#aymeric is well mannered and handsome

[neriyon]

I tried making a neat little graphic family tree buuuut fitting all these kids in is a pain so.... rip that idea I guess

Unnamed grandmother Puu - lived with her daughters/grandkids until her death (some time before Hawu'li was born). Unclear if she left her own parents to start the Puu family, or if she stayed to continue their traditions, as she never really talked about her origins. - Had 3 daughters: Hawu, Khona and Masha

Hawu Puu, Hawu'li's mother and the current matriarch of the Puu family. Strict and strong mother who rarely has trouble keeping the big gaggle of kids in order nor kicking out any troublemakers. Still participates in some hunts despite her age. - Had 7 daughters and 3 sons: Hawu'a, unnamed daughter 1 & 2, Hawu'to, Nhagi, unnamed daughter 3 & 4, Hawu'li, Poki and Una

Khona Puu, middle sister of the ladies running the Puu family. Phenomenal tracker, who seems to know the woods like the back of her hand, but also which herbs and plants work best for poisons and antidotes. - Has unspecified number of daughters and a single son, Khona'a.

Masha Puu, youngest of the original 3 Puu sisters. Sharpest eye and aim of the whole family, she used to be the one to lead hunting trips with Hawu until having her own kids. Nowadays she mostly focuses on making and maintaining weapons the family uses, but sometimes joins the younger generation on hunts if not busy with her girls. - Has 3 unnamed daughters, who are youngest of all the cousins.

Rest just get thrown on bulletpoint list:

Hawu'a is the oldest of all kids, and without a doubt Hawu's favorite. He's a strong, stoic and a great hunter, so pretty much the perfect son in her eyes. Still lives in the Shroud and visits home regularily, bringing gifts from his hunts every time.

Hawu'to is complete opposite of his older bro - smart and studious with a sharp tongue. Ever since he started showing less intrest in hunting and more in studying, he and his older brother have been at odds. He eventually left for Sharlayan, where he's still living and working as a scientist. Never visits, has "frigid at best" relationship with his mother and outright hostile relationship with Hawu'a.

Khona'a is the one who first taught Hawu'li magic! He's about the same age as Hawu'to, and left the family sometime after him (but on better terms). Huge sweetheart but a bit of a trickster, he learned some minor spells on his travels, and while visiting home showed them to his younger siblings and cousins. Also the one who encouraged Hawu'li to learn more magic, especially healing, as "world could always use more of those".

Nhagi and 2 of the unnamed older sisters of Hawu'li have left the family to start their own. Nhagi specifically is the one Hawu'li sees most, as she lives in Gridania and has a kid she often asks Hawu'li to babysit (when he's not off saving the world lol)

Other 2 unnamed older sisters as well as Poki and Una (twins) still live home with their mother. Older two mostly handle hunting, as well as teaching it to the younger two.

2/13/25

#wolquestion #wolqotd

What does your wol(oc)'s family tree look like?

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #9: The Heart of Things

Prompt: fair || Master Post || On AO3

--

It is a common element of Gyr Abanian folk stories, particularly the ones told to children, that the wisest and most heroic of characters are the ones bearing heavy scars or twisted features or the sharpest of tongues. One-Eyed Odin lives in the wild heart of the Dimwold, preferring the company of ravens and diakka and her wife to people, but the withered crone will grumblingly lead lost children by the hand back to their villagers as she teaches them the dangers and bounty of the bog, or appear at a wandering war-prince’s campfire, on her way to visit one of her many sisters, to share her hard-won wisdom (and perhaps even offer a token to help him win the day). Her son, Vidar of the Iron Arm, is brave but war-weary, his face a canyon of scars, but his equally scarred hands have gently escorted many a maiden across the mountain paths to the homes of their bridegrooms.

Synnove’s adult, analytical mind knows—or at least suspects, since her scholarly pursuits focus on mathematics and aetherology rather than history and folklore—that such stories likely evolved to teach the children of Gyr Abania to respect the veterans of the many wars and battles their people have fought. War has been the major source of her people’s coin since Ala Mhigo first rose on the shores of Loch Seld over a thousand years ago, and is war not kind to the body or the mind.

