony in the lalafell's ears. A predatory grin spreads across the shopkeep's face, peril now past. This encounter reeks of a profitable business venture. If that series is good enough to piss off a great mage, well, so long as their person is not involved again they're more than eager to restock. Pulling out pen and paper to scribe a quick request to the publishing house, they consider idly which of the 'characters' they've just met.

Another day another tedious set of administrative meetings complete. Solus paces his halls, the thought of those books at the forefront of his mind. He hasn't read something so amusing in several lifetimes. The Speaker and the Martyr, indeed. How much of their written encounter was Truth and what was fantasy had been unclear, though Lahabrea's reaction confirmed they had been involved.

No, this simply will not do. His fellows had implied there was more than one volume of such compromising material in circulation. Aged fist coming to rest in his other palm, Solus comes to a decision.

He strides down the black metal hallways, simple geometries a nostalgic tribute. Cloak shushing against the floor behind him, he comes to the door he's searching for. Home to the Exploratorem, his nest of spies will serve nicely to retrieve the novels he seeks.

The single woman at the desk within jumps to attention, arm up in salute before the door is fully open.

"Excursor, I require a discrete agent."

"Of course, your Radiance. How may we serve?"

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Ass**** Adventures volume IV: Quarry

Nabriales is not a man accustomed to denial.

His grasp over magicks majestic extends to bedplay, of course. A moment stretched to eons, teased to the edge and kept there by his whim. Nabriales is often a selfish lover, though that fact does not stop the flow of bedmates eager to partake. He relishes the control to be found with another underneath him.

How is it then that he finds himself now beneath another?

Decorative chains whose only purpose are to demonstrate how captive he is drape about his nude form. Tooled leather collar leads to a leather lead, firmly in the hand of tonight's partner. His superior. His master.

Their eyes fairly glow in the dark of the room, Nabriales' vision drawn to that sole illumination in this private chamber. No blindfolds tonight, they want him to witness. To be fully aware of how little he is to them.

"Consider this evening an exercise in penance." Their sultry voice draws shivers down his spine. "Every altruistic act you perform, you will be rewarded for. Every task you undertake with another's pleasure in mind, I shall log in your ledger to account for. However--", they pull his leash, leaning in until their noses brush in intimate distance, "Your ledger is starting at a deficit, my little Mystic."

Nabriales' response is breath upon their lips.

"I live to serve, master."

For this was a treat, most delicious that they offered. The freedom to care, to serve, to know his needs would be measured and met. For all that he can take what he desires, it is a lonely pedestal to stand upon. To stand apart. To have warm flesh writhing at his will, yet never sate that worming doubt buried deep that they will return his affections. His needs.

It is with blistering confidence that Nabriales surges forward, a Quake at his lips, to lavish fluttering touch against them. They lean back in their chair, unhurriedly drawing him alongside and into their covered lap. He rains kisses down upon them, and as on parched earth the soothing ripples spread across their skin. The plush armchair bears their weight easily as he draws above them, the furniture's clawed feet settled deep into the carpet beneath. So too does he settle above them, bare hips mated flush to their clothed set, arms a cage from which there will be no escape attempted. A fiction, to think he needs to pen them in.

Their chest heaves from the localized quakes he bestows. Tremors spreading from the kisses epicenters to meet between, building to a raucous chorus. Seeding a fault line of kisses down their neck, he whispers a question. A supplication. May he please have all of them bare to attend to.

Their clothing vanishes with a thought, acknowledgement and acceptance clear with that action. Nabriales shudders at the free rein they grant him. Exuding confidence of their own, not quite defiance, it unmasks his need to compete. To shake their resolve. To prove he is more than worthy of their continued attention.

Fault lines spread, lengthen, tremors spiking in ferocity. He nips his way down their torso, laving nipples to stiff peaks. Chains dragging against warm skin leaves pebbled texture in their wake.

His partner purrs appreciatively, tilting their head forward to praise his downward path. Soft murmurs of encouragement incite a blaze across his ears, unused to the contentment their commentary brings.

Nabriales wonders what sounds they will share when enticed to their peak.

With a grin of anticipated delight, he strikes downwards to their core. Hands now bracing by their waist, he slides to the floor to attend them directly. His mouth waters at the sight, concealed folds whose depth he has yet to plumb.

A light tug on his collar, binding nearly forgotten, draws his gaze upwards once more.

"Do not add to your debts little Mystic."

Nabriales bristles at the implication. As though he would be uncouth enough to not satisfy them. He nevertheless nods acknowledgement, and dips his head back to their center.

Fingers dimple their thighs as he shifts between them, pressing for space to work. He begins slowly, rubbing his cheek against their thigh as he considers the best approach. Going direct has merit, but would it be enough. He will not withstand a lacklustre reaction.

He summons fire to his fingertips, spots of harmless heat dancing along their taut skin. Drawing them close to their core, he gently thumbs them open, palms curving at the seam of their hips. A tentative lick and glance upwards rattles him, their hooded eyes hypnotic, watching closely. Intent on Nabriales beneath them. They blink slowly, like a cat at ease, as if to encourage him to continue. Emboldened by their gaze, he faces their folds and begins in earnest.

Tongue lapping in broad strokes over their nub, fingers dipping in to tease, he makes to drive them to distraction. Sucking, swirling, his tongue dances in intimate round with lips providing accompaniment. As his heat drenched fingers make to play upon their inner walls, he summons the smallest of Quakes to his lips. Buzzing their clit with these least of tremors, he allows the spell to grow over their yearning flesh, taking them unawares. Their hips buck, hands suddenly grabbing at his head to keep him pressed firmly against them. He leaves the Quake at their nub and removes his fingers from their slick depths. They growl above him, still caught in the throes of punishing pleasure yet greedy all the same for something to fill them. Not his member, not now, though he aches at stiff attention. Instead he offers clever tongue, delving deep with his ministrations. Spell driving them further towards completion, he allows himself a soundless chuckle against their wet folds.

Hitched breath is his warning as they stiffen above him, walls tightening around his tongue an impending sign of release.

There he draws forth his second mastery, Time. Rushing rivers of moments lost too soon skim past, and he seizes this one in a chokehold. The torrent of ages ticking onwards slows to a sluggish trickle, air turned viscous around them.

Here he weaves chains of his making around their pleasure, prolonging their peak nigh unbearably. But they always were one to defy convention. He summons another Quake to overwhelm them, stimulation too much, all encompassing, and within his sphere everlasting.

They keen their release, a raw, beautiful note filling the room with almost tangible sound. Hips bucking into his mouth, he continues his assault, Quake stroking deep within. Their keen shifts to something frantic, sensitive areas laden with their fill and yet he keeps pouring. His particular brand of poisonous pleasure, coaxing his partner beyond their limits as his mouth is soaked in their juices. As they reach their highest peak yet, writhing above him, he relents.

Soft touch in stark contrast to his fevered attentions, he places tender kisses in areas left bereft. Their arms, their legs, fingers suckled within his mouth, to disperse the inflammation at their molten core. Eventually their high fades, light tremors all that remain of the bliss he has conjured.

"Well done, Mystic."

Hands rising to grasp his chains, they swap places, manhandling him into the chair still lewdly wet from their come. He freezes beneath their gaze as they transfix him anew. A devilish smile is in their voice as they speak the words to make his world quake.

"And now to balance your ledger."

This submission was rejected by the Naughty Honors publishing house, citing written magick misuse (under existing doctrine forbidding written works that could encourage dark magick). Records show the submission in later publication after extensive lobbying efforts (from uncredited noble houses) to alter existing misuse laws to permit fiction.

Chapter Text

Events had been proceeding ever so nicely. Several avenues for the eighth calamity explored and underway, the Source half rejoined, and then this generation's bringer of light felled Lahabrea. A scarce occurrence, though the Unsundered are at no risk for a final demise defeating one of their stature is incredibly rare. This one had Hydaelyn's help to do so, however their situation is still nigh unheard of.

Mulling over current events, Elidibus leaves the void where his cohort's soul is convalescing. Plotting a path to Lahabrea's study, it appears the Emissary will need to pick up the plots in motion until the Speaker can take up his mantle once more. The study is untouched, schemata strewn across his desk, as though their owner will return at any moment.

Elidibus pulls up a seat, creating cushions for the hard wooden furniture. Where to start. He is aware of Lahabrea's larger plans, having been involved at their inception. What he needs are the details on the smaller things--investigations, experiments, and the like. Emet-Selch is still managing his empire, though he will soon take his rest and woe betide any who would interrupt the temperamental Architect’s sleep.

Elidibus takes stock of the loose papers, sorting and filing while learning the desk's construction. Elegant fingers skim the drawers, opening and examining each in turn. The tingle of a ward cramps his fingers in warning as he passes over the lowermost drawer. There. He dispels the ward, red sigil flickering briefly into being, and opens his prize. Puzzlingly, instead of the plans he expects to find there are several ratty books, bound cheaply. Most unusual, Lahabrea's propensity for only the finest literature is well known--a carryover from his Akadaemia days. Elidibus chooses a volume at random and opens it to peruse the contents.

--Spell driving them further towards completion, he allows himself a soundless chuckle against their wet folds.

Hitched breath is his warning as they stiffen above him, walls tightening around his tongue an impending sign of release.

There he draws forth his second mastery, Time. Rushing rivers of moments lost too soon skim past, and he seizes this one in a chokehold. The torrent of ages ticking onwards slows to a sluggish trickle, air turned viscous--

An embarrassing flush creeps over Elidibus' ears. Hesitantly he replaces the volume in its nondescript drawer, and, shamefully, selects another.

--The piece begins, his weapon to enact his will.

'All eyes on me' his music shouts, conjuring forth the first movement's bindings. Listeners lean forward, drawn closer to the summons, a slight pull to those unaware. Nimble fingers make their way across the keys, lengthy digits caressing his ivory companions. Stanzas swell, skirting the edge of too loud, and just as the audience is ready to pull away--diminuendo. A gentling of the chorus, a wistful sigh extracted from the listeners.

Longing mists their eyes as the second movement twines about their hearts. 'My feelings are yours' his music rasps, evoking distant yearning. Unguarded aether thrums with the feeling, partners reaching out to each other while the rest find their favored company clear in their mind's eye. Elidibus casts a swift glance to the fourteenth, so close to the stage, so close to the piano he commands. So close to his heart. He sees their eyes misted like the rest, hands clasped tight over their--

Is not even the fourteenth off limits to this accursed author?! His hand spasms from the sting of that long ago remembered night. Taking a deep breath to cement his shaken self-control, Elidibus examines the volume closely as though it will yield him answers by will alone. Surprised he notes this book is new, binding fresh, recent. Has Lahabrea not caught the author? Elidibus drops the book carelessly back into the drawer, slamming the damned thing shut and scouring the Speaker's notes for mention of this investigation. The Emissary finds what he seeks half buried under schemata for Thordan's revival.

--while the third distributor had no clues as to the author's identity, they were able to provide the address for the publishing house (see below). I have retained a copy of each unique volume, and burned the rest. For whatever reason, at each successive distributor book stocks were greater than the last. The fourth imparted a rumour about their popularity amongst Garlemald's elite. Emet-Selch to blame? I cannot trust the Sundered to watch, as any of them may be the responsible party. With Gaius nearly ready to make his move, I must postpone the stakeout until after Ultima is unleashed.--

Slumping back in the chair, Elidibus sinks his head into the chair's headrest. He idly regards the ceiling while processing this new information. A stakeout will be time consuming, but if Lahabrea has not sussed out the source of the books it will be necessary. A ward to inform him when an Ascian portals to the publishing house might be sufficient to catch them in the act. The booksellers will be expecting more manuscripts, of course, so it should only be a matter of time before he can cut off the source of this lewd material. Nodding to himself, he straightens up and brushes his hand against the offending drawer, locking it with another ward. Standing, he calls aether to condense into a portal aimed at the publishing house's address. The sooner he can set his trap, the sooner he can rest relieved knowing that no further material will be written.

The lack of continuity bothers Emet-Selch. Volumes of the Ass(cian) Adventures, though amusingly censored with asterisks for the fragments populating the Source, seem to target his fellows at random. Pairing to fevered pairing, he cannot parse what is speculation and what is first or second hand as the author veers from the established (such as the Mitron and Loghrif of old) to the dubious (Elidibus and his fourteenth in particular). Perhaps even more irritating, none of the volumes feature himself!

A petulant frown creases his worn vessel's face. At this rate he will expire before he can sample what the author will do with his esteemed personage. Cough muffled in his fist, Emet-Selch weighs purging the cold wracking his body and postponing a generation of rest against the amusing books. Watery eyes regard the ivory standard he has spread across Ilsabard and beyond.

No, the books will remain when he is woken to serve again. He is so tired. Amusing though they be, they come up wanting against the sweet oblivion of sleep. Perhaps he will request Elidibus procure any new editions in his absence. The look on the stoic Emissary's face would certainly make the effort worth while...

Chapter Text

Excerpt from Ass**** Adventures volume II: Apparent

Deep breaths, drawn past a too-dry mouth. Electric atmosphere lights a flame so familiar within the Emissary. Tonight he will bring his music to the masses, to the many. A fiction, he readily admits, in truth they will enjoy what he performs for one. He can be generous, be subtle, earn his affection's attention with skill's aim masked by the audience in attendance. A concert for one would be far too intimate at this stage. No, though his chords will be struck with them in mind, the crowd will partake as well. After the concert, he hopes, there may be another form of performance. Another stage, curtain yet to rise. But for now, his theater awaits, audience eager to hear the white-suited Emissary play.

He enters from the left as is tradition, applause swelling to greet him. Elidibus bows to acknowledge the packed seats, his eyes tracking to the row near the front whose ticket he had gifted to them just at the close of today's Convocation meeting. His heart swells to see their hands joined in applause with the rest. A smile rises unbidden, curving pliant lips upwards. Soft affection just for them, melody of what is to come ringing loud in his mind. He could lose himself basking in their company (as he has done before, the pragmatic part of him warns, at various meetings and cross disciplinary projects). However, the show must begin and he turns to face his piano, breaking that gaze.

