kryssiesbookofselfinserts:

Look, I haven’t posted or written fanfic in over a decade. It’s been awhile but writing this made me incredibly happy. Hope y'all like it too

Long Overdue

Series: Final Fantasy XIV

Ship: Our Grand Adventure (Krysanthe/G'raha)

Word Count:3,179

Spoilers and Warnings: Endwalker, Shadowbringers, Crystal Tower Raids, lvl 50 Dark Knight Quest

It’s just a nice day together after months of isolation after stopping The Final Days. What could possibly go wrong??

Keep reading

Gonna be cringe on here too bc no one can stop me

Friend’s WoL and G'raha with their lil girl ♡♡

Took her for a picnic since she’s still little ♡

One beautiful sunshine boy calling for his WoL’s hand ♡

(“T,” maybe gently “M."  G'raha/WoL reminiscence and brief WoL/Aymeric.  WoL POV.) 

- - - - - - - - - - 

-  ✧ ☄ ☽ -

She stopped counting time by autumns after the Tower.

To worsen the bite—to make that evanescent season impossible to forget—Samantha was born near that border, her name day cast just before that liminal gasp.  She was a late summer blossom that craved for cool air, and it pained her, after G’raha, to remember.

- - - - - - - - - - 

The front end of dusk was beginning, the spire on the horizon aglow.

Another day, ordinary but for the circumstances. But that, she supposed, was the fodder for stories—mundane moments, supernormal per perspective.  One hand crept to her chest and took her aethermist necklace in hand; toyed with the crystal and wondered—were the Scions at the Stones, sharing tea and fables and banalities their own?  In her weeks spent afield mapping pathways, maiming monsters, scaling the echelons of the Tower—had her absence been felt?  

Minfilia’s smile was warmer than sunshine and Samantha let herself bask for the briefest of breaths; felt the cool press of gemstone in her hand.  “For your protection,” the Antecedent told her, and the Warrior turned the mother-shard gift between her fingers—watched it sparkle and shimmer.

Now it was warmed; imbued with heat from her skin, through her layers of chemise, blouse, and bodice.  She thumbed the crystal and thought of Warde, of Waters—Tataru Taru serving tea—Papalymo preaching to Yda, Y’shtola scoffing fondly—Urianger pontificating while the Leveilleur twins attended—

A body a head-and-some smaller slammed into her back, strong arms grappling her into a bear hug.  

“You sly old thing!”

The wind was knocked from her lungs, her imaginings scattered, as G’raha Tia all but wrestled her up off the ground.  Senseless afresh at the show of his strength, she coughed.  “Gods and hells.”  It was difficult to remember the last time someone, in no uncertain terms, swept her off her feet.  “What in the—Raha—put me down—”

“Why did you not tell me?”

He was audibly pouting.  

She used the callused heels of both palms to wrestle the cinching clinch of his forearms, but his vise grip was unbending.  She glared at his freckled, sunburnt skin, her voice strained.  “Tell you what?”

“That today was your name day,” he sulked, rattling her body minutely.  “I would have foraged for gifts.”

She huffed hard.  Her cheeks prickled.  Leave it to G’raha to winkle out her secrets.

But who told him? 

…

She would kill Cid bloody Garlond.  

Her body collapsed into deadweight.  As usual, in defense against her sentiments—to tamp down the way her heart raced and fluttered, simply to know G’raha cared—

She reached for insipid banter.  “Why did you not tell me you were so godsdamned brawny?”

“Aha,” he laughed.  “You mean to imply you never noticed?”

There was a wink in his voice.  She coughed, indignant—because of course she had, but— “Your ego would never survive how much I’ve noticed,” she wheezed, surprised by her own frankness.  She could veritably feel the heat of his massive grin as he eased her back to earth.  

His voice was a rumble, thrilled and satisfied. “Fabulous.”  One last squeeze like a cincher at her waist, and then she was released.  “Remind me to show you my trump cards more often.”

“Numpty,” she grumbled, pushing away.  