Inevitably, many of the villains of her childhood are beautiful: the Queen of Stone and Snow, cruel and capricious as the avalanches that wipe out herds and villages; Roric Silvertongue, whose prowess with a bow and manipulations both leads to the death of three kings before Princess Elysande comes out of the north to reclaim her birthright; Wicked Audr the Facestealer, who sows chaos simply for the joy of it using their thousand and one faces, each one flawless and radiant. Not that the reverse never happens: the Bone Eater is made to be as ugly on the outside as the inside, for example, and even in her old age, One-Eyed Odin’s wife Freyja is the most beautiful woman in Abalathia, and the kindest.

But Gyr Abanian lore, for the most part, warns of a beautiful face and a smooth tongue, and for all that Synnove grew up just as much on Ul’dahn tales which feature the opposite, those are the ones that lurk most often in the back of her mind.

Which is, perhaps, why she is so surprised that she isn’t wary of one Ser Aymeric de Borel.

The man is absurdly handsome and could have stepped off the pages of a storybook with a flawless face, hair as black as pitch, and eyes a clear and icy blue. His voice is a low, smooth tenor, his manners exquisite, his smile a picture-perfect politician’s. The stories of Wicked Audr and Roric Silvertongue hiss at her to beware; the ten years of living in Ul’dah remind her that pretty promises have less pretty prices.

But for all that during that first meeting he plays Alphinaud like a well-tuned fiddle, there’s a thread of earnestness about him. There was no hiding his genuine pleasure at meeting herself and her sisters; no hiding at all the spark of delight when he saw her specifically. That the carbuncles don’t seem to mind him, even like him (well, Galette and Tyr do—Ivar not liking someone is just a fact of life), is certainly a major point in his favor, too.

It’s that meeting in the Jeweled Crozier, the first time she ever sees him outside his office as Lord Commander, where she truly lets herself be charmed. There’s no artifice in his laughter, no scheming in his offer to treat her and Galette to hot chocolate. After the ruin of the Scions during the banquet and the otherwise cold reception she and her family have received from Ishgard outside House Fortemps, his warm regard is a soothing balm.

It isn’t until well into their stay in Ishgard, the conspiracy of the Dragonsong War slowly unraveling, that Synnove has a realization. She has spent a considerable amount of time with Ser Aymeric; they’ve run into one another on errands or various excursions into the city, and he’s come to Fortemps Manor more than once to invite her to a luncheon, or a café, or just a walk around one of the parks. “And Galette, and Tyr, and Ivar, are more than welcome to join if they so want to, of course.”

She is alone in the library she’s commandeered, because there is too much downtime for her to sit idly and not work on arcanima research even without most of her resources on hand, not even the carbuncles present. She is in the middle of drafting a revision to Galette’s Garuda-egi subprogram, when uncharacteristically, her mind begins to wander away from aetherophysics and to the handsome man she had had coffee with just yesterday. His cheerful greeting to their waitress and asking after her family before she took their order, the sparkle of his eyes as he recommended the chocolate torte, the soft rumble of his laugh as she told him about the firt time Ivar decided to take a nap in a working oven, which of course was the bread oven in the Gate mess, the warmth of his smile…

He’s courting me.

Synnove sets down her pen and stares unseeing at the far wall as her mind runs a malm a minute.

She’s never dreamed of romance or courting or marriage. She had just…fallen into her previous relationship, and what a mess that had been. Though, perhaps it wouldn’t have turned so ugly if they had courted properly, getting to know one another, realizing they weren’t much of a good fit after all. (Realizing the carbuncles hadn’t liked her chosen lady at all, and really, that needs to be top of her list for anything.)