Elidibus flares his coat tails behind the bench, movements precise with a hint of spectacle. All eyes are on him and he is in his element. Drawing attention to his hands, poised high, he pauses the requisite few moments to build just the proper amount of anticipation. Hands descend to strike the keys, notes raucously loud in the stately music hall.

The piece begins, his weapon to enact his will.

'All eyes on me' his music shouts, conjuring forth the first movement's bindings. Listeners lean forward, drawn closer to the summons, a slight pull to those unaware. Nimble fingers make their way across the keys, lengthy digits caressing his ivory companions. Stanzas swell, skirting the edge of too loud, and just as the audience is ready to pull away--diminuendo. A gentling of the chorus, a wistful sigh extracted from the listeners.

Longing mists their eyes as the second movement twines around their hearts. 'My feelings are yours' his music rasps, evoking distant yearning. Unguarded aether thrums with the feeling, partners reaching out to each other while the rest find their favored company clear in their mind's eye. Elidibus casts a swift glance at the Fourteenth, so close to the stage, so close to the piano he commands. So close to his heart. He sees their eyes misted like the rest, hands clasped tight over their mouth.

Fingers rolling across the keys, he disguises the dark jolt to his stomach with a refrain. Did that look mean--

He begins the third movement with head held high, capricious maestro at last unfettered.

Teasing notes compose a playful melody, seeping across the hall. A lighter tune to disguise the darker feelings beneath. 'Do not peer too closely' his music warns, turgid depths barely concealed with wretched effort. Shivers of delight or despair strike the audience, depths calling to depths while the lighter burdened float above. Fingers stretched in aching ecstasy, he parcels out the audience to target the sole listener he pines for. 'You—' his music whispers, 'This is for you—'.

Elidibus dares another look at his love honored guest, and adds a trill to catch their eye. His heart stutters in time with the music as they meet his gaze, eyes shining with an emotion he's hesitant to name.

The final movement is a blur. Moments passing too quickly to see, to feel, all that is left is the ache of a half remembered intimacy. Bindings three layers deep constrict and draw forth the wells of his audience's emotions. Synchronicity. Their aether flows in tandem, directed by the conductor of this piece. A gift, an offering, heady experience placed at your table to sup.

And then, fatigue threatening to slow his fingers, the ending arrives. Spidery threads of aether between music and audience member release, the momentous whole returned to simple, singular citizens. Though the notes fade from the hall, the memory of complex communion has been carved into their selves, to be dreamt of for many nights to come.

The music hall is silent, spellbound, for a long moment and Elidibus slumps as the music releases him. A single pair of hands starts to clap, joined by another, and another, until the audience swells with a roar. Surging to their feet, they laud the performer before them with cheers and the patter of applause.

He stands to take his bow, and his eyes again return to theirs. Too raw to mask his intent, desire lances across the stage as they meet his gaze. Warmth coils in his gut anew as they meet and hold his hungry eyes, a return pang of interest giving rise to heated hope.

Breaking this fragile connection he bows low, sweeping his arms in grand gesture. If his exit offstage is a little swifter than usual, well, no one would dare comment on that to him directly. No one would begrudge the Emissary a hasty exit after that performance. Swapping his suit for habitual robes takes only a moment, hasty hands making quick work of the task.

Elidibus seeks them out as soon as the music hall is empty. Their red mask exchanged for the white of an anonymous citizen, he nonetheless has no issue identifying the Fourteenth. Nodding to his fellow Convocation member they fall into step, walking together towards the residential district.

"You enjoyed my performance, I trust? I do hope you count the time spent this evening as worthwhile." Eagerness to hear their cherished opinion nearly causes him to fumble the words. His hooded face turns to observe theirs, keen to evaluate his chances after his musical overtures. Now, now the curtain will rise on this most anticipated second act.

"You are quite the performer, Elidibus. I was not expecting such...ardor."

"A musician's best work draws from his own emotions, my dear. Would you care to join me for an encore?"

Preempting their response, he stacks the cards further in his favor. He's prepared them well, familiarized with their aether (still buzzing from the performance) and the channels it flows along. He hums a single note and pulls forth a strand, just to the surface of their palm, and brushes past with a calculated touch. And oh-so-satisfyingly, they stumble, step unsure on the smooth marble flagstones. Their eyes dart up to him and he looks back, invitation clear on the Emissary's curled lips.

"I--that--" The Fourteenth draws themself straight, beginnings of a blush spreading across their cheeks.

"I would be pleased to take you up on that offer, Elidibus."

They match pace with him again. Grin turned daring, they grasp his hand tight and continue walking as though nothing has changed. Everything changes. It's the Emissary's turn to stumble and look to them, hunger barely concealed behind his diplomatic mien.

"It is my pleasure, I assure you." He squeezes their hand, their touch sending sweetest warmth through him.

They reach his suite without interruption, late hours emptying the streets of her people. As soon as the lift doors close, they are on him. Mouth seeking, searching, for the clever lips promised to them. He catches them hard, back bumping against the wall, startlement giving way to realized hope. Now to deliver.

Elidibus hums against their mouth, a happy tone, and their aether rumbles in response. Delighting in the way their eyes widen, he draws out the hum, orchestrating a darker rumble within. They freeze, lips stilling on his as they attempt to process the sudden desire gnawing its way up their form. That--is not the hoped for reaction. His hands pause, fingers clutched tight to their back, as his head draws away.

"Do you want this?" Their hands still brace on his chest, fingers dumpling the fabric, and he clings to benighted hope he has not gone too far. Been too forward. Chased them away. He peers worriedly at them for a reaction.

They mutter inaudibly, and Elidibus cranes closer, ears intent.

"My deepest apologies, I didn't catch that dear--" Their head snaps up and Elidibus pulls his head back just in time to avoid them clipping his mask.

"That was incredible! It felt like starlight, all over. Do it again."

He swallows, trying to push down the hopeful ache blossoming in his too-dry throat.

"Again?"

"Again. Unless I need to encourage you dear Emissary?"

Their tone turns sultry and they curl their hands around his neck, prepared to tug him in for another kiss or three.

"Encouragement would never be amiss if you are offering, dearest muse." He rejoins, smile inching across his face once more. "Though, perhaps, we might continue in more comfortable surroundings?"

Gently disengaging from them, he offers an arm in formal escort. They smile at the propriety of the act, so very him, and place their arm within his. The slow stride to his door is laced with anticipation, the Emissary's happiness and worry warring in equal parts.

His entryway is deemed close enough, and they are on him again as he dispels the ward locking his door. Leveraging his captive arm, they kick the door in and promptly twist him against the wall. He lets loose a startled grunt as they pin him, leg nudging in to part his. Hot breath mingles as they press against his lips, demanding, insatiable, and it is everything he hopes for. Chuckling darkly to himself, Elidibus flexes limber fingers, renewing the aetheric threads his music has seeded within them. Now to conduct a far more personal concert.

His hands rise to hold their hips steady as he ruts himself against the offered thigh. They purr at his sharp inhale, renewing their assault on his newly parted lips and tongue within. He moans into their mouth, sensation above and below sublime, and curls a finger to share his stimulation along the aetheric strings. They stiffen and moan into his mouth in turn, beset by feeling both physical and aetherial. He shares more and more and more, pleasurable vibration forced down the strings as it spills over, their aether buzzing and overfull of this unsubtle direction. Their eyes glaze and they shudder at this crude overtaking, buying Elidibus valuable time for his next movement.

The Emissary enacts his next overture, stepping back from blissful rutting to bend down and scoop up the Fourteenth. Strong arms hold them steady as he paces through the suite to his bedroom, their startled hands coming to rest on his chest once again. They take the time to appreciate the contact this time, muted though it be through his robes. Running hands across concealed muscle, their eyes widen in surprise at the lean, fit figure he cuts.

"Not all I treat with as Emissary are friendly, my muse. Circumstances necessitate a physical approach on occasion, and I would be remiss to fail Amaurot for such a pithy reason."

A slight gesture from the hand bracing their back, and his bedroom door swings open. Dimly lit, the room radiates organization. Music sheets stack primly on the bedside end table along with a small orchestrocast. Impeccably matched bureaus and other furniture surround the large bed dominating the room's ample space.

Elidibus gently sits them on the edge of the bed, form still trembling from the aetheric bump, and makes to sit beside them when their hands seize his collar. With a startled yelp he finds his person bodily maneuvered a second time in as many minutes. His view is suddenly occupied with the ceiling as the Fourteenth flips him down to his back on the bed, eagerly moving to straddle him. Uncanny strength pins his hips to the decadent sheets, and they take the opportunity to trace his captive form. Hands examine exquisite fingers, so dexterous on the piano's keys, and mischief flashes across their expression before taking his digits into their mouth. Lithe fingers twitch at the sudden moisture, tongue caressing each length and lewdly sucking them deeper. The Emissary's face flushes at the crude act, freely performed. His free hand moves to massage their thigh, held tight to his side, and he hums experimentally. Their aether responds like a stagehand waiting for their cue. Suddenly taut above him, the Fourteenth removes his delectable fingers to make their demands.

"You are entirely overdressed Emissary. Strip."

"As my muse commands." His grin is predatory as they shift off him, making room for him to escape. Taking his time he languidly scoots off the bed, stepping to the center of the room and locks eyes with his soon-to-be paramour watching intently from the bed. The mask goes first, placed on his end table atop the music sheets. Most intimate of intimacies to be seen bare faced, offered that they may watch all of him. Next, the robes go overhead to be dropped unceremoniously at his feet. Concealed loose shirt and tight pants are revealed, his remaining garments placing his arousal on clear display. He hears their breath catch as he slowly unlaces himself, hips in a controlled roll for his treasured spectator. They look ready to jump him again and he hastily pulls off his shirt as the last of his clothes, letting it drift to the floor with his robes as he prowls back to the bed.

They make to dissipate their own clothes and he intercepts their hand.

"Pray, allow me."

He places a kiss to their knuckles, and works his way up their arm. Hands smooth over flesh as he dissipates their sleeve, affectionate kisses and nips warming their skin as he progresses. He croons a low note, mouthing his way to their shoulder, and gently pushes them down as their aether writhes. They spasm under his ministrations, aether and body both bright with delight. Flushed skin is revealed as he dissipates the rest of their robes, the clothes beneath, and revels in the sight of them bare before him. Magnificent.

Before he can descend anew, threads ready to usher in the next act, they sit up and push him back until he rests on his haunches. Eyes trained on his face, they scoot closer until they straddle his lap just above his straining member. He desperately claws for what wisps of control he retains as they wriggle against him, hands braced on his shoulders, and he looks to them for direction.

A feral grin is his answer as they reach down to grasp his length, drawing a low groan from the Emissary. Adjusting him so that his tip rests against their folds, their eyes hold his transfixed gaze steady as they slowly sink onto his shaft. He bucks reflexively, fingers clutching at their back while their own dig furrows into his shoulders with a hiss. They hold there a moment, grinding lightly against him to adjust to his size while he waits, hands shaking, with what little patience remains to him. Finally they look up, meeting his fevered gaze and grin.

"And now that we're properly situated—fuck me Elidibus."

"With pleasure." He exhales the last of his patience, surging up into them with a coarse moan. The wet heat of their cunt is almost too much for the Emissary, and he resolves to share as much of this carnal pleasure as they will bear. Arms clasp their back, holding them close and he sets his knees apart for leverage.

"Hold tight, I have you."

Their ankles lock behind him as he starts a slow pace, thrusting up into them while his arms hold them steady. The friction is exquisite, challenging his determination to savor this--savor them. With his fingers occupied holding them up he hums instead to agitate their aether, pleasant vibration against their chest. He noses a line across each breast, swell of prickling energy in his wake. They arch against him rubbing insistently for more and he delivers in spades.

Elidibus has hoped for--dreamed of--having the Fourteenth in his bed, and he channels that wish turned reality into a base melody. Hooks within are pulled taut and he rams sweetest abandon through their aetheric self as he surges deeper in their physical form. Ragged gasps tear from their throat as the heat coiling in their center builds, accompaniment to the rumble of his voice. They helplessly rock against him, unable to force a faster coupling with their chosen position. Gasps distort into rapturous whimpers, pitch rising as their peak hovers just out of reach.

It takes the merest, caressing whisper of their name to tip them into completion. They clench around him, core punishingly tight and he finishes to their shouted cry. Throat hoarse with his own growl he bucks into them, wringing every drop of delirious pleasure from their release and in turn sending it pulsing through the aetheric threads. The redoubled rapture is enough to send the Fourteenth into another set of spasms, dripping with their mixed come. Harsh breathing fills the room as they shudder together, slowly returning to normal.

Their head comes to rest on his shoulder, form still nestled in his lap, and he turns his face to give them a gentle kiss.

"Another encore love?"

Chapter Text

Elidibus stews, latest Asscian Adventure volume in hand (the transparent censorship of the asterisks is both apparent and insulting). Despite his ward in place, he has felt no portal open nearby the publisher save for his own. And yet, these novels keep appearing. It seems a physical stakeout will be required.

"Unukalhai."

"Yes master?" Elidibus contacts his agent, placed in the Scions' nest not a full moon past.

"Pray impart your latest report on the warrior of light."

At least the Emissary's monitoring of Hydaelyn's chosen is going smoothly. Emet-Selch's passage has thrown the Garleans into chaos, as anticipated, leaving the warrior at loose ends. Elidibus is eager to take their measure, the echo stronger than ever in this incarnation. Lacking the Architect's sight to simply see which Amaurotine they had been he contents himself with these little tests, setting them against the Allagan's captive primals. The warring triad has posed little obstacle so far, and he ponders which of his comrades they might have been...

"What does the warrior pass their time with, Unukalhai? Have they hobbies?"

"Hobbies? They take their free time as any adventurer, running errands and completing tasks for the little folk mostly. Oh! They do seem to enjoy scholarly pursuits. Almost every time they pass me in the Stones they have a new journal or book, and spend a goodly amount of time in their rooms, reading?"

Elidibus mulls this over, running through a mental list of those he knew. While pastimes sometimes carried over between these fragments, they were not always an indicator of which whole they had been. He will have to wait further, watching patiently, for the signs to show.

"That will be all, take care Unukalhai."

"Of course, you as well master."

The Emissary rises, eyes cast ahead to his destination, and teleports.