She spun to scowl down and G’raha’s smile was wide as imagined, dry Mor Dhonan dust stirred up by the delighted lash of his tail. The tip curled and hooked like the side of his mouth.  “Right,” he said, all candor and merriment and crisp bits of mischief.  “How shall we celebrate?”

She spluttered.  “I had no intention to—”

But his hand was shoved in hers and she was being dragged—a fond, familiar hauling she was furtively glad to call common.  “Revenant’s Toll,” he said, hitched with excitement. “Our research can wait—”

“But Xande—”

“Is trapped,” said G’raha.  “And I, for one, will not allow the horrors of Allag to interfere with your birthday.”

- - - - - - - - - -

Supper hung warm in her belly as they scaled the path to the greenery just past the Splendors.

The omnipresent chatter of settlers and workers faded into static as G’raha’s hand crept again to find hers.  “This way,” he murmured, his palm pulsing her fingers with a gentle, affectionate wring.

Heaviness shunted her chest.  For a breath, she feared she might burst open—might collapse and dissolve into hot surging butterflies, like those that crowded her stomach.

They moved beyond the dull commotion, and music distantly warbled, the melody stronger and stronger.  G’raha’s ears flicked, overfocused in her vision, and when he turned to flash a grin, she felt sunshine again.  “A troubadour,” he laughed—summer sunset, rich and rustling—and as they rounded the corner, she saw the minstrel in question, perched and playing her lyre on a half-mortared ledge.

The small square was under construction but G’raha Tia hardly cared.  He towed her right up to the bard and threw down a handful of gil.  The Warrior of Light watched in awe as the Baldesion Scholar listed songs by titles unfamiliar, stopping only when the bemused musician grinned.

“That one,” she said, flexing her hands.  “I well know it.”

“Perfect,” G’raha breathed.  He whirled to face Samantha.  “Dance with me.”

It was not a request.

His hands snatched her wrists, then her fingers, and they were woven callus to callus.  He brought his strength to bear again as she gasped his name—Raha—and they were spinning.

An ugly laugh tore from her throat, and she was dizzy—anchored by the bright sight of his smile.  Her bearings were lost, her wits scattered.  She watched the movement of his soft and beautiful mouth, and it took her too many heartbeats to realize he was singing.

The curl of his timbre plucked something far inside her.  Ilsabardian, she realized.  He was singing in that language—

Like Cassius—

Tears pricked her eyes.

“Your voice.”  Hers was hoarse and husky.  “It’s magnificent.”

The pitch on his lips spiraled off into a rich vibrato. “Another card to your liking, then?”

Her pulse filled her ears.  She nodded, and at the way he dazzled, incandescent, reality beyond him was gone.

G’raha Tia was a riddle, hard and charming and delightful; so bizarre he left her petrified, more frightening, somehow, than a Garlean legatus.  His smile stirred her aether, something quiet and arcane, and a swift, relentless pressure thumped like wingbeats in her chest.

I—

He twirled her into a spin.  She bent along after; stumbled under his arms and snagged herself, boot tip to boot tip.  A shout left her lips as she fell—the clinch of his arms snared her waist as he dove to catch her—and the two of them crumpled, gasping, to the ground.

One leg sprawled beneath him.  One knee cocked against his hip.  She giggled helplessly as his body shuddered overhead, laughter rolling from his chest.  His ears were perked straight forward, his stare so warm.

“Some pair we make,” he murmured past the mirth, and he used one scuffed hand to push her tangled hair behind her ear; to stroke the pads of his fingers, very slowly, down her face.

They locked eyes.  Both went still.  With the weight of his body above her, cradled hips to cautious hips, a whisper of hunger burned inside her to realize how well they might actually fit.

He wet his lips.  His pupils widened, then thinned back to slits.  

Slowly, he disentangled them—stepped up and away and reached one hand down.  Palm to palm, she was lifted, and— “Follow me,” he said.  Again they were stitched at the fingers, her heart become the butterfly flutter, her blood alive with wild anticipation.