She’s certainly never dreamed of an ideal partner, either, be they male or female or other. Her preferences in the rare bedmates she’s had in the past skew towards taller than her and stronger, but that’s not really the same. She supposes if she had to choose, it would be someone with whom she could have a relationship like her Aunt Angharad and Uncle Tyr did, or Grandmother and Grandfather.

Her memories of her childhood in Ala Mhigo are greyed out by time, but she remembers the feeling of those relationships if not the particulars. The comfortable silences between Auntie and Uncle as they leaned into one another, the way Grandfather would lead Grandmother in an impromptu waltz, gentle with her fragile bones as her soft laughter followed them down the halls. The respect, the care, the love. The work they had put into it.

Synnove thinks of how Ser Aymeric asks her questions about her job as an arcanist; he doesn’t always understand the high theory she has a tendency to segue into when she speaks more of her research than her duty as an agent of the thalassocracy, but he listens, and asks more questions to clarify. She thinks of his enthusiasm when she asks about him about a favorite book, or the soft, fond grief when she gently inquires about his parents, or the thin thread of frustration when he speaks on the stagnation of Ishgard's society. She thinks of the way the timber of his voice sends butterflies fluttering in her stomach, the way his midnight hair sometimes falls into his lovely blue eyes when he tilts his head and winks at her, the way he gently kisses her knuckles in greeting or departure. She thinks of how utterly delighted he was when Galette decided she was going to ride on his shoulders one day in the park, his chest puffing out with pride as he described the history of the rose gardens to them.

She thinks of it all, of what it could mean for her and for him and for them. She thinks of all the stories she was told as a child where a beautiful face could lead to ruin, but also the ones that say it didn’t matter if the face was beautiful or ugly, just that the heart was kind and just. She thinks of all the work it would take to make a Lord Commander and a Warrior of Light fit.

It would be worth it.

Synnove thinks of it all, and smiles.

PREVIOUS || NEXT

[tenebriism]

With things calm enough to step away for a moment, Shuuji had decided to return to Ishgard to drop in and surprise a certain Lord Commander that he had not really had the chance to see in a while. (Hopefully) in tow would be a dragoon who had a penchent for wandering, if the other accepted the invitation to come back with him; he wanted to get his two beloved Elezen back in the same room together at the same time. It had been so long since he was able to lavish them in attention, it almost was unbearable how much his entire being ached the entire way to the city-state.

When he beheld both Aymeric and Estinien upon entering the former's chambers, he spared not a moment before he had nestled up between them, his arms thrown around their lower backs to give them both a one-arm embrace. It doubled as his way to get them to lean in for kisses — but these smooches came with a surprise. Once both of their lips had been thoroughly lavished with love, he would lean his head back just the slightest bit to get a gentle, cheeky little nibble out on both Aymeric's and Estinien's ears closest to the Hingan.

"Mmnh... Kami above, I missed you two more than I could express," he started with a soft hum, though his expression wore a rather inviting allure to it. "Such a long time away, I would do anything to just enjoy you both for a while... No distractions, no missions or missives, nothing allowed to get in the way." Each ear now received a kiss upon them as well, accompanied by a low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

"To see you both, to get to really fully remember just how handsome you both are... It does make it very difficult to hold back, you know? But I'll be a good boy... even if you both are quite tempting to sink my teeth into...~"

Most may find it HUMOROUS that the elezen who had both won Shuuji's heart, and who had both seized claim over Shuuji's, in turn, ENVIED one another for how they handled this new, albeit beautiful dynamic.

Aymeric wishes he could maintain his resolve much like Estinien does rather than making plain as day his feelings by expression and body language alone. Yet, Estinien wishes he was more expressive, much like Aymeric, so that he may come off gentler, less... standoffish. 'Tis not his intent, after all--- merely the result of trauma and hardships, but he is learning. Improving, as is Aymeric.

Still, 'tis evident Estinien is leagues away from even coming CLOSE to Aymeric's expressiveness in the presence of their shared, adored partner. The moment Shuuji enters the room, the Lord Commander brightens as if Ishgard itself has had all manner of cracks and destruction sealed and rebuilt, and prosperity reformed.