The Naughty Honors publishing house is an average warehouse in an average shipping district. An innocuous sight for such a source of utter infuriation. Elidibus takes up watch from a nearby rooftop, invisible to all save those that bear the echo. As near as he can deduce, given the timeline of new editions, the publisher should be receiving their new manuscript any day now.

Elidibus settles in to wait, mind refreshing the details that he knows so far. Most notably, the author they seek is privy to the private lives of the Convocation members, including their missing Fourteenth.

Caught up in his musings, the Emissary nearly misses the bringer of light’s arrival. His mind grinds to a halt, utterly surprised for the first time in centuries. What is the warrior doing here? Are they running errands? Unukalhai did say they were frequently playing messenger in Mor Dhona.

Elidibus crouches low and approaches the edge of the roof, concealing himself behind the crenellation. Of all the people to be delivering the manuscripts, it would be the one that can see him. He focuses his senses, eyes and aether intent on the scene before him.

An Elezen exits the publishing house to meet them, smile broad enough to see from here. The warrior pulls something from their inventory, wrapped tight in parcel paper and offers it to the Elezen. Elidibus flexes his talents, and suddenly he can hear the pair's conversation as though he is directly beside them.

"You'll be sure to give the author our regards?"

"Oh, of course."

A sack of clinking coin passes hands and the warrior bounces it in their palm, contemplative look on their face.

"This feels heavier than usual."

"So you noticed! Demand for our dear author's works has grown significantly since the start of their print run. We're getting requests for their work in all three major city-states as well as beyond Eorzea's borders." The Elezen's smile becomes downright predatory. "What, pray tell, do you think our author will do with all the extra coin? Indulge in a nice meal at the Bismarck, perhaps?"

The warrior jingles the coin purse their hand again, considering their response, and meets the Elezen's seeking gaze with their stoic mask in place.

"They instructed me any proceeds are to go to the Scions coffers as a donation, when we first started our arrangement. I'm sure they'll be happy to hear that the donation has grown so prodigiously."

The Elezen deflates slightly, but continues on his inquisitive path.

"We would be happy to treat them to an outing, as a thank you for all the notoriety they've gained us. You'll be sure to pass our offer along?"

The warrior frowns at his persistence.

"...I will, though again, please do not expect a favorable answer. This author prizes their privacy."

They turn, breaking contact, before the Elezen can continue his clumsy prying. Elidibus relaxes his talents, having no wish for the warrior to realize they have been overheard. Sinking down, back to the rough stone, he considers the implications of the scene he has witnessed.

The warrior is acting as a courier to the damned author.

The chosen of Hydaelyn would not be running errands for an Ascian.

The Sundered, therefore, are no longer likely candidates to be the author.

Elidibus turns his head to peek over the edge of the crenellation, watching the warrior leave the area. With the lesser Ascians cleared of suspicion, he will be able to delegate the task of observing the warrior at least. While this will free himself back up for missions, he does not relish the idea of having to wait even longer for a resolution to this sharply discomforting situation. For given the warrior's propensity for aiding others, identifying the author amongst the many they help will be akin to finding a cactuar's needle in a haystack.

Chapter Text

Altima slips beneath the silken sheets, frictionless material welcoming her to their bed. Emmoroloth is waiting for her, friction already in motion between her legs as her hand plucks at her center, fingers fluttering in the lightest of touches against her clit.  

"Took you long enough Altima, I thought I'd get things started."  The Queen drawls as her companion nestles up to her. 

"I hope you left some work for me, dearest Queen." 

Altima's hand drifts below to entwine with her love's, wet slickness coating her fingers in turn as they both press into Emmeroloth's folds. A flick against her clit has the Queen moan ever so deliciously for her Seraph, right winged enactor of her will. Nudging her flat, Altima braces herself above and presses Emmeroloth low into the mattress. 

"Have you been thinking of me love?"

The Seraph trails her plush lips down the others throat, words whispered against heated skin. One hand walks its way across Emmeroloth’s chest to tug mischievously at the Queen's piercings, nipples taut above the metal bars. She groans, tugs sending jolts of sensation straight to her core. Squirming against her dearest enabler's hands, calloused from daily labor in the Bureau of Engineering, her eyes press shut to revel in the touch. Altima takes her time, rough fingers toying with the flesh-warmed metal, savoring the sighs of pleasure carried on her lover's every exhale. 

"Have you been daydreaming of me as you hold court, love? Recalling my face below you as you hear and help our citizens?" 

Altima's lips trace a path farther down flushed skin, warm and wanting , hands sliding in parallel down her Queen's sides. Looking up cheekily she nips at the smooth skin of Emmeroloth’s belly, drawing a startled huff from her love. Cuffing her lightly in response, Emmeroloth pushes her aside and sits up, a hand rising to clasp her Seraph's cheek. She runs a tender finger over its curve, impish smile crossing her lips.

"Hush you. I can think of better uses for our mouths."

Altima's look of lascivious hunger earns her another gentle cuff. 

"If you can look that thirsty, then get you to work." Emmeroloth crawls to the bottom of the bed where Altima's intricately inlaid, crafted metal legs rest. Clambering underneath, she positions her mouth just below the Seraph's cleft, hands coming up to grasp Altima's behind. Altima watches her Queen, transfixed at the sight of her nude love, as always. At the touch of her tongue, Altima jerks and grinds down with a harsh moan. Emmeroloth pauses, bringing her hips tantalizingly upwards, presenting Altima with a most delicious meal of her cunt. The Seraph dives to partake. 

Joined in an ouroboros, the women please each other with careful mouths and considerate fingers. Tongues delve sweetly over each other’s lips, a dance most familiar after their long partnership. Gasps smothered in each other's cunts, it takes little time before they tremble with barely restrained bliss. Altima reaches for Emmeroloth with a grasping hand, tapping a warning of her cresting pleasure. Her Queen reaches out and clasps the offered hand, squeezing tight as Altima's tongue plunges deep, just there, and Emmeroloth is undone. Her back bows off the bed and she bucks into her Seraph's greedy mouth, smearing moisture, barely restraining the need to bite and instead sucks deeply on her love's clit. Altima, in turn, shudders above her with her release, arms stiffly bracing her as she rides out the waves of pleasure against her Queen’s face. 

Heads raise slowly, sated from their meals, and the pair of Queen and her Seraph leisurely move together to the pillows at the top of the bed. Arms drape over their partners, breath evens out, and an easy gesture brings the blankets high to conceal their nudity. 

"Will you think of me tomorrow, my Queen?"

Emmeroloth's answer is a whisper in the darkness, as sleep takes them.

"Always, my Seraph."

Chapter Text

First hand account returned from field observations of the warrior of light.

--41 tomestones…42 tomestones…

Wind whispers through the Gridanian trees, ruffling the lesser Ascian's drawn hood. The Black Shroud is an easy locale to be lost within, plenty of hideouts for even the greenest of woodsmen. And today's quarry is no greenhorn. The Ascian follows close, sticking to the target like a shadowy burr. Tracking them undetected is no simple task, but the consequences for being caught--or worse, losing them--are so severe that the black-masked Ascian keeps keen eyes fixed on the target at all bells.

Dead leaves crunch underfoot as they sidle up to a vast tree trunk, peering out from behind to watch the warrior enter yet another tavern. The Druthers is sluggish in comparison to Limsa Lominsa's bustling Wench, and much simpler to watch the patrons' comings and goings from a safe distance. The Drowning Wench had required they sit inside amongst the mortals to keep track of their target. Disgusting creatures, reeking of unwashed salt and aether pervaded with selfish desire. At least the aether here in the forest is cleaner for all that it opposes the lesser Ascian's small presence. And again, much like before, the warrior is invited to make merry by the barkeep, plied with drinks, and passes no parcels.

This mysterious parcel and its originator they have been told to look for is of paramount importance. Whatever it contains has upset even the mild-mannered Emissary, degrading the paragon's usual buttery smooth speech into harsh clipped tones when delivering his orders. Clearly the parcel's originator is a source of distress for him, and the black-masked Ascian does not envy their chances once they've been located. They have heard the rumors amongst their dark brethren, all the Sundered have, of certain literature incensing their normally unflappable Unsundered paragons.

All whom the warrior interacts with are scrutinized, and yet no parcel exchanges hands. Tomestones, gil, the occasional beast's body part, all mundane parts of an adventurer's life it would seem. No parcels. The Ascian slips into shadow and moves closer, part of the flickering dark barely illuminated with feeble candles.

"--that drink I owe ye. I've another glass of Firewater here if you'll share tale of Garuda's fall, adventurer." Buscarron's scars stretch as the man smiles, warm mien thawing the warrior of light's stoic mask. The lesser Ascian dutifully stands by as the warrior launches into story, regaling the retired adventurer turned barkeep with avid description of the Lady of Gales. It's with no small amount of relief that they watch the warrior rise after finishing their story with soft protests at the offer of another drink, another destination in mind. The Ascian needs no more reminder of the martial threat the warrior poses.

--67…68…69 tomestones…

Ducking into an alley in bright Ul'dah for the third time this morning, the black-masked Ascian barely avoids Hydaelyn's chosen. Though no weapon graces their back today, the warrior's senses are yet all too sensitive towards watching eyes. Tracking them undetected is growing difficult. Shaking their head as they pass by, the Ascian slowly peers back out into the bustling thoroughfare near the Goldsmith's guild. Goldsmith's, Weaver's, even the Miner's guild have all received the warrior today and granted them sundry tasks to execute, taking them to destinations throughout Thanalan. Of all the regions in Eorzea, Thanalan is the Ascian's least favorite. Hot, sunny, and the sand gets everywhere. And of course the lesser Ascian will need to dog the warrior's steps the entire way--all too often do they make detours, like a child distracted with new toys at every turn. A simple delivery errand for a crafting guild turns into a multi-step ingredient list distressingly often. Crafts that should be straightforward instead take the warrior on malms-long meandering paths through the city-states, a sprig of some special wood from here, a vial of water from there. And throughout, their tail must follow close behind or risk losing them.

Honored Elidibus and Esteemed Lahabrea had both been present when assigning duties this past sennight, and neither were in good spirits. Building frustration permeated their meetings, with the Paragons heard sniping at each other behind closed doors. If ever there was a time for the Sundered to come through for their ageless leaders, now was that time. The black-masked Ascian watches closely, ready for any sign of illicit goods changing hands with the warrior. And yet, no goods of note are exchanged. Just delivery after delivery, as though the warrior of light meant to produce half of what was needed to restore a city!

--97…98…99…100 tomestones to Rowena.

The final rectangle clinks on the pile with a huff of relief from the warrior. Rowena, the canny woman at the top of the adventuring enclave, is insatiable in her pursuit of trade domination (earning begrudging respect from their silent observer). It's been close to a moon now of trailing the warrior, and no mysterious parcel to speak of. The lesser Ascian needs to report in to Elidibus, and soon.

Mor Dhona thrives with the Scions in their midst, the warrior uncovering tomestones hand over fist from the crystal tower dig site. It's on the way back from one such run that the black-masked Ascian thinks they may have finally spotted the hand off. A blushing Tia presses something into the warrior's hands before dashing off, leaving the warrior stock still in what appears to be shock. The Ascian dares to draw close, hiding in a nearby crystal's shadow as the warrior unwraps the parcel to reveal--an earring. Shoulders slump in disappointment and the lesser Ascian slinks away. This is not the parcel they seek.

They have doubts they will ever locate it, after spending a moon trailing the warrior. Despite their best efforts playing observer, the warrior has simply not made the exchange the lesser Ascian has been watching for. Woe betide whomever tries telling that to the Unsundered though...

Chapter Text

Loghrif strides into the darkened offices of Ichthyology, expression foul as the weather outside. His rain slicked robe trails water behind him with steam hissing and rising off his form as droplets come in contact with heated skin. 

"Mitron! Did you forget our dinner again?" 

A crumpled form sprawled across the main desk startles upright, scattering paper across an already messy desk. Bleary blue eyes blink sleep clear to focus on the fuming Convocation member standing in his doorway. 

"Loghrif!" The Chastiser perks up like a greeted puppy, then pauses as he considers the circumstance that would bring his partner to the Akadaemia. Brow furrowing behind his red mask, he observes at a bit of a loss, "It's only eighth eve bell--" 

The clock overseeing the office door begins to chime, and Mitron's habitually cheerful face falls in dismay as it tolls well past eight. The chimes fade and silence descends over the pair, hissing droplets the only sound in the wide room. Slow shadows drift across the aquarium wall behind Mitron, illuminating fins and scales and hints of teeth with the sudden brightness of lightning through the windows. Mitron fixes a contrite smile in place and rises from the desk, shedding some few more papers. 

"It would appear I have botched another of our evenings, Loghrif."

 His erstwhile partner's arms remained crossed, radiating displeasure despite Mitron's entreaty. 

"This is the third time this month, Mariner. If you are not interested in maintaining our relationship outside of Convocation duties--" 

"Loghrif!" Mitron chastises, cutting him off. Scurrying around the cluttered desks, the Mariner approaches his partner with outstretched arms. After a tense moment Loghrif uncrosses his own and welcomes Mitron into a slightly damp embrace. 

"You know it is not mine intent to neglect you." Mitron's voice is muffled, speaking into Loghrif's shoulder. Warmth envelops him as he's given a gentle squeeze by his partner, heat innate to the Transcendent title. Loghrif sighs wearily in response, leaning his heavier stature on Mitron. Mitron's breath leaves him in a huff that is part pleasantry, part punishment at the weight. Chuckling at his partner's childishness, Mitron pushes him back to stand on his own and regards Loghrif's red mask fondly. His partner does not return the warm look. 

"Intended or not, I hurt all the same." Loghrif's voice is tired , exhaustion nothing to do with the late hour. His drawn visage prompts his partner to consider, long fingers tapping in quick contemplation at the edge of his red mask. 

"Let me make it up to you." Mitron reaches out, hand palm up, as an invitation to his partner. Loghrif pauses, and Mitron wiggles his fingers in additional welcome, unfaltering at the hesitation. Lightning brightens the room around them again, revealing the indecision on Loghrif's face in painful detail. His mask of office covers his expressive eyes, pinched tight in remembered pain. Lonely evenings spent across from an empty seat, quick exits and excuses after Convocation meetings, the Transcendent is all too mortal in how lowly he feels. He averts his gaze, turning bodily away from Mitron's proffered hand. 