Notes fell from his lips—he was singing, and panting, and breathless—and she gripped his hand more tightly.  Past the square, past the last hints of construction, past the edge of the Toll and out into Mor Dhona—

They ran into fields strewn with glowing crystals, and before she could catch her air, she was against him; hugged into the hard clutch of his arms like a cincher.  He pressed his face to the edge of her shoulder, conspicuously avoiding her chest. “Samantha.”  Her name was hot on his lips, hot on the skin past her vestments. Her arms curled, careful around him, and her sleeves slouched half-down.  “I—” his voice cracked.  “Have another gift,” he huffed.  “That is—before I lose the courage to give it.”

Her hands crept up his neck; covetously traced the small plait at his nape.  Her body was humming, her pulse racing fast, the precipice between them disappearing in a glimmer.  She forced herself to ask.  “What is it?”

His mouth at the fringe of her sleeve and her skin.  “A kiss.”

Her heart was a stone plunging into her stomach. She froze—leaned back—found his mismatched eyes tilted up to her in gallantry and terror.

Yes, yes, yes—

Her throat was dry, and silence overlingered. He went tense.  She felt him begin to recoil and stopped him, her thumbs by his lips.  When she leaned down, her dark hair curtained around them.  

“Kiss me, then,” she whispered.

Shadowed eyes roved her face.  His hands stroked a path up her backbone.  He tipped up his chin, and his mouth was soft and lush, his taste warm and bitter.  He tried to leave her with a peck but she followed him for something good and proper, drinking the breath from the tip of his tongue, tasting hope and apprehension.

Their noses brushed together.  “Happy name day, Samantha.”

- - - - - - - - - -

After that, winters seemed a better measure.

Winter was, after all, where she found summer again.

His laugh was warm and breathy.  “I was born then, you know,” Borel hummed, voice like velvet and honey and richer than silk.  “On that crisp cusp between greenings and heat.”

“Soft thing of springtime,” she called him.

“Monster of maying,” he whispered.

“Either way,” she kissed his lips.  “You brought me sunshine again.”

-  ☽ ✧ ☾ -

(”T,” named fWoL/G’raha.  Nights in Mor Dhona during CT.  Feelings, nostalgia, mildly abstract.)

- - - - - - - - - -

His chuckle was warm summer sunset tasting of autumn, rich and rustling and crisp around the edges.  “Take my hand,” he laughed.  “I want to show you something.”

A smile tickled her lips but she opted, again, to pretend—to play-act that her interest was dim. And it was an effort to lie to him; to imply she spent her precious stolen respites daydreaming of anything other than him—G’raha’s eyes, his smile, the wish of his hands thumbing and trawling every riddle of her skin.  

From the way he buffed his clawed nails to blunt tips, she wondered if he dared imagine the same; if perhaps in some quiet corner of his raucous, rambling mind, he hoped he might also have the chance, yet, to cross that line.

She half-shuttered dark eyes and cocked a tense brow.  “Where are we going?”

His grin bent at the corner like the happy shepherd’s-crook of his tail.  His soft mouth hid mischief and pleasure.  “Do you trust me?”

It was a dare.

Rather than surrender, she wove them fingers to fingers and held his puckish stare.

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

The Tangle was wild at night, full of hazards; patrols of guards from the Castrum, monsters and morbols and mercenaries alike.  “Where are you taking me, exactly?”  

G’raha was smaller and faster, dragging her along behind.  “Trust me,” came the echo.  

Dusk fell in phases around them, the haze of the Fogfens crowding her nose.  Though Samantha Rosalyn Floravale was hailed by her blessing of Light—eikon slayer—she shivered and was frightened.  She was budding, a still-nascent hero; thorns and brambles cut just barely on Baelsar and Ultima and the Ascian, Lahabrea—

The Warrior was dawning, while Eorzea expected her to shine.  

G’raha gripped her hand tight.  The press of his calluses felt like a kiss.  A bark escaped her lips, the knit of their fingers a ladder stitch.  “Tell me again why I bother to listen?”

“Because I think you might likeme,” he quipped—and it was something she said, some days prior.  He tossed back bright red hair to grin up into her face, and his warmth prickled through her, hot like high noon.

She stared down, dumbfounded. 

