Grilled Cheese

ExploreLog inSign up
Terms of UsePrivacy PolicyCommunity StandardsHelpGet the app

Grilled Cheese is a product of Village Compute

Version devBuilt at: 2026-10-13 03:52:57 EDT

Explore

PostsPeople
LatestRanked
@solairelunaire.bsky.socialSep 30, 2026, 2:35 AM

the more deeply i consider what yves's arcadion experience must have been like, the more the comedy and the tragedy mix together until his official ring entry song might as well be the curb your enthusiasm theme
#yveslore #yvesmemes

yves's no good terrible arcadion experience: meanwhile tyrant and yaana are screaming internally because yves snapped in exactly the kind of way that will make people go CRAZY with gossip/speculation lmao yaana: "have you ever talked to a PR agent before in your life? they've gotta have publicists outside the dome too—" yves: "...what's a puh-blee-cyst?" yaana: "thunderous fucking heavens" message by [foncusion] alice: yaana: so a publicist is someone that manages your image to the public yves, thinking of fray: i suppose i did have someone yaana: that’s great! neyumi, noticing the past tense: elbows yaana message by solairelunaire: OH MY GOD— neyuni: “mister yves, there’s this popularity bracket with all your simulacra fighters on problem9 right now. all your fans are voting for their favorite!” yves: “how. how do they have a favorite person based on fleeting moments in combat, they’re not even people. they don’t even talk??” neyuni: “i think a lot of the decision is based on how you act around them? see, right now the one with the shield and the blue hair is winning, because there was some footage from the last match where you blocked an attack together and you actually smiled! the close-up picture went viral.” yves: “AAAAAAAAAAA—“ now imagining yves’s face shriveling up like a raisin when he sees fanart of himself. yes he was aware via the other scions that cheesy bodice-rippers of him exist in writing, but this is a society with VIDEO CAMERAS. and BILLBOARDS WITH HIS FACE ON THEM. and FAN MONTAGES WHERE SOME LUNATIC COMPILES EVERY OFFICIAL MATCH SHOT THAT ZOOMS IN ON HIS NARROW LITTLE WAIST and he wants to jump facefirst into the side of the dome
@solairelunaire.bsky.socialSep 25, 2026, 4:58 PM

day 24 - drift
the kid yves torment nexus, continued again from day 13 (bsky.app/profile/sola...). CW: cursed gridanian childhood emotional trauma, harm to animals, themes of animal death

ellipsus.com/read/Vyh3rZJ...

#solairewrites | #ffxivwrite2026 | #yveslore

There should have been something Yves could say to Father to make him stop, if only he were more clever, more strong, more like the sylphs of Little Solace or the robins nesting in the trees above. But he had pleaded for the summer to never end, and still winter came. He had pleaded for the elementals to say just one word to him, and still they remained silent. No one else was here except for Fig, whose glossy black eyes widened in alarm when Father lurched towards him. The chubby ram could never hope to outrun a man who tracked and chased antelope for a living. His father yanked the sheep to the ground by the scruffy wool of his neck and rolled him on his side. With every bleat, a vice squeezed tighter around Yves's head. "I..." Fig's bony little legs flailed in the air. "I don't." Yves could hardly hear himself over the grunts of the karakul, while his father pinned it down with a knee astride the body. Father's hand wrapped around Fig's curled horn with the same firm confidence as he would pick up any chisel or axe. Its width fit perfectly in his tensed palm. "Please!" Only when Father's masked face tilted towards him did Yves realize he'd spoken aloud instead of mouthing his silent prayers. "What is it?""W-what if we go to the rites this month and it's not enough?" The ground beneath him seemed fuzzy and indistinct, as if he were staring through a heat haze. "I don't want to look—I don't want the elementals to be mad at me, they'll hate me even more. I don't want to do this any longer...!" Yves's eyes clamped shut. His body tensed and shrunk and he wanted to keep shrinking until the sound of his father's voice was as vast and meaningless as thunder. He braced himself and kept bracing. But instead of the lash of words he expected, Father laughed. It was how the Guardian Tree might laugh, if trees could laugh—a low, groaning chuckle that raised in pitch as he let out more dry wheezes. Yves had never realized that Father could even make such a noise when the closest he ever came to laughter was letting out a few exhaled chuffs in conversations with other woodcutters. Yves blinked and he was still there, stooped over Fig's fluttering belly, looking up beyond the sky. When his shoulders stopped shuddering, Father twisted to face Yves again. "Do you think I wanted to do this at your age, boy? Do you believe that you or I have a choice?" It had not truly occurred to Yves that there was a time that Father did not look or sound or act like he had for all of Yves’s short life. It had also not occurred to him that Father could have wanted not to look or sound or act like Father does, and still ended up this way. When Yves could not answer, the man hunched over Fig's head once more and pulled it back by the horn. The way that Father’s right hand drifted over the grey skin of the sheep’s neck was gentle yet searching, fingertips sweeping for an unseen point.
@solairelunaire.bsky.socialSep 11, 2026, 8:51 AM