"I fear seeking out the flames between us for the burn it may grant me." Mitron's hand reaches out to gently hold the end of Loghrif's sleeve. 

"If you did not come to call on me, why did you come Loghrif?" 

The Transcendent growls, frustrated and low in his throat. "I had hoped--" 

"Hoped?"  Mitron circles around the man, holding fast to his sleeve.  He peers up into Loghrif's tense face, lips pressed into a tight line. 

"Hoped that you were not simply neglecting us. That perhaps this time you were working on something worth the price of our time together."  His eyes cast down to the grip Mitron holds on his sleeve. Mitron's stomach sinks, the depth of his partner's misery finally hitting home. A warm hearth ignored and growing cool. His hand twitches on Loghrif's sleeve, at once realizing his unworthiness to hold him yet craving the heat that drew them together moons ago. 

"You--I--". 

"Mitron. Release me so that I may return home."  Mitron shakes his head violently in denial. 

"No-no I need to make this--us--up to you--" 

" Mitron. If you intend to apply some superficial fix I am not interested." 

"I messed up!" So many moments stolen selfishly, innocuous scenes here and there where it would have cost nothing to compromise or put a project aside to spend time with his partner.  Moments stacked high enough to strain their relationship to its breaking point. Loghrif keeps his gaze on Mitron's hand now clenched in his sleeve. 

"I messed up." Mitron's breath leaves him in a whisper. His free hand raises to brush knuckles against Loghrif's cheek. "I've taken you for granted, dear friend." Lightning strikes with a loud crack just outside, illuminating the pair frozen as the decision of how to proceed weighs on them.

"I want this, us-- but Mitron, I cannot be the only party nurturing this ember." Loghrif takes Mitron's hand in both of his, drawing them together. Placing the other's hand on his fast beating heart, Loghrif makes a final entreaty. "I need you to make time for us, for me, for this to work. I know you want to help everyone, it's one of your best qualities, but not always at the expense of our time together. Will you give me your word, to try?" 

"You have my word." Mitron's response is immediate, heated and sincere. His partner's face splits in a warm smile, hope rekindled, and Loghrif leans in for a kiss. The Transcendent presses eagerly against Mitron, hands caging his between them as their mouths meet and part, Loghrif licking a fervent line against Mitron's bottom lip. The Chastiser's mouth falls open, eyes fluttering shut in the face of oncoming ardor. With a low growl, Loghrif claims Mitron's lips with punishing force, demanding compliance as he presses his partner back. The pair stumble backwards until Mitron strikes the cool glass of the aquarium wall, relentless kiss consuming his grunt at the impact. 

Loghrif grinds down on his partner, robes suddenly too confining, and he withdraws from the feast before him for the barest moment to pant a question. 

"Now? Clothes?" 

Mitron wheezes, eyes closed and bereft at Loghrif's retreat, but manages a shaky nod to grant permission. Clothes vanish with a hasty thought and Mitron's skin pebbles from the cool glass at his back. However Loghrif's anticipated touch does not come, and Mitron opens his eyes in confusion. Illuminated before him by another lightning strike, Loghrif stands tall, chest heaving and eyes dark with want . His pupils, blown wide with arousal, rake down Mitron's bare form with a possessive heat his partner revels in. Mitron shivers at his hungry gaze, tipping his head up in invitation to draw his lover close. The tantalizing sight of taut skin, blood thrumming through Mitron's exposed neck, draws a harsh groan from Loghrif before he descends upon the Mariner. 

Biting crescents into the unmarked skin of his shoulders, Loghrif lifts Mitron behind his thighs and shoves him hard against the glass. Shadowy beasts loom in the waters behind them, silent audience to the pair of figures in the darkened office lit intermittently by the storm outside. Panting gasps fill the room as Loghrif's seeking fingers find Mitron's entrance, oiled with a thought and probing gently in stark contrast to the rough ministrations of tongue and teeth above. Thick fingers prise Mitron open, transcendent heat roiling through the air and colliding with the cool currents of aether rippling off his partner. 

"Wait--hold a moment." Mitron gasps out, lengthy fingers tapping for relief against Loghrif's shoulders and his partner freezes in response. 

"I have a present--for you." Cocking his wrist, Mitron summons a small statue to his palm with a flick. The small idol is carved in the likeness of an Engendered Monk's tentacles, bulging coils set stacked upon each other creating a ribbed silhouette. Loghrif stares at it for a moment before regarding Mitron's mischievous smile. 

"After last time, I wanted to Conceptualize something for you to enjoy while I held you within. A friend suggested a toy like this." Beaming, Mitron flexes the aetheric currents around him to hug Loghrif tight, cooling their sweat slightly. "Do you like it? Are you alright trying it?" 

Loghrif remains silent, staring, and Mitron fidgets a bit against the glass, suddenly uncertain at the toy's reception. 

"You don't have to, of course, I was just thinking of you and--" Loghrif suddenly leans forward, hands flexing on Mitron's thighs, grip just this side of too tight as he buries his head in the shoulder of his adorably oblivious partner. A low rumble fills the room as his heaving chest moves to this new tune, laughing gently at the turn of events. 

"You don't have to laugh." Mitron pouts, turning his head away and smacking Loghrif's shoulder with his free palm. Burning kisses lave the side of Mitron's neck as Loghrif resumes his attentions. 

"I am flattered you were thinking of me," he murmurs between kisses. "You may try the toy, if you can keep enough focus to do so safely."  

Mitron's head whips back to glare challenge at Loghrif who is unperturbed, laying kisses along the reddened bite marks. 

"Let's see how your composure holds up then, dear friend ." 

Mitron pulls a current of aether to his hand, and sets the toy adrift to nudge and nestle against Loghrif's rear. As Loghrif slowly picks up the pace of fingers and frotting, Mitron in turn flexes his aether to ebb and flow the toy along his partner's entrance. Heavy breathing soon fills the room once more as the pair slowly prepare each other for further pleasure. With a curl of his fingers, Loghrif has Mitron writhing before him and he judges them ready for the next act. Limbs trembling in anticipation of the prodding behind him, Loghrif draws his love's attention with a gentle kiss and leans in to rest forehead to forehead. 

"Ready?" Mitron pulls his face away to nod, lurching forward to bite down on Loghrif's shoulder as his partner lifts him to carefully push his hard length in. Groaning around his clenched teeth, Mitron stutters out an exclamation. 

"By the Tides you feel good, Loghrif." Heat pulses the length within him, and belatedly Mitron tugs his current to push the toy into Loghrif.  Cool contrasts within to the heat radiating without, and Loghrif groans at the intrusion, hips jerking involuntarily deeper into Mitron. Ridged bumps stretch and rub against his rim, each segment eliciting new whimpers from the transfixed Transcendent. Mitron drinks in the sounds, delighting at each mewling twitch. As the toy seats itself fully, Loghrif tenses and captures Mitron's lips in a desperate kiss. Sucking at his lower lip, Loghrif begins to move . 

Hips roll in undulating thrusts, bumping Mitron against the glass as Loghrif's length hilts on each stroke. The pair sink into sensation, succumbing to base passion as each are struck by waves of pleasure. The toy bumps just there as Loghrif's cock buries deep and brushes just here against Mitron's inner walls. Loghrif braces his panting partner against the wall, freeing a hand to grasp at Mitron's pinned length between them. Calloused hands stroke the stiff length as Loghrif's hips begin to stutter, cresting pleasure overwhelming. Each thrust pins him between two sources of bliss just as Mitron is pinned betwixt his heated lover and a cool, unfeeling wall. 

 "C-close--" Loghrif rasps, hurriedly groping at his lover's cock. Mitron's hands clutch at Loghrif's shoulders, fingers digging into flesh in pale mimicry of the pressure building within.Hips rock unsteadily as Loghrif finds his peak, sinking burning teeth into Mitron's shoulder at the blinding pleasure. Stars alight behind Mitron's eyes and he gasps, writhing on Loghrif's length hilted deep. The Chastiser's release paints their stomach's white, keening whine ripped from his throat. Bodies tremble, coupled intimately, as the pair gulp air and gradually their rapid heartbeats slow.  Loghrif steps back, pulling out his softening length, to gently slide his lover down until his heels hit the floor. Staggering a bit with legs that have gone numb from disuse, Mitron leans on Loghrif with a dreamy smile painting his face. 

"Shall we clean up and go home, love?"

"Mitron!" The Emissary's voice calls across the chamber, halting the Chastiser on his way out. 

"Honored Elidibus?  Can I help you?" The white robed man approaches his dark garbed comrade, friendly smile in place. 

"Mitron, might you be available to complete the Concept discussed today? Your aquatic background would be most helpful in its execution."

 Mitron regards the Emissary solemnly as they proceed to the Convocation hall’s exit, ultimately shaking his head to decline. 

"I already have plans to take care of tonight. My apologies, Elidibus." Reaching the doorway, Mitron extends an arm to grasp Loghrif's gloved hand tightly. Arms flush, hands entwined, the pair move forward to another lovely evening in each other's company. 

A hearth tended once more.

Chapter Text

Elidibus finds his days plagued with the memory of that night. The night he played for the Fourteenth, heart on his sleeve, and asked them for their company. The night they declined. It's a useless exercise, distracting, not worth the attention he spends on the unearthed could-have-beens. Beyond embarrassing, having such a failure logged in print for all to read... In a smut novel... Where the other segments he had chanced to read contained scenarios that followed to fruition…

Struck dumb by the realization that in his book that night might end differently Elidibus pulls together a hasty portal to Lahabrea's study, praying that the Speaker is not in attendance. He exits the portal into the darkened study blessedly absent of company, and makes directly for the lowermost drawer on the desk. Dispelling the ward takes but a moment, and then he's shuffling through the books, digging for his.

There, the binding just as tawdry as the rest, he flips it open to that night's retelling.

-- seeks them out as soon as the music hall is empty. Their red mask exchanged for the white of an anonymous citizen, he nonetheless has no issue identifying the Fourteenth. Nodding to his fellow Convocation member they fall into step, walking together towards the residential district.--

Their walk together, here is where they declined him. And yet--

--oh-so-satisfyingly, they stumble, step unsure on the smooth marble flagstones. Their eyes dart up to him and he looks back, invitation clear on the Emissary's curled lips.

"I--that--" The Fourteenth draws themselves straight, beginnings of a blush spreading across their cheeks.

"I would be pleased to take you up on that offer, Elidibus."--

His hands freeze on the page, rekindled hope a useless pastime and yet, he cannot help but indulge. The Emissary reads further, blush rising as the written fourteenth claims his hand, his lips, and asserts themselves demanding more. Discomfort grows beneath his robes and he pauses reading to consider. How likely was Lahabrea to return this bell?

High on the rush of finding an oft longed for daydream penned before him, he spins a ward across the door and palms himself through his robes. None save Lahabrea will be capable of piercing the ward. Heedless of the risk, Elidibus reads on. As the fiction progresses to the bedroom, he hikes up his robes and takes his hard length in hand. Conjuring some oil to his hands, he strokes his aching member as the story continues.

--his tip rests against their folds, their eyes hold his transfixed gaze steady as they slowly sink onto his shaft. He bucks reflexively, fingers clutching at their back while their own dig furrows into his shoulders with a hiss. They hold there a moment, grinding lightly against him--

Groaning he braces against the desk, book left open to the pages of climax. He reads and rereads the fourteenth's release, and finds his own with a few hurried strokes. Harsh breathing fills the room as he spills across his hand, sagging against the desk, spent. His ragged breathing slowly calms and in a moment of post-orgasm clarity, realization strikes the Emissary. No one save for he and his heart's desire were privy to their walk together, to his fantasy of what might have followed. Certainly none of the Sundered had access to that knowledge, and as he was not the author--

But that would mean--the author is the fourteenth?! Elidibus stares unseeing as this realization is slowly examined from all angles. Cold, practiced logic picks at the reasoning and finds it hale and hearty in its conclusion.

One of the many fragments that Hydaelyn's champion works with is the fourteenth. Not only that, given the evidence before him they remember Amaurot.

Elidibus straightens, vanishing the mess with a small frown and pockets the troublesome volume.

This farcical trailing the warrior to find their author needs to end. And who better to cut the search short and ferret out the fourteenth's soul than their former partner Emet-Selch? Waking the Architect would be fraught, perhaps a peace offering and proof in one would be prudent. Elidibus eyes the open drawer, considering. There is a new volume featuring Emet-Selch, and he had been asked to collect and collate any new additions...

"I spend fifty years in a Spoken vessel and you wish to deny me my rest Elidibus?" Emet-Selch's voice rises to a hysteric pitch. "This had best prove worth my time."

"It's the fourteenth."

The Architect freezes mid-dramatics, muscles locked and mouth open in a parody of life. Stiffly, bearing the weight of eons he turns to face his white robed comrade. Emet-Selch's golden eyes smoulder as he glares at Elidibus.

"Do not dare to mock me with half-cracked theories, Emissary, or we will see how a Sorcerer of Eld stands against His priest."

"This is no jest, Emet-Selch. Details have been uncovered that indicate the fourteenth's involvement."

The Emissary proffers a cheaply bound book to the riled Architect, a peace offering and answer in one. Emet-Selch seizes the book and flips through it, long suppressed hunger coming to the fore.

--low moan is swallowed by the lilting melody suffusing the hall. Tonight's musician is no Elidibus, but the music is passable. The harmonious chorus of strings provides the barest concealment for their activities, forcing Emet-Selch's composure to his limits. His gloves bear bite marks, deep indents in the leather, from where he tries to smother his cries. There are only so many times, however, that theater etiquette permits one to cover their mouth without being uncouth, and Emet-Selch has used up that allotment. Grinding his teeth shut when all he wishes to do is howl taxes his self-control beyond--

Emet-Selch snaps the book shut, closes his eyes, and considers. This is no speculation, the scene described is one he remembers fondly.

No one save his partner is privy to that memory.

"Where are they?"

"That is why I have disturbed your rest, Emet-Selch. We need your gifts to find them. The warrior--"

Temper flaring to life, Hades seizes the Emissary's arm in a crushing grip. Furious, aether roiling in indolent rage, he hisses a warning into Elidibus' red mask.