 Instead of saying something milder, she scoffed and scowled.  “Insufferable.”

His mirth was spicy, heady as liquor—his purr far more potent.  “My pleasure.”

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

“Rathefrost,” he said, yanking her down by the hand.

Her long skirts were damp with mud and muck from the hike, her blood filled with wanderlust. G’raha had a habit of accidentally making her ecstatic.  Her thighs ached and strained and something astral licked up her backbone as she squatted.  “Is that what they call it?”

Amid the dim gleam of omnipresent crystal, the thrumming of ambient aether, the witch and the knave-kit crouched at the edge of one cliff in Mor Dhona and gazed at the shell of the Agrius, the Keeper.  “As you know,” G’raha began, and the velvet curl of his voice suggested a story, “Among the Twelve, Althyk was warden of time—keeper of past and of future.”  Cool stone bit her palms as she leaned back to listen; let the sultry smoothness of Sharlayan jargon envelop her as wholly as the night that veiled the stars.  “His sister Nymeia was spinner of Fate—master of water and watcher of skies—” he paused until she glanced at him and chuckled, “—and she, along with Brother Time, saw the Falls for their ultimate nature—”

“A font of unspeakable power,” she whispered, tracing constellations.  Her stare flicked back to meet his.

The bluffs and crags of crystal all around them reflected in his eyes.  “Aether,” he agreed.  “The center of all that was, and all that ever would be.”  His words were filled with weight and whimsy.  “The Falls desired a keeper, and Time and Fate conspired—begged the king of wyrmkings to play custodian, to guard them.”

She let her gaze linger on his features; traced, too-long, the lush curve of his mouth.  “Althyk was the father of Azeyma,” she said quietly. “Goddess of Truth and of Fire.”

“And Menphina.” A grin crept forth and she looked away before he could gesture with his brows.

“Honestly, Raha.” She huffed a sigh through her nose; ignored the way her cheeks prickled.  “If you end the story with some bawdy joke—”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he insisted, scooting closer to her on the ledge.  His body heat was radiant.  “Merely connected Love and Truth in much the same vein as a bloodline.”

“Love and Truth,” she muttered, watching him from the side of her eye.  “And ice and fire.  If love is ice and truth is fire—”

He elbowed her in the ribs.  “One could simply transpose them.”

She rolled her eyes and huffed again.  “Turn love to truth?”

“Or vice versa.”

She dared another glance at him and found his eyes glittering, teal and scarlet, late daybreak, early twilight.  Afraid of the way her heart stuttered to devour, she sighed.  “Ridiculous.”

The corners of his lips twisted into a grin.  “Or brilliant.”

She pouted.  “Ridiculously brilliant,” she grumbled, completely in earnest.

A bright laugh bubbled from his throat and his tail thumped the ground.  “Glad you trusted me?”

The bones of Midgardsormr rose from the Lake, a ghost of eras long departed.  

“I’m always glad to trust you, Raha,” she said, ice and fire in her chest.

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

When the fire of midsummer faded, ice misting over the horizon, a single leaf turned a shade bright and brash as his hair.  Perhaps they both knew it was ending.  Something changed, much the same.  In hindsight, far more than the season—the flourishing harvest before the decay.

Transposition.

Paths of life combine for brief seasons of change, some with the wicks to blend into twin flames. Still more remain sparks never coaxed to kindle ablaze.  They were wrought of the same holy matter that summer—two soul-flecks of stardust chipped from primordial night.  Drawn together for the matching shards and facets in their hearts—

Unfair,unfair,to be thrust apart—

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

His knuckles stroked her backbone.

She woke to the cool of her own naked skin; stiffened at the instinct to escape his scalding touch. She was an ember, and he, tempted into ignition; raw, dazzling impulse incarnate.

Was the truth—the love—not better left unsaid?

Dare she look beyond the hourglass that loomed above the bed?

- ☽ ✧ ☾ -

You’re like autumn, my dear, so simple and divine
How could we have been so lucky
To exist and find each other at this time?

Thanks for the ko-fi!

Thanks for the ko-fi!

i had a lil art giveaway on twitter and this is the first winner!!