Estinien can do naught else but chuckle in amusement.

Yet, such is not to say he is IMMUNE to Shuuji's positive, WARM influence. Nay, the dragoon's face, too, adopts a tinge of rosy red as the three of them are pulled close and the SECOND most sensitive part of an elezen's body is touched and teased.

Estinien is... merely better than Aymeric at keeping it TOGETHER, yet he derives much and more amusement watching the normally formal and elegant Lord Commander immediately melt.

Good... at least Aymeric is loosening up. The dragoon WORRIES for him when they are away, and he knows Shuuji does, too.

" Come now, Shuuji, " Estinien whispers with husky baritone as he cants his head to return affection, " I know it has been some time since you have been in his presence, but would logic not claim that his... resilience towards certain advances, especially on your part, has SUFFERED in the time we have been apart? " With knowing smirk and cheekiness alongside, Estinien waits for Aymeric to attempt to defend himself. Alas, that attempt does not come, for the darker haired elezen is too busy turning his face OPPOSITE to them so his whining and struggled breaths shan't be made the focus of their pleasant rendezvous. " I... a-apologize, " Ishgard's beloved leader manages, inhaling shakily in a paltry attempt to collect his composure. Astrals, how EMBARRASSING, as if his mind hadn't been fogged over ENOUGH from the onslaught of kisses from both Shuuji and Estinien upon arrival.

He's beginning to think they do it just to be ENTERTAINED.

" Keep that up and he shan't last long. "

" E-ESTINIEN! "

--- but, gods, is it so WRONG to hyperfocus on how LOVELY Shuuji's lips feel against his tapered ear? How starved he is of touch and affection, not that he BLAMES them, for he knows they ALL have a library's worth of tasks to tend to no the daily, but it makes it no less AGONIZING to be apart from them? Certain urges can only be satiated by personal touch for so long, and to have BOTH objects of his desires and affection curled up within reach--- well, of COURSE he is fighting a losing war!

" Ah, do not ' Estinien! ' me, my love. You forget I know you best of everyone--- mind, soul, heart, and body. I am not SHAMING you, I merely wish you would cease these attempts to act so formal and put together when you so clearly wish to be ravished. "

He swears, 'tis only when SHUUJI is around that he gets like this. So unbecoming of him, so SHAMEFUL--- and yet, he is not one to LIE. Even should he attempt, it would emerge as a pitiable stutter, his face and... other giveaways far more SOUTHERN bringing shame and contradiction to his claims post haste. He apologizes profusely AGAIN, attempting to pull away, but Estinien has always been quicker, SWIFTER. He grabs for Aymeric's hand and pulls him right back down, before leaning in towards Shuuji's ear to offer a word of encouragement.

" Go on. He needs it. I will watch--- I enjoy it anyway. "

@kodapi ;;

[starswornoaths]

Prompt 16: Lucubration

Moen. Why did you give me this troll ass word. Why did this word, of all of them, give me Immense Emotions.

Have an Academic AU set 600 years after xiv. Do not perceive me.

To say that discovering what had happened to those closest to the Warrior of Light from the Seventh Astral Era, now some six hundred years past, was the culmination of Ciri’s life’s work was a gross overexaggeration, though it was the first project she had been approved for grant money to pursue out of graduate school. It was an interesting enough period in history that there was ample interest in the nitty gritty of it, though the obtuse nature of the way that era was chronicled had made it an intimidating one to approach.

Ciri didn’t know the concept of being intimidated by academic research, however, and had leapt into it headlong, eager to know what had become of the historic figures that had risen up in the wake of the Serella Arcbane of legend.

It had been fairly easy to reverse engineer her path of adventuring, and from there, Ciri had managed to discover so much more than she had thought she could in some case, in others, almost nothing. Which had ultimately led her travels to Ishgard, tucked away in one of the recently restored Scholasticate libraries, pouring over tomes and records by low lamplight to help with her migraine.