"Are you so incompetent Elidibus, your title's vaunted diplomacy just for show, that you cannot find our lost Convocation member?" Flesh crumples and bone creaks as the Architect squeezes.

Mouth tight in a grimace against the pain, Elidibus lays a taloned hand on Emet-Selch's, pressing him back gently.

"The warrior of light is acting as a courier to the author, our fourteenth. With how many mortals the warrior is involved with, we would need to evaluate half of Eorzea to come close to identifying them. Your gifts are the most efficient path to solve this problem."

Emet-Selch maintains his punishing grip on the Emissary for a few moments more, to be absolutely clear in his displeasure. After a requisite amount of time to prove the point he releases Elidibus, nonchalantly brushing nonexistent dust off his robes.

"Very well Emissary, where is our dear hero then?"

Chapter Text

The Hall of Muses is Emet-Selch's favorite building in Amaurot, and that fact has nothing to do with how the fourteenth's warm lips are presently wrapped around his cock while concealed in their Convocation box seat. Well, perhaps it counts a little.

The plush box seat's amenities pale in comparison to the private show underway. To their credit, the fourteenth kept him waiting until after intermission to begin tonight's real performance. It's not often they are so patient with him (or he with them).

Emet-Selch's low moan is swallowed by the lilting melody suffusing the hall. Tonight's musician is no Elidibus, but the music is passable. The harmonious chorus of strings provides the barest concealment for their activities, forcing Emet-Selch's composure to his limits. His gloves bear bite marks, deep indents in the leather, from where he tries to smother his cries. There are only so many times, however, that theater etiquette permits one to cover their mouth without being uncouth, and Emet-Selch has used up that allotment. Grinding his teeth shut when all he wishes to do is howl taxes his self-control beyond bearing.

The fourteenth's hands grasp his thighs tight, nails dimpling half-moon crescents into his flesh with the strength they use to hold him in place. Crouched between his legs they control every one of his involuntary movements, rigidly holding him open for their ministrations. Lips press around his head curve in a wicked smile at his frustration, his inability to move, to grasp their hair and fuck himself into their wet mouth. They pull off him with a lewd pop, low chuckle confined within the box's bounds.

"Ready to say 'please', most esteemed Emet-Selch?"

"You know I do not beg," he hisses back, words barely disturbing the placid expression on display above the box's walls.

"I shall have to work harder then! Convocation members deserve only the best." They note his shiver, robes hiked to his hips above them. It's a pity with tonight's venue that they cannot tease him further with their words. Musing idly to select a more private venue next time, the fourteenth sets back to the tantalizing task at hand. Will Hades be able to contain himself? The fourteenth means to make every effort otherwise.

Emet-Selch glares as they wrap their mouth around him once more, jaw relaxing to consume him fully with a lewd slurp. His facade cracks briefly at the sensation-- the tight, warm, and wet throat convulsing around him. A sudden trill of the strings onstage intrudes, and he quickly schools his expression back to bored indifference. Only his hands and trembling thighs betray the strain he barely contains, gloved fingers digging deep into the seat's plush arms as the fourteenth torments him with a few more swallows.

"Stop hovering and move." He grinds out, command weakened by the whimper he lets slip when they nestle their nose against his navel. A satisfied smile stretches their lips as they comply, drawing back to lick a stripe along the bottom of his shaft.

His cock is dripping from their salivinous attentions, pre-cum smeared along its length, a most vulgar display of the usually fastidious man. The fourteenth savors the sight before returning to lave attention on his aching member. Their tongue swirls over his head before they seal their lips around his cock, rocking their head forward to take him into their throat. Hades' pleasure builds in time as the fourteenth's head bobs in rhythm to the performers below, focused with every fiber of his being on the trickster framed between his legs and the tight, wet heat of their mouth. The barest hint of teeth along his length has Hades writhing in his seat, hips straining against their fingers' iron grasp.

Heat pools in his abdomen, stoked with every pull on his sensitive member. Buzzing pleasure builds to a peak, and just as he's about to tip over--the fourteenth withdraws. Hand grasping his slick cock, their mouth departs the scene as they rock back on their heels. Hades can't help but snarl, frustration curling his toes as the gathered passion dissipates.

"Tut Tut Hades, you almost gave it away--" Their taunt is cut short as a dark tendril erupts from the shadows beneath them, spiraling around their crouched form before snapping tight. A muffled squeak escapes before the plump tendril wedges itself across their mouth.

"Hush my dear," he croons, frustration lending his voice a cruel edge, "let us see how well you hold up under such rude teasing."

A gloved hand subtly descends to his still-dripping cock, pumping it slowly as more tendrils rise from the shadows. The fourteenth shivers as the tentacles crawl up their bound form, oddly warm appendages anchoring themselves against their limbs. Judging the tendrils suitably placed, Hades nods and they begin to undulate.

The fourteenth's gasp is mere air against the stolid tendril invading their mouth, protest silent underneath the music emanating from onstage. The smooth tentacles rub in time with the music, teasing flesh beneath bulky robes. For once, Hades is grateful for the thick fabric, swallowing the susurrus of tentacles within the material.

He palms himself, heat slowly returning to his navel, as he feasts on the sight of the fourteenth before him. Red cheeks blush as brightly as their mask of office and their breath leaves their nose in quick pants above his aetheric appendage. They present an exquisitely enticing view. Hades' determination to have them begging wavers at the sight, shifting to an urgent need to have them panting over his cock. The tendrils’ sensation is nowhere as keen as his body's, delightful though it be to have the fourteenth enveloped in his aether.

Hades teases them until they wriggle uncomfortably, seeking friction against the untextured tendrils. A gentle push from the thick cord around their neck points their eyes to his hard cock, gloved hand soaked in the juices coating its length.

"Oh, would you like a taste?" He offers, aetheric appendages giving the fourteenth an unmistakable squeeze as one tendril lovingly curls around their clit. They gasp and writhe silently, knees cushioned by their voluminous robes. Slowing the obscene flow of tentacles over their person, he loosens those around their head and neck.

"What do you think dearest, done with your teasing?"

The fourteenth nods enthusiastically before leaning forward to take him into their mouth. A soft groan leaves him as they get to work, no teasing or underlying motives this time, merely unabashed carnal pleasure. Hades resumes the tentacles' motion, lightly pleasing them as they work him over. The buzz of pleasure returns quickly for having come so close to cresting before. Their tongue presses lewd stripes into him on each sucking upstroke, and as he feels his pleasure mounting he finally permits himself to grasp their hair and fuck his hips against their mouth. A quiet thrust, one, two, and on the third he spills into their throat with a muffled groan. They sputter and swallow, drinking his come as his cock pulses against their wet heat. With a final slurp he falls free from their mouth, and a tentacle immediately fills the gap. The fourteenth's indignant gasp becomes a huff against the appendage, intimate liquids smearing against the girth of it.

"Tut tut my dear, you didn't think that was penance enough for such cruel teasing, did you?"

Their outraged squeal is drowned out by raucous applause as the performance onstage concludes. Hades joins in, ruined, sopping gloves thudding heavily together. He casts a glance down at the fourteenth, trussed and squirming under his aetheric appendages' attentions.

"A truly stirring performance, wouldn't you agree?"

He curls a tendril around their clit and flexes, another's blunted end snaking past their folds to probe the edges of their cunt. The gurgles they emit around the tentacle blocking their mouth send a shiver down his spine, stirring his spent cock with renewed interest.

Standing slowly, he runs his hands down rumpled robes to smooth them into a semblance of propriety. He regards his gloves, ignoring the whines from the fourteenth as a tendril delicately enters them, torturously slow. This pair are ruined. Lifting them to his mouth in turn, he nips the end of each finger and deliberately peels the leather away. Hades discards them at his feet, dropping the gloves gently to the floor before the fourteenth as he turns to leave the box. His bound lover's cries grow frantic at his departure, tentacles bracing them against following.

"Fret not," his wrist flicks in a dismissive wave, "I will be but a moment. It's only proper I pay respects to tonight's starring performers after all."

Hades' smile grows as the fourteenth glares at him, and he slows the tentacles attention in repayment. The edge they had begun to feel drawing them dissipates under the heady distraction of soft warmth probing their entirety. A tendril pumps languidly into them as Hades exits the box, flicking within to focus their attention as he makes his escape.

Soft murmurs rise to the box seat as the audience disperses, conversation mundane and monotone save for the occasional excited outburst. The noise of the crowd does little to distract the fourteenth from the shadowy appendages dancing along their form, meticulously teasing to an edge then withdrawing just an onze to scatter their focus across their body in an infuriating cycle.

They hear Hades below, dark voice engaged in bright conversation. They know he means for them to hear him. Their muscles clench around the warm tendril within experimentally, and they hear his voice choke briefly before resuming with a new hoarseness. The tendril massaging their clit suddenly flicks the sensitive nub, combined with the length within seeking and swelling against their inner walls and the fourteenth is helpless to do naught but ride the swift wave of rapture ripped from their primed flesh. Body rigid, they keen their release against the plump coil blocking their mouth. Their hips buck uselessly against the mass of tendrils, tapered tip still milking shocks from their clit. Hades’ voice drifts up to the box, purring and low, as the tentacles continue their assault. One, two, the bliss blots out their ability to count as the fourteenth spasms under the aetherial appendages’ care.

Through euphoric haze they hear Hades' voice pitch high in farewell and go quiet. Quiet boot steps sound from the entrance to the box as the tendrils finally stray from the fourteenth's oversensitive clit and they shudder in relief. The tentacles dissipate entirely, and Hades dashes forward to catch the fourteenth as they pitch forward, utterly limp without support. With a quiet chuckle he rearranges them in his lap, pausing at the slick his bare fingers catch at their cleft.

"Such a mess you've made." He slyly draws the moistened fingertips to his mouth and loudly sucks them clean. "I shall have to clean. every. ilm."

Hades' hands dance across their shoulders, massaging where the tentacles had strained to hold them in place. Panting breath is his only reply, until they manage to gather themselves enough to look up and nod. A gentle smile crosses his face, and he hooks a hand underneath their legs to hoist them up. None of the crowd is left to see him carrying the fourteenth home, cradled close to his heart.

Chapter Text

36 tomestones, 37 tomestones...

The eyes are back again. A slight prickling of the hairs at your nape alert you to your unseen guest, your hands still on the crafting task before you. Whoever has been watching you for the past moon has not acted, nor exudes hostility like the plentiful (never ending) enemies you spend your days facing as warrior of light. Yet you find your body reacting warily nonetheless.

Brushing the dust from your hands, you push yourself to your feet and cast your gaze to the shadowy corner where the sense of watching is strongest. The presence startles, withdraws, and you smile. If they have the audacity to watch, then they must be prepared to be watched in turn (and it seems they are a most reluctant audience).

With the incessant watching, it has been hard to find privacy to continue penning your next manuscript. Despite how inured in this explicit writing you've become, this next work has you blushing like a maid from their first kiss. You were assured at the last publishing house drop-off that readers liked your work (their memories) very much indeed, so you hold fast to hope that this latest work will not be too explicit. Unukalhai had inquired after your latest journal while bustling to and fro in Mor Dhona, but of course you'd never share such works with someone so young. For despite his purported age, he acts like the small boy he appears to be. As debauched as your writing (their fantasies) range, you still have standards.

Completed crafting task in hand, you stride back into the busy thoroughfare of the Aetheryte Plaza. Limsa Lominsa's briny breeze is a welcome contrast to dusty Thanalan where you've spent most of the past sennight gathering materials for this craft. Not every crafting task takes you to the far edge of the desert region, but it seems to be happening more as you work with these higher grade recipes. It's half-tempting to just sign on to the Bismarck and be done with it, ingredients brought to you rather than patter off to the far reaches come rain or shine to murder fluffy snarbles. Only half-tempting though; the satisfaction at handing off armor and tools to people that truly treasure the craftsmanship and safety they assure is too potent to cease, sore though your feet may be from the extended travel. Bronze Lake and their hot springs are not far. Perhaps another detour is in order, you muse. After all, your shadowy tail could surely use the rest.

94 tomestones, 95 tomestones...

Blood crusts across your brow, drying and itchy, yet it's not amongst the worst gore you wear. Primals leak a surprising amount of corrupted aether, and the stains on your armor are steeped enough to induce vague nausea. Nothing approaching aether sickness, not yet, but getting clean and time to rebalance yourself is a must. With so much corruption on your person it would be unwise to teleport, and you are reduced to limping back to the mana cutters where the rest of the Scions await.

Slumping against the charged rings of a containment unit to catch your breath, you look out at the floating city--Azys La. The sight feels almost nostalgic, niggling at memory with imperfect shape. Scenery not quite a match to remembered vistas, it nonetheless stirs the fourteenth's sense of self. One of the Ascians must have had a hand in designing this floating abomination to science.

The thought of who might be responsible flits across your mind, though deep down you know who it is. He whose hand lovingly crafted districts and designs, flowing architecture and the gift of sight to complement the Lifestream's flow through an area. Emet-Selch. (Hades).

Your heart clenches painfully at his name, worse than when Elidibus had visited you in the Rising Stones unawares of the soul you bear. It feels wrong, goes against the core of you to conceal yourself like this, but with their judgement compromised by Tempering it would be a foolish risk to work revealed.

If only there was a way to wrest them from Zodiark.

(If only they had listened--).

With a sigh, you hoist your weapon once more and carry on, ignoring the Ascian flitting shadow to shadow in your footsteps.

179 tomestones--180!

The stack of allagan tech before you wobbles alarmingly, the Servant of Splendor’s hands coming up to brace the pile while their compatriot hands over your new Shire ring. Finally you've enough tomestones to pay for it, after being sent hither and yon on various sundry errands. One would be forgiven thinking there might be more suitable individuals for killing local wildlife than the warrior of light, but such is your lot. You sigh, stretching your spine that crackles alarmingly with disuse. Joints pop in protest at the lack of downtime, and you resolve to decline the next journey the Scions assign, at least for this sun.

For once, the Ascian trailing you is nowhere to be seen or sensed, which makes this an ideal opportunity to drop off your next manuscript. You nod firmly at this course of action, and return to your room and writing desk in the Rising Stones to retrieve it.