day 10 - upbraiding
time to uncover more of why yves is the way he is, starting from his cursed gridanian childhood :)

ellipsus.com/read/6w5YsQC...

#solairewrites | #ffxivwrite2026 | #yveslore

“Again. Properly, this time.” The boy’s breaths grew shallow as he forced his lungs to hold still. No matter how his chest grew tangled and knotted with tension, or his knees went numb under his weight, he had to keep listening. Not to his own stubborn heartbeat. Not the dry rasp of the leaves above him, stirred by the wind. Not the shrill whistle of the larks. Not the scratching of squirrel or opo-opo claws over bark, or the snap of twigs. Not the dull buzz of beetles hovering with little wings. The wooden cane in his clasped hands was damp with sweat from his palms. Where was it? If the elementals were in every leaf and branch and flower, then why, why was there so much stupid noise— “Enough. Stop trembling.” Mother’s voice creaked like the crown of an oak in a storm. “You truly…couldn’t hear any of them?” Yves wheezed as he took his first full breath after ten minutes. Trying to stand from where he knelt only led to a radiating sensation of prickling where the numbness used to be, like a swarm of biting ants dancing over his calves. “A-at least you should try to use conjury again. Go on!” Mother stooped down beside him and rolled up her sleeves, revealing a small gash on her right forearm. It was barely the length of his thumb. Yves found it easier to stare at the thin, pink line than to look up at her face. “Hold your cane and focus on the wound. Imagine it whole again, matching my left arm like this.” Her skin was tanned and rough from working the garden, and Yves squinted to blur the edge of his vision to keep looking at the proper spot instead. He pointed the cane lower toward the cut, trying to connect something invisible and intangible between their bodies with nothing more than a piece of wood and positive thinking. The air around them kept blowing in unpredictable gusts. The itch of his bangs being swept towards his eyes was far clearer than any feeling or voice he’d felt that could be called elemental. Not that either—he had to fix it, to fix her, to keep watching until it was fixed. Yves thought any possible change would be better than the waste his attempted communing and conjuring had been for the last six moons. Then, Mother shrieked. “Stop!” Her hand lashed out like a striking serpent and knocked the cane from his clammy grip. “What did you do?!” The thumb-sized cut had swollen outward as if it were encased in a misshapen crimson boil. Instead of knitting together, the skin was reshaped like a pile of melting wax until it blended into the arm again at the edges. “I didn’t—I was trying to do what you told me,” Yves whispered. His useless body shuddered again. The nausea in his belly started to churn and climb. “To use my aether with the cane and fix it…!” “Don’t be daft! What kind of curing spell, even from a child, could go wrong like this?” Mother’s left hand covered the wound as she withdrew her arms. Even out of sight, the inflamed red on her skin remained seared into Yves’s vision. “Every day I’ve prayed to the Matron, every moon we dance the rites and give the offerings, and you still cannot hear nor heal,” she cried. Mother was too small like this, hunched over and wrapping her arms around her chest while she sat before him. “Why, why can’t…?” Yves reached out until his fingers stopped ilms short of the curtain of long, brown hair falling over her face. "I’ll keep trying, I promise, the conjurer at Hawthorne Hut said I could keep tryin—” The whites of Mother’s eyes snapped up and met his own. “How many times will you keep saying that? How many times have you been deaf to their words?” He opened his mouth. No sound came. The din of the woods scraped against his ears, songs and chirps and howls, all signifying nothing.