It was late enough that everyone else in the building had long since gone home, save for the janitorial staff. It was a common enough occurrence that Ciri made it a habit of buying the lot of them takeout while she was there. Half as a bribe to not kick her out, but mostly so she could continue her work unburdened with the worry that they hadn’t eaten enough in the day. 

There were reasons she was their favorite academic.

“Still here?” A dulcet voice asked from the doorway to the archives.

Emil. She didn’t even have to look up to know. She would know him anywhere.

“As ever.” She called back. “What on earth are you still doing here?”

“You should know me better than that by now.” With the echoing clack of his footsteps approaching her, she was spared being startled when he set a thermos on the table for her. “I couldn’t well enough just abandon my partner in crime.”

She spared him a plain look from over the tome she had been pouring over.

“You just don’t like going through that one street alone, do you?”

“Have you seen the way those dancers leer at me?” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I can’t tell whether they’re trying to lure me in to seduce me or put me to work.”

“The woes of bountiful beauty.” Ciri sighed, and snapped the book she had been reading shut.

She tossed it to the side of her in half disgust, along with the veritable mountain of other tomes that had proven to be just as uninformative.

“You would know far more than I.” He cooed around a saccharine smile, preening at the way she flushed at the compliment.

“You do this on purpose, I swear it.” She grumbled goodnaturedly.

Though Emile laughed, his eyes scanned the discarded tomes, pursing his lips. “Still having trouble finding him, then?”

“Technically.” She heaved a sigh, her back thumping against her chair as she took a moment to pout in a manner most unbecoming an academic. “I keep running into dead ends. He was a goddamn world leader, how does history lose someone like that?!”

There yet remained one final piece of the mystery she needed before her work was done. She could not leave it to be lost to the annals of history for no other reason than her lack of due diligence, that was for damn certain.

“Quite easily, I assure you.” He replied, and finally held up a bag of takeout he had brought up with him and set it on the table. “Take a break with me, rest your eyes.”

He set out a variety of containers, each more fragrant and savory than the last. Betraying her own neglect, Ciri’s stomach growled loud enough that he paused in divvying up food to arch a brow at her.

“When did you last eat?”

“...Monday…?” She said hesitantly once she had ticked back the hours. 

It was only Tuesday, right? That wasn’t so bad.

“Cirilla Anne Dubois! It’s Wednesday!” Sparing a glance at his watch, he grimaced and amended, “Thursday, by now! Eat!”

He set a large soup container in front of her to punctuate his command, and the scent of beef broth filled her senses. She had to swallow heavily from how her mouth watered.

“Udon…?” She asked hopefully.

“Of course. And a shared order of tempura.” He promised, laying out another container between them.

A ritual for them, to share meal and knowledge alike. Something that had carried over from their days in uni, and even before then. She had been glad for Emil’s constant, comforting presence throughout their travels and research. They could be doing nothing but laughing over a silly video on his tomephone, and sharing bits of food, and still, she would be the happiest woman in the world.

Emil somehow seemed to always know when she needed a break. The food had been exactly what she had needed, she realized the moment that the first bite had settled on her tongue. He had even brewed her tea, she realized when she popped the thermos open and sniffed at the delicate complex and slightly sweet aroma. 

Truly, these were the moments that made her work worthwhile.

“Review with me, like we always do. Something to break up the lucubration by lamplight, if you will.” Emil brought her back, the bright amber of his eyes comforting in the low lamplight. After he chewed around a mouthful of curry and rice, he continued, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Tell me of the other Alliance leaders, and how their stories ended.”

“But you know. You’ve been with me every step of this research trip.” Ciri whined after a long dreg of her tea.

“Sure, but isn’t it important to look again? To make sure you didn’t miss anything?” He encouraged. 

He had a point, even if Ciri didn’t want to admit it.