It's with no small amount of satisfaction that you prise the desk's hidden drawer open, chip in the wood providing enough leverage for your finger to pop the false bottom up. The look away spell washes over you and recedes, recognizing its caster. A neat piece of magecraft, if you do say so yourself. After the terrifying expertise of Alisae finding your journal, you've taken some precautions. Wood gathered from Coerthan spruce trees and lacquer from the alchemist's guild to hold the spell dormant until touched make for a potent hidden pocket.

Manuscript in hand, you teleport to Ul'dah. You squint in the bright sunlight, a stark contrast to the Gloom-charged air in Mor Dhona. Perhaps after you drop off the parchment you'll stop by the Ul'Spa (formally known as Ul'dah's cool Ul'Spa and Duel'Spa). Positioned above the gladiator pits and run by Fortunate Massage the roegadyn, it's your favorite place to relax while admiring the fights.

Walking along the Sapphire Exchange, you are accosted by no fewer than three citizens: an aspiring thaumaturge, recognizing you from your time with the Immortal Flames and begging an introduction, an elderly Elezen on the verge of heat stroke asking for directions to the Weaver's guild, whom you escorted indoors for immediate hydration and rest, and an aggressive lalafell, trying to talk their way out of a mercantile brawl who called out for help as the Brass Blades descended on their paper goods.

Hot and sweaty, you're nearly to the warehousing district where the publishing house resides when the crowd behind you stirs.

Cries of dismay mar the market sounds, and you turn to see what new disruption is plaguing this day. At this rate you might as well have taken whatever errand the Scions had had waiting for you.

You do not manage to complete the turn. As you pivot on a well-adorned heel--black, smothering aether springs up from the ground and your world

goes

dark.

Chapter Text

The alarum resounds in the street outside Akadaemia Anyder, warning the district that a dangerous experiment has broken loose. Scattered citizens are being evacuated from the area, while the other Words are placed on lockdown to keep the researchers safe. All that remains is for a containment team of Convocation members to be sent in.

Fandaniel and Pashtarot are old hands at team based combat. Both of the muscled Paragons have fought side by side as the city's first defense for years. When a problem requires brute force as a solution, rarely does it need an answer past these two.

The Protector and Knight-Star work in tandem, rushing through the eerily quiet halls of Anyder towards the Botanist's wing.

"Stop! Don't--Ah! Ahahaha, wait--stop right there!" The pair skid to a stop and look up to see their comrade, Halmarut, dangling by one of her ankles near the vaulted ceiling. Some sort of pink residue coats the area around her hood, the cloth hanging ineffectively below her.

"Halmarut! Hold on, we'll get you down from there--" Fandaniel steps forward, nocking a freshly Created arrow to sever the rope holding the Botanist's ankle hostage.

"No don't come any close--Ahahaha!" Fandaniel pauses in confusion, bow string slackening in his grip as he watches the Botanist writhe in helpless laughter. Her robes are immodestly held at waist height by desperate hands, gravity trying to flip them upside down as she hangs precariously. Is the rope around her ankle moving?

Dark green vines spring up before him, and Pashtarot is already moving to intervene, bodily pushing aside the Protector to receive a face full of pink pollen in his place.

"Pashtarot!"

Senses swimming and doused in pink, the Knight-Star stands frozen, trying to process the overwhelming sensations of his surroundings. He feels two heartbeats, the one overhead belongs to Halmarut. The other flutters nearby in worry. Fandaniel, his closest partner in arms. The Protector, whom he is privileged to protect. A fire lights in Pashtarot's veins, urge to protect twisted into a need to possess. His head turns stiffly to regard his worried companion, fingers running absently along bracers suddenly too constricting, too warm, this whole room is just too warm--

Fandaniel watches in mild horror as his comrade begins stripping, heavy armor clanging to the floor. He makes to move forward, to restrain his ally, when Halmarut's shriek stops him cold. Gaze snapping upwards, Fandaniel spies the rope--nay, vine--creeping above her robes to twist her arms tight within the enveloping fabric.

Eyes widening at this rapid loss of control, Fandaniel calls forth his sigil of power to try and ground the situation. The earth around him ripples as shockwaves leap out and return as they collide with items throughout the Words of Halmarut, painting a detailed view of their surroundings. A large mass of vines in the center of the room writhes, disturbed by the tremors.

Fandaniel draws his bowstring once more, calling aether to light its length, and shoots across the hall to ignite the dangerous creation. His arrow flies true and buries deep in the creature's side, aether bursting outwards in a curtain of flame. A wretched shriek echoes against the vaulted ceiling, and the vine constraining Halmarut lets go. Suddenly bereft of support, the Botanist falls with a yelp. Fandaniel dashes across the floor to catch her, skidding through Pashtarot's discarded armor. With a thump, the surprisingly dense Botanist falls into his arms in a perfect catch. Her arms dislodge his hastily stowed bow which falls to the ground with a clatter.

Grunting under the impact, Fandaniel juggles Halmarut's unwieldy form to set her gently down onto the floor. She takes a moment to brush her dirt-stained robes back down into a semblance of decency and makes a quick gesture to clear the pink pollen off her hood before turning to face him again. Bereft of the vine, it seems her laughter has been effectively stifled.

"Well. That was unexpected."

Fandaniel looks at her, incredulous, as she adjusts her red mask of office and casts her gaze across the disorderly hall. They both pause at the clang of Pashtarot's weapon, the greatsword his final item to be discarded. Acting quickly, Halmarut waves a hand to bind the man in a severed vine, his lunge forward towards the pair arrested.

Slowly, Fandaniel's eyes travel up the solid form of his compatriot, following the vine's restraining length, lingering on the thick muscle earned from wielding his greatsword one-handed. Fandaniel's cheeks begin to heat as he realizes what, exactly, that pollen's effect has had on his comrade.

"Intriguing, Raskovnik's sweet scent should not have been that potent--it could not rouse my attentions despite its alterations." Halmarut grumbles. She tilts her head in inquiry, finger tapping a line against her mask. "Hum. Perhaps it is due to your bond?"

Halmarut's clinical analysis snaps Fandaniel out of his lustful perusal, glaring at the unaffected Botanist who continues.

"We cannot leave him with unaddressed arousal, the pollen may linger for days if not attended. Tis hardly a proper thanks for his intervention and your timely arrival. I have an office with soundproofing just here--"

The Botanist pulls Fandaniel back, her grasp strangely strong, ushering him to a secluded entryway in the wall.

"I'll need to take samples while the Concept is still fresh. Here, use this office for now and I'll join you afterwards for Pashtarot's op--"

"Hold on--hold on Halmarut--" Fandaniel grabs the door frame as the Botanist starts to push him inside, knuckles white with the force needed to resist. "Why are you volunteering me to do this? I-I haven't been with Pashtarot in that way and--"

"The pollen is designed to wear off with subsequent satisfaction, and is painful to endure otherwise. You are clearly the ideal candidate, Protector, you and the Knight-Star are inseparable at the Convocation mingles--almost as bad as Emet-Selch and the Fourteenth. I would, of course, prefer to observe from the start however the sample--"

Fandaniel flushes crimson up to his hairline, protests rudely cut off as Halmarut shoves, overcoming his desperate grasp on the door frame and pushing him inside. He stumbles for a critical moment, whipping around to face her as the door slams shut in his face.

"Halmarut!"

The Protector bangs on the door, amid rising panic that he is trapped, and---belatedly--unarmed. Fandaniel realizes his bow is still in the hall, dropped when catching the Botanist. Cold dread sinks through him, and he drops to a crouch, succumbing to the pull of gravity. Head held in trembling hands, Fandaniel focuses on his breathing.

Inhale.

Pashtarot, his dearest friend, is in need.

Exhale.

The Knight-Star took a strike meant for him.

Inhale.

But would that matter?

Exhale.

Is this not a chance, offered by circumstance, to pursue his affections?

Inhaling sharply, Fandaniel examines that latest thought. Spurred on, perhaps, by that nude perusal, he finds heat pooling in his navel at the thought of his partner-in-arms. Halmarut was not wrong in her assessment, that the pair have been inseparable since their ascension to the Convocation. Always with Pashtarot at his side, always the safe shadow to his Knight-Star.

Still reeling from the realization that he might desire something more, Fandaniel starts as the door creaks open. A small mandragora, one of Halmarut's many assistants, nudges the door open and stares at the hunched Protector. Lips firming in a determined line, Fandaniel stands, ready to receive the shadow looming in the doorway behind the small seedkin.

Halmarut had said satisfaction will clear the poisonous pollen. She did not specify how to do so.

For all that Pashtarot had thought today would pass as any other, by Fandaniel's side, today was turning out to be anything but ordinary.

Taking the pollen strike had roused him, hot need burning below. Senses tuned to painful awareness, he finds his mind overwhelmed with the sounds, scents, and movement of his surroundings and his mind begins to drift out of self-defense.

Like a night spent with too many drinks
(like resting on the mats after sparring with the Protector)

Like a day spent running errands with his comrade, and returning home exhausted
(like an evening spent on the couch with his dearest friend)

Prickling skin and a bloom of warmth have him stripping off his irritating armor, idly noting that the heartbeats of the two nearby have jumbled together. His mind continues to float in the warm, pollen induced haze, as he leans into the warmth it invokes. Memories (desires) run hot in his veins as his rigid self-control loosens. All that matters is embracing the warmth within (the warmth without) found in his dearest (love) Fandaniel.

Discarding his weapon, Pashtarot is finally unencumbered of clothes and restraint both. He turns to face Fandaniel, propriety quite forgotten. Why is it that Pashtarot should not embrace his dearest friend? Share in their mutual affection? Bathe him in his love?

His mind fails to break free of the lust-drunk haze when Halmarut's vine restrains him, trapping him in place. He does not, however, fail to notice Fandaniel's regard. The Protector's perusal lights Pashtarot aflame. Prickling heat rises and lingers everywhere he looks, and Pashtarot can feel Fandaniel's heart pick up its rapid tempo as his eyes meander up the Knight-Star's form.

As his heart moves away, fluttering in nervousness, Pashtarot moves to follow. Flexing his strength against the vine, he finds its pliable length too slippery to break. As though anticipating his next solution, it wraps itself around him in intricate knots. Arms wrenched behind him are tied to his neck, creating a graceful curve as his throat is exposed. The position of utter supplication sends shivers along his nude form. A small tap on his calves calls his attention downward, whole torso twisting until the vine constraining his neck loosens only to see--a small mandragora. With no heartbeat to announce it, the little seedkin sneaks close to grasp the trailing vine, leftover from the knots and akin to a leash, before it tugs him forward.

Pashtarot allows the shepherding seedkin to lead the way, noting with his entranced senses that it guides him in the direction of Fandaniel. He ignores the placid heartbeat of the Botanist as she passes him by, uninterested in her unaroused state. It seems the fates will now allow him to claim his love (or be claimed, a thought whispers from the darker regions of his mind). The thought of Fandaniel taking him in such a state, trussed as he is, sends a shiver down the Knight-Star's spine.

He feels the Protector's heart behind the minor barrier of the door, anxious fluttering firming into determined staccato as the mandragora enters. Pashtarot follows close behind, and breathes deep of the office scents on entry. Books, ceramic, wooden desk all dismissed. Now floats in the sweat, ash and citrus of Fandaniel's desire.

As he moves forward, the vine around his neck pulls tight and lashes down around his legs. With a grunt, Pashtarot falls to his knees, neck exposed and erect member on display. Drinking in the scent of Fandaniel, it feels as though his veins are on fire, buzzing discomfort elevated to painful denial. Rocking back on his heels, he grinds against the empty air, guttural moan declaring his need.

Fandaniel raptly watches the Knight-Star's lewd display, inner conflict put aside to examine later, when they are both their better selves. For now, he cannot help but want to indulge, to relieve his partner's clear craving. To feed their mutual hunger. And perhaps, when this is done, Pashtarot might consider staying this course?

Moment of fragile uncertainty shoved aside, Fandaniel approaches the bound Knight-Star. His eyes drift down Pashtarot's muscled torso, muscles gleaming in the low light, down the haired chest to the trail to his navel. There his engorged cock nestles amongst curled hair, drops of lighter pre-cum gathered at the blunt tip. Straining restraints aside, the sight of Pashtarot's painful arousal calls to something base in the Protector. His mouth salivates at the thought of how he will taste, and decision made, Fandaniel sinks to the floor before Pashtarot.

A tentative brush of fingertips along the proud planes of his chest has Pashtarot gasping at the electric sensation. Fandaniel's hand flinches back at the Knight-Star's reaction, before venturing forth once again to grasp at his pectorals, and swipe his calloused thumb over the nipple. The groan that elicits encourages further exploration across the bound man's form, until his hands come to rest at Pashtarot's hips. His unsure hands squeeze at the dimple above the Knight-Star's navel, eyes fixed on the stiff length before him.

Satisfaction, Halmarut had said. Selfless action. Fandaniel gulps, before leaning forward to take the head of Pashtarot's cock in his timid mouth. Tongue running a circle around the blunt head, he tastes salt and something unidentifiably musky. Unmistakably Pashtarot. His comrade groans above him, eyes closed in utter bliss at the intimate touch. The delicate sensation of Fandaniel's moistened lips on his cock bounds and rebounds along inflamed nerves, giving rise to a debauched moan.

Bracing his hands against the solid muscle of Pashtarot's hips, Fandaniel presses down, mouth opening wider to accommodate the thick shaft. With some dismay, he notes what fits within his mouth is not nearly the Knight-Star's whole length, and repurposes a hand to grasp the remainder. Slowly, scared of causing discomfort, Fandaniel sucks in to make a seal around Pashtarot's cock. The noise the Knight-Star makes as the Protector begins to move is lurid enough to inspire daring in the earnest man hanging between his legs.

Bobbing his head in imitation of that one couple he'd walked in on, so long ago, he searches desperately for every onze of the limited knowledge he possesses to pleasure his partner. He draws up and down Pashtarot's cock, tongue pressing into the underside as he rocks away.

Spit soon coats the Knight-Star's length, Fandaniel's fingers drifting upwards to share in the slick and spread it all the way down to Pashtarot's base. As he pulls his other hand away from his partner's hip to grasp two-handed at Pashtarot's cock, he realizes with some alarm that he's not heard a peep from the pollen afflicted man. Snapping his gaze up, cock falling from his lips, he finds the Knight-Star rigid above him. Fine tremors wend their way about Pashtarot's bound limbs, and his teeth press hard to crease his lower lip.

Recognizing the bare restraint for what it is, Fandaniel dives back to the Knight-Star's shaft, sucking and stroking in slightly uneven rhythm until the trembling above him gives way to a full body shudder. Hips bucking in silent completion, Pashtarot bites into his lip as his come fills Fandaniel's wet mouth. Startled at the warm mess rudely thrust into his mouth, the Protector rocks back and trips onto his rear, coughing. Milky come dribbles from his open mouth in a truly lewd sight, and as he casts his gaze upwards to the shivering Knight-Star, the vine binding him loosens in wide loops with each shake. Fandaniel notes the perpetual flush afflicting the man seems to be fading in the aftermath of his orgasm. Breathing a sigh of relief, the Protector lifts a bracing arm to dab at his messy mouth--taste unmistakably musky, undeniably Pashtarot. After cleaning away the come with a gesture, he admits to himself that he would like to taste it again.

Outside the office, with the creature's sample safely jarred and stored in her aether, Halmarut sits on an upturned pot. Gently petting the mandragora beside her, she smiles at the quiet sounds of new, mutual satisfaction within.

Finally those two are together.

While it had not been her intent to unleash an aphrodisiac laden creature in the Words, far be it from her to waste a chance for live testing. Especially given her own inability to generate arousal, the two 'sexual tension you could cut with a knife' fighters make perfect specimens to measure its efficacy. All in all, an embarrassing but eminently worthwhile venture. Nodding to herself, she gives the small seedkin a final pat before rising to exit Anyder. Best to give the two some privacy and beat a hasty retreat before they remember who is at the root of their current entanglement.

Chapter Text

That soul. That hue. No, no it cannot be them. A dense and blue point of light radiant amongst the smaller stars clouding his path. Inexplicably, there the bringer of light stands. There, his lost love's soul shines bright.

Hades shoves his way through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of surprise and anger. Gloved hands push past the husks lining his path, heedless of the commotion rising behind him. You will not escape him this time.

Finally his path is clear, your back to him. The swelling noise of the crowd draws your attention, and as you begin to turn, Hades lunges. Hand outstretched he calls smothering aether to surround you both. You do not complete your turn in time to see him, taken unawares by black tendrils.

The nauseating wrench of an unexpected teleport disorients you, portal dumping you out into an unfamiliar room. Garlean architecture is apparent in its decor. You spin to complete your turn, take in your surroundings, and come face to face with the source of your surprise transit. The figure closes quickly, backing you against the cold metal wall as you try to ascertain their features in the dim lighting. Who dares accost the warrior of light?

A snap lights the room, lamps flickering as the ceruleum stabilizes.

"You--" hands sweep across your back and grip at opposite shoulders in a crushing embrace. Fur tickles your nose, and you look at this kidnapper, bewildered. A white lock of hair hidden among violet brown stirs something in your memories, and as gold eyes lift to meet yours, you remember.

"Emet-Selch?"

Recognition sparks in your eyes, and it is all the permission he needs.

"How--"

And then his mouth is on yours, crushing lips consuming any protests. The contact sends a surprising zing down to your core (your Blessing), yet it does not stay your response, tongue twining with his as you recognize him, his face, but how can he be here--

Only when your breath has grown ragged does he withdraw, leaning a tired forehead against yours with a sigh. The hard nub of his Garlean eye presses into your skin, drawing your attention to his chosen form. An Ascian, this Ascian, standing before you inexplicably in leather and fur, tall as any of Eorzea's tallest peoples yet smaller than as in Amaurot.

"Emet-Selch, how came you to--" His gloved hand interrupts your questioning, index finger resting on your lips. You frown against the digit, questions pressing insistently behind your lips. His eyes faintly glow as they rake over your form, seeing the seen and unseen both, and you realize if this is truly him, what he will see--

You tense up to break away, hands grasping for the hilt of your sword when inky tendrils erupt from the wall to bind you in place. Cool darkness lashes tight, constricting, pulling your back flush to the wall. You grunt at the impact, limbs strung taut against the metal.

"Tut tut hero, no spoiling this reunion now," Emet-Selch chides, index finger pressing hard into your lips. His fingers drape across your cheek and his thumb comes to rest underneath your chin as he pries your head upwards, grip stiff on your face. This is no loving touch, no star crossed lovers reuniting. No, this is a hungry man's grasp seeking the comfort of flesh long denied. Desperation lurks in his eyes as they lock with yours, searching, praying for the one he seeks.

"Are you in there, fourteenth? Do you recall the terms we parted on?" His lilting voice demands a response, past familiarity sending a shiver down your spine. Your past self, subsumed and rejoined so many moons ago, rises unbidden to provide your words.

"Every damn day, Hades." He freezes at the flicker of blue aether over your form, small flames burning at the edges of the loops constraining you. They do not burn, not yet, but he eyes them as though they already light him aflame. His grip on you does not slacken though you feel him falter as he processes this revelation. Seizing this opening, you shove with aetheric and physical forms both, unwilling to be a passive participant in this reunion of eons-old beings.

The elder Amaurotines have ever been an obstacle to you and yours in this life, threatening those you hold dear, and while this former paramour has not appeared before you personally inflicting such it is hard to conceive he will do otherwise if given the chance. Lahabrea did not stop. Nabriales did not either. Igeyorhm laughed when you begged her to leave your companions be. You know not if it is Zodiark's Tempering or simply the eons passed that have driven them so far from the upstanding Paragons they once were-- that they still are, in your memories.

"Fourteenth? Is it really you?"

Emet-Selch stands before you, voice cracking and body staggered from your push, and looks at you (at them) with eyes dark from want. Fear and love war within you at the sight of (your lover) the Ascian. Your Blessing burns at your core, ignited by his proximity and your rising determination that no more, no more sacrifices--

You reach out to him as the tendril binding your arm dissolves in a cool wash of aether. Eyes wide with surprise he watches your approach, frozen in place. Your footsteps click loud against the steel flooring, so little cloth or softness in the room to dampen the sound.

You want to save him.

(You want to keep him).

The Blessing rouses with this new goal, and an idea slowly takes form. A fantastical idea with its foundation grounded in years of longing.

"No more words for me, Emet-Selch? Cerberus got your tongue?" You let your hand drop as you pass him by, still frozen from your push in the center of the room, and head to the canopied bed against the back wall. Languidly you undo the ties to your armor, discarding piece by piece as you progress to the bed. Prickles of sharply intent watching crawl up your spine as you make sure to sway your hips and put on a show. Dropping the last piece with a clatter, you look back over your shoulder and see Hades staring, transfixed, at your backside beneath your small clothes. With a smirking invitation, you back onto the bed, plush covers sinking beneath your weight.

The soft creak of the bed snaps Hades from his stupor with a visible jolt, and he prowls over to you.

"Be careful what you ask for, my dear hero. I would know--" You raise a hand to cut him off, strangled tone hard to hear from his melodic voice, and gesture alluringly to your form instead.

"Surely questions can wait until after our reunion, Hades?" He shivers at the sound of his name, lovingly formed on your lips. Indecision stills him as his eyes rake over your figure. Willing every onze of seduction you possess to the fore, you pray it will be enough. He remains frozen at the edge of the bed, and realizing what he truly seeks, you sigh and reach to the fourteenth's knowledge. Despite the lack of density, it is child's play to flex your soul's aether bright, and your reward is Hades' golden eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"My fourteenth," He breaths, coming to join you on the bed. He reaches out a hand, fingers trembling slightly, and you catch them with your own sure grasp. You bring the entwined pair to your lips for a chaste kiss, and relish the way his breath hitches. Unwilling to allow his composure to return, you press your advantage. Soft kisses trail across his hand, up to his wrist, and you raise an eyebrow at his clothed arm. A hasty click of fingers and his coat is gone.

This will be difficult. For all that you've imagined, (remembered), fantasized, of having Hades again, maintaining focus on your goal mid-intimacy will stretch the limits of your capabilities. You've never tried fucking the Tempering out of a soul.

If this path fails, you'll be reduced to fighting each other as his God decrees.

You press reassuring kisses up the soft skin of his arm, shifting over to straddle his lap as your lips reach his flushed neck. He yields easily and you push him down into the mattress, soft touch sure against his token resistance. Teeth nibble his ear in reward, tongue caressing the shell while you murmur your demand to share in his skin. Hades groans a low note, eyes fluttering shut, raising his hand for a careless snap to disrobe. Suddenly sitting on warm skin, you feel his stiffening length below you, unimpeded.

You wear the fourteenth's conviction like a cloak, aether tuned to reflect their particular mannerisms. A curl here as you rut over his length to spread your folds open. Small starburst there as he seizes your nape to command a kiss. You draw him close with the familiarity of it, the nostalgia made manifest as you feed your Blessing each act of love. Each stab of emotion, each tender look, you funnel the intensity of it all to the star enkindling in your chest.

Reaching back with a careful hand, you take hold of his cock and pump its length, testing his stiffness before lining him up at your entrance. You both moan as you sink onto his member, wriggling to stretch yourself to accommodate his girth with so little foreplay-- save for the many fantasies cascading through your mind. Years of options explored, yet the one you seize on in the now is fully unique. The thoughts of which spin through your mind, yours and the fourteenth's recollections shared as one. You find yourself quickly warming as you sit across his lap, hips flush, and cautiously rock forward.

Hades keeps his eyes on you now, drinking in every mote, every glimmer of your aether as your form moves against his. You roll your hips, tensing your inner walls in turn to hold him tight, revelling in his stuttering breath. His hands rise to clutch at your hips, fingers dimpling your skin in loving possession. You refuse his guidance, his hands offering to pin you over his length, and instead set your own pace as you ride him. He yields again, familiar smug smirk promising to see the tables turned on you later.

Your aether skitters over his, fingerlike tendrils combing across the shell he keeps wrapped tight about his heart. Jolting in surprise, for all that he has long desired this soul in his arms, he seems to scarce believe your presence as you spread that achingly familiar soul across his. Hades' soul unfurls to receive you, borders dissolved to lace with the edges of yours. A thread of the pleasure thrumming through you floats across the divide to illuminate the purple void of his aether, depths too far, too dense for you to plumb unaided. And yet, traverse these depths you must, to find and excise the worms of Zodiark's Tempering settled deep within his lonely soul.

Like a crashing wave, his aether surges around you to cradle your soul tight within his. Enveloping darkness looms stark against the growing ember of your Blessing, nestled at your core. The smothering shadows are just a shade shy of claustrophobic, and you retreat back to physical sensation rather than be lost in his tide.

Maintaining your pace atop him through the mingling of aether, you remind him of his body's corporeal benefits.

"<<H>>ades", his name falls from your lips, bell-like tones of a language long dead straining the mortal instrument. His hands spasm on your hips as he reacts to your voice, lovingly cradling and recreating his name. Trying again, and again, until the whole of his true name is shaped and shared--

"<<Hades>>."

And his back bows, distorted bell-like answer tumbling from his mouth, praise and curses alike for the memories you draw forth. Through the resonant cacophony he calls your name, their name, loud and clear of the buzzing which mars the rest of his speech.

You feel him flex within you, followed by desperate thrusts upwards to chase his release. Grinding against him, you sink back into his wide-flung aether, feeding your Blessing the bliss of your joining as you dredge the bright star from your breast. You regret making this choice for him, but cling to fain hope that he will accept your selfishness nonetheless. Their selfishness, given hope and form by the long tended love held within.

Hades grasp on your hips slackens as he stutters out, "What--what are you--"

You ignore his exclamation and grind down, clenching tight as you bob on his cock to pull him into orgasm. Primed as he is, he follows with a shout as his head is flung back into the bedspread. You shudder against the waves of your own release, trembling hand releasing the star of light you've created, held, nurtured, given purpose beyond the weighty responsibility it's borne since your Sundering. And, glutted with so much love, your Blessing detonates.

Down, down into the depths of his core the Blessing races, and your aether follows swift as an arrow. There's too much, his vast stores of aether a prolific volume to traverse. Yet, a sibilant note, the song of their name rings out and the Blessing chases it home.

Pulsing, blinding, bright, the aether blooms, illuminating his heart and you flinch at the sight of his Tempering, purple worms curled around his beating core. The love you've freely fed eats away at them, dissolving the dark aether to naught but ashy regrets.

Hades’ voice reaches you, murky as though from a great distance away for all that you remain tightly coupled. An alarmed exclamation as your Blessing burns within him, excising the eons old corruption. The dark footprint cast by the many many lives of your people, a heavy burden beyond bearing, proves little bulwark against your Blessing. As Hydaelyn Sundered your world, so does your soul shatter the stasis around his heart. Fragment though you may be, you always had the stronger bearing than your cohorts in the Convocation. How else could you have summoned a Primal to stand on equal ground to the eldest of its kind?

You feel Hades' aether constrict around you in panic, and the prick of sharp claws abruptly draws your attention back to your body. Leaving the Blessing to do its work, your eyes open to find Hades writhing beneath you. Bucking against the bloom of light within, he casts accusing eyes on you and growls, baring too-long teeth. Gold claws dig into your skin, his hands still holding your hips in place, and you hiss in pain as red rivulets run from the crescent cuts. You grit your teeth, sensing the Blessing is nearly spent, Tempering so close to eradicated.

"<<Hades!>>" The harsh chime of his name stills him, eyes wide in remembered fear, tone akin to what you had used in the End Days. You feel the light within him disperse, task complete, the ashen motes of his Tempering swiftly fading to naught as he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

Softer, soothing, you call his name again and his hands jerk free of their clawed grip, dawning horror on his face. The warm blush of light suffuses his skin, and as his claws recede with a snickt sound, you lean forward to rest your forehead on his.

"<<Hades>>."

"I-I hurt you--" Drawing his bloody fingertips to his face, you intercept his trembling hands with yours. You clasp his hands tight, warm flush of your Blessing's light still settling within him.

"Why did I--I only ever wanted you back, and I--"

"Hush, <<Hades>>, we're here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere."

Reaching out, you offer a comforting slide of your soul against his. His aether trembles before crashing against yours, hungry and craving the safe haven of the fourteenth's familiar hearth. Your soul unfurls to accept his, tangling emotions heavy with the heady realization that he is yours once more. Hades’ soul blankets yours, clutching tight to the familiar legacy he has spent eons chasing. You spend an endless moment basking in each other, souls entangled in a comforting blanket.

Yet it cannot last, his internal upheaval demanding addressing as Hades withdraws with a sigh. Shifting out from under you, he sits up and watches you with wary eyes.

"What did you do to me, hero?"

"We-I wanted you back. Wanted to keep you, as we had been before the End Days. So, I, took your Tempering out? With my Blessing of Light?"

Slowly Hades' hands raise to cover his face, expression hidden, fingertips lost in his hair.

"Is that why my breast is full of tempestuous hope, then." He mutters, voice muffled by his hands.

"If it helps, I don't think it would have worked if you didn't care so much."

A gusty sigh escapes him, and his hands draw down away from his face. Revealed, you see an eternal tiredness etched there.

"Well, where do we go from here, hero?"

You fidget in place nervously, gaze glued to the bedspread, before attempting a reply.

"That depends on you, Emet-Selch." He jerks at your impersonal use of his title, eyes flicking to you in an unnoticed glare at your attempted distance despite the sweat still drying on the two of you. "I want you, want to spend the rest of the time I have with you. But I understand if I've violated your trust too badly for you to want me again and--" His crushing embrace cuts you off with a squeak, arms wrapped tightly around you.

"The only reason I am here at all is because I want you back, Fourteenth," he hisses, head nestled in the crook of your neck. "Pray do not mistake my want for clarity as rejection. I merely wish to know your intent for our course going forward."

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone. It seems as inseparable as you two had been before, he will be doubly as attached now. You raise a timid hand to card through his hair soothingly, unsure that he's forgiven you so easily, that he's accepted you as simply as that. Sensing your hesitance, he makes his intent unmistakably clear as his aether enfolds yours in a desperate caress. Nudging insistently at your soul's borders, he offers solace as his arms hold you tight. You exhale a breathy chuckle, soul flaring to mingle with his in an aetherial kiss.

"Ah, in that case, I had hoped we might continue our reunion, Hades? I've not given things much thought beyond that." You frankly admit to your winging it. And, in your defense, it appears to be working well in your selfish favor so far. The look he gives you at your verbalized request is full of fire, golden eyes eclipsed by his heavy lidded arousal.

"All you had to do was ask, my dear. Never let it be said I am not an accommodating lover." His hands run down your sides, drawing shivers in their wake, until a careless brush against your raw scratches has you flinching in response. Sparks of pain waft through your aether, and his soul brushes close to lap up each pinprick of drifting discomfort.

"Allow me to fix this." His fingers trace circles around the claw marks left behind on your skin. You nod, and he presses you back down to the mattress at your assent. Sliding down to your abdomen, Hades dips his head to the side of your hip and delicately follows the trail of blood up your thigh, laving his tongue over your hips and the crescent marks his claws had rent. You start at the numbing tingle of healing magic, applied ever so softly to the wounds left in hasty panic. An idea floats to the forefront of your mind, and, rather than allow even the possibility of him to renew his regrets when faced with the pain he inflicted, you take action. Running your hands down to his head by your navel, you run your fingers through his feathery hair.

"I would hate for tonight's last impression of your claws to be such a poor showing. Especially from what I can remember of your other form's capabilities, dear Hades." He pauses, aether entwining with yours in unsure coils. You grin, and make your request clear. "Won't you take me as your truest self?"

Hades stares, unmoving atop you, yet his aether roils at your words, eventually scooping round your form to enfold you in a levin charged caress.

"Is that what you want, hero? To be held by my many claws," his voice rumbles as the room darkens by his will. "For each of your limbs to be pinned to this bed, unable to move save as I dictate, as I have my way with you?"

You shudder at the visual he describes, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Nodding swiftly, you shiver as his silhouette swells, confidence restored to the man above with the familiarity of his transformation.

As aether rushes to fill his form, he smiles, tender look granting you hope that he may truly forgive your choice on his behalf.

To free him.

To keep him.

Though it is Hades' spectral limbs that press your hands and ankles askew into the bed, it is with darkest pride you murmur, "Mine."

Your heart, freed to beat once more.

Weighty limbs, far vaster than any mortal's, press you down into the bed with a creaking groan from the furniture. Belatedly, you make a quick prayer that the architects who constructed it were of the zealous overbuilding variety. Great clawed hands encompass your entire arms, bent to cover you, vestigial wings come to ground after erupting from his robed back.

You frown at the gossamer cloth that envelopes Hades, hiding what is rightfully yours from sight. It seems the robes are intrinsic to his true form, though you can parse the intriguing motion beneath it well enough. Undulating cables emerge from the tattered sheath, and the sight of his tentacles sets your heart racing. The things those coils are capable of, that you've envisioned through the fourteenth's eyes. Hades chuckles darkly above you, glowing eyes intent on your mortal form as you squeeze your legs together ineffectually, squirming at the sudden stab of arousal.

"Now now, my dear, I intend to see all of you." His gold tipped arms reach down to caress your cheek, and you lean in to the most mortal part of him. The gray skin is nowhere near as clammy as its appearance might suggest. Instead the unearthly limb feels just as warm as the hot blood racing through you.

Excitement laces the air, glittering bright in your aether as Hades navigates the lesser stars of emotion through the edges of your soul. Excitement and possession both, undercurrents of mine mine mine echoing between the pair of you. To the point that you cannot distinguish where the thought begins or ends, an unbroken loop forged between your greedy souls.

Thick coils wind their way up your ankles, your calves, and stop just above your knees to gently pry your legs apart. You shiver and suffer the cooler air on your most intimate parts, exposed to his glowing perusal. Hades' laugh chimes again, his gold-tipped hand coming to tease at your cleft, the backs of his claws running a cool line up your folds and coming away glistening in slick.

"So eager, my dear. One might be forgiven thinking you have wanted this--"

"I have." Your simple declaration startles him, his vast form drawing back before peering closer at your flushed facade.

"...for how long. For how long has the veil of your mortal skin been shed with the knowledge of your past self, dearest."

"Are we counting the eons between us, or simply this lifetime <<Had>>es." Your voice cracks mid-chime, throat ragged from repeated calls to a long lost language, and he growls a discordant note at your pain. Violet aether washes over your throat soothingly, a cool balm against the damage settling in before you clear your throat to continue speaking to his expectant air.

"There are a great many things I wish had gone differently. This, however," your aether flexes to run his length, coating his in your colors before he permits you to sink within his seas. "This I would not change."

The eldritch sorcerer above you rumbles approvingly, a sense of pleased preening passing through his soul to yours intermingled before resuming his ministrations. You gasp as thinner, ridged tentacles make themselves known, rubbing against your inner thigh. His aether massages yours as his varied appendages lavish your form in intimate massage. Pleasure laps at your senses, physical and aetherial building to a warm crest. Your soul clings to his, unwilling to be parted for even a moment as his rolls over you in deliberate waves. As you feel yourself coming up on the cusp of orgasm from tender touch alone, soul littered with growing starbursts as warnings, Hades’ grey hands descend to embrace you tight against his monstrous form as his soul draws yours deep within his violet void.

"Yesss--Mark me. Claim me. Take responsibility for what you have wrought, dearest."

With a jolt of surprise at his soul's invitation, you cast your view to his beating core--and where the worms of his Tempering had lain, instead, oozing white wounds mar the violet and gold of his soul. You soul shudders at the sight, eyes running overfull with shame. Hades growls a lowly note, dissatisfied with your reaction, and hums a placation as his tendrils tease and rouse your starbursts back to carnal fullness.

"Replace the pain with your affection and all may be as it was, dearest." His demand is crooned darkly in your ear. "You've carved out the path, now fill it."

Trembling on the edge of pleasure, body and mind out of tune, your heart makes your decision for you. With a hungry gasp, your aether rushes to fill his void, white wounds staunched with your selfish love. Hades soul rumbles around you, and his monstrous body finally fills yours.

Textured tentacles delve into you, flicking inside your cunt, and above, a bulbous length cresting your lips and invades your mouth. Thick coils pin you in place for his intrusions, preventing even the slightest twitch as he forces his way within. You choke on the pulsing length burying itself in your throat, swallowing convulsively as it spurts something warm across the back of your tongue. Something ambrosial, the tingling aftertaste enticing you to drink every drop down.

With a muffled shout, your body convulses as the overwhelming sensation of it all assaults your senses. Your aether suffuses his, solidifying a home around his core, and his aether feeds on the pleasure you radiate.

As you quiver and shake, coming down from your high, Hades chuckles. The dark sound buzzes through the air around you, stirring goosebumps on your bare skin. He removes the dripping coil from your mouth, salivinous strand connecting you both.

"Consider this the opening act, <<dearest>>. We have ever so much to catch up on."

The tendril within your cunt swells, stretching you, as a solid bump comes to rest against your entrance. Eyes widening at the knotted tendril resting against your clit, you cannot help but try to squirm closer. Hades' arms and appendages pinning you give no quarter, but you are oversensitive and can only shudder as his knotted tendril begins to fuck into you. The delicious bump rubs insistently against your clit, pressing, pounding harder on each pulse, until with a throaty gasp from the eldritch being above you, it forces its way inside. You both groan at the sweet stretching the size of the knot demands, pressing hard against your inner walls. Slowly, tenderly, the tendril rocks within you, and you jolt against your restraints as the knot runs over that intimately sensitive patch just there.

Glowing eyes narrow in amusement. Hades deliberately drags his knotted tendril across that patch, revelling in your body's desperate shudders as waves of pleasure strike across your form with each roll of friction. You howl, aether bursting bright in the wake of your next orgasm, and rather than flinch back from your display Hades' soul gathers close to ride out the shockwaves, together. Something warm fills you as he finds his own completion, soul fluttering lightly against yours, tentacles pulsing a rhythm in time with his heartbeat.

Bucking from the rebounding pleasure with a drawn out moan, you realize you feel his release just as keenly as your own. Ripples of bliss and pride alike pass from his beating core to the pieces of yourself nestled around his heart, binding you together in extended rapture. His form above you shudders, as he feels your rekindled bliss in turn, and feeds his own back to you in an unbroken loop along your rudimentary bond.

Back bowing from the intensity of the pleasure running through your body and soul, your vision whites out. You are unsure how long you float there, unseeing of anything beyond the violet aether embracing yours.

When you come back to yourself, simple sounds and light touch greet you. The strong heartbeat of your lover beneath you. Smooth fingertips dancing across your skin. Eyes fluttering open, you look up to see Hades back in his mortal guise and your positions reversed. Your head rests on his bare chest, ear over his heart, as his clever hands play with your hair and run along your tired shoulders in turn.

Muzzy contentment spreads through your soul, your bond to him a pale strand between you. It looks light, for all the potent emotions it carries. His answering smile and unconditional affection filtering along it reassure you that this is a welcome connection.

Finally awake I see.

Hades' voice echoes in your ear, thrumming along the bounds of your soul. You feed him back the bone deep satisfaction deadening your limbs in reply. His answering chuckle warms the reaches of your heart, and you snuggle tight against him for some unknowable span of time in mutual agreement. You find yourself drifting in the utter comfort found in his arms, nodding off while watching his illuminated core beat deep within his soul. The wounds of his wretched Tempering cleansed with your aether, your love, and yet were he to encounter Zodiark anew, would it withstand the eldest Primal's Blessing? A silly question, and you dismiss the possibility as borrowing trouble, until niggling doubt intrudes.

You remember the threat the last Unsundered delivered to Minfilia, in the Waking Sands, so long ago.

"What about Elidibus."

"What about Elidibus?" Hades drawls above you, hands tracing circles on your back, unconcerned. You brush off his hands and sit up, annoyed at his apathy.

"Elidibus can Temper others on Zodiark's behalf, can he not?"

Hades grumbles, arm looping back around your waist to pull you down.

"Yes, that ability lies within his reach."

"Then we need to do something about him! Or he may Temper you again." Hades huffs, unimpressed with your concern as he tries unsuccessfully to pull you back into range of his ministrations. With a full-body sigh at your unyielding posture, he shakes his head and sits up beside you.

"We are safe here, for the moment. Elidibus does not care to travel where moonlight does not reach. 'Tis one of the reasons I chose this location when absconding with you, my dear. I do so despise interruptions." Hades wicked grin stirs the slumbering heat in your navel, but you ignore it in favor of the concern plaguing your mind.

"That does not answer the long term question of what to do with him, Hades."

"Precisely, which is why once you are done puzzling through this we shall depart the Source."

"What--No, no we're not running. The Source still needs me as the Warrior of Light, I won't abandon them."

Irritation wafts through your bond, and a frown creases Hades' brow.

"And what about my need for you. We have just found each other again--I do not intend to be parted from you so swiftly, my dear." His phrasing and the pounding beat of possessiveness pulsing through your bond makes his unwillingness to part from you unutterably clear. An idea stirs to the surface of your mind, even more fantastical than the one that's resulted with this Ascian now sitting abreast of you. Peering within, you check for your Blessing. There, muted and buried deep, remains a seed wound inextricably around your soul.

"Hades, how do you feel about Elidibus?"

"Elidibus? He is worry incarnate. It's by his request that I was tasked with finding the author of those delectable novels--he presumed they were an accomplice of yours."

"I meant, ah, how do you feel about him personally."

Hades eyes narrow at your chosen emphasis, looking at you suspiciously.

"...now why would you ask that."

Fidgeting with your hands in your lap, you avoid his prying gaze in favor of inspecting the Garlean decor.

"It occurs to me that, between the pair of us, we might be able to remove his Tempering much as I did with you."

Emotions too fast to track flash across your bond before Hades shuts it down. Muted reflections scatter across his face, hurt startlement fading into wary curiosity.

"And what, precisely, might that entail my dear?"

A sinful smile splits your face as you beckon Hades close. You fill his ear with wicked whispers, and by the time he rocks back on his haunches to part from you, his smile matches yours in its indecency.

And somewhere, not nearly far enough away, Elidibus shivers as though someone has paced above his grave.