“Where to start…” She tapped her fingers on the table. “Lyse Hext and Hien Rijin formed a bridge between the Doman and Eorzean Alliances when they were wed, paved the way for current world politics in that regard, though they ultimately focused on adopting refugee children and rebuilding Doma and Ala Mhigo respectively. Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn adamantly refused to retire until she had found a suitable replacement.”

“Only for her First to ultimately convince her to do so that she might marry the love of her life.” Emil supplied, food all but abandoned to focus his attention solely on her.

“Y’Shtola Rhule, of all people.” Ciri snorted. ““The only woman to keep me honest. I would have no other.” It was so recorded she had said in her wedding vows.”

“Good for them.” He nodded.

“Raubahn Aldynn eventually retired from his position as General of the Ala Mhigan army, and had lived a content life as a hobbyist carpenter and full time grandfather to his son’s children.” She paused to chew on a mouthful of noodles. “For the life of me, I couldn’t confirm who Pipin Tarupin had settled down with, though there is some suggestion that it was eventually Nanamo Ul Namo, having all but disappeared upon successfully dissolving the sultanate of Ul’Dah.”

“It’d be a neat end to several loose threads.” Emil shrugged a shoulder. “Can’t blame popular theory for running with it.”

“I just hate that I don’t know— and I’d asked Kan-E-Senna in that interview, too, lest you wonder.”

Kan-E-Senna didn’t count as a reliable source of information on the whole, the crone. Eternally youthful and blessed by the Twelveswood, Ciri had squared her away with a simple interview. The Elder Seedeer had been a bit of a dead end for damn near everything but Merlwyb and Y’Shtola’s wedding, citing that she had simply not been very close with anyone else, preferring the company of the wood itself.

Ciri still couldn’t tell whether that was the truth, or she was just being an obtuse old bat having a laugh at a young academic’s expense.

“Dead ends, all, for what on earth happened to the last of them.”

She blew a curly bang out of her face with a frustrated huff. Infuriatingly, it sprang right back to where it had hung in her eyes. With an agitated grunt, she sat up and gathered all of her hair to hold back with a head scarf. Plucking a zucchini tempura piece from its container and popping it in her mouth, she went back to the tome she was pouring over when Emil arrived and flipped to the page she had been on. 

“I’ve solved what happened to all the rest. But what happened to him?” She hissed almost under her breath, the blunt end of her pen tapping against a specific portrait of a historic figure depicted in the text.

Inky hair swept over bright eyes, a young man barely in his thirties draped in gilded armor and blue finery. Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard during and after the Dragonsong War. Speculated beloved of the Warrior of Light. Aymeric de Borel. 

“I can’t figure out what happened to him after he retired.” Ciri frowned at the portrait of the handsome man. “He was barely thirty-seven, and was in good health, by all accounts. The Borel Manor is still in the family name, even centuries down the line, though none of them are of blood relatives.” She tapped her pen to her bottom lip in thought. “Family trees confirm he adopted his children, though he himself was also an adopted kid, so the Borel bloodline had already died out before he had even retired, in a manner of speaking.”

“But when did he adopt them? Did he have a spouse? And why— and how— in the ever loving fuck did he just vanish from all record?!”

“You keep thinking of him as a historical figure.” Emil noted patiently, setting down his chopsticks and reaching across the table to gently hold her hand. “Think of him as a person. What, considering all of the other people in Ell— the Warrior of Light’s life chose for themselves, what would you think he would want, above all else?”

“...You know something I don’t.” Ciri accused after a moment of scrutiny, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“A rarity, but just this once, yes.” He nodded. “Though for disclosure: I only came about the knowledge tonight.”

“Why not tell me sooner?”

“I wanted you to eat, my dear.”

There was something that struck her as deeply familiar about this moment. The dark brown of his skin was stark against the rolled up sleeves of his pale blue shirt, and yes, he was distractingly handsome all the time, and yes, they had always shared food and conversation before, but this…

Ciri had never been to Ishgard before her academic research. Not once. And yet, it felt as though she had been here, with him, having this conversation before.

It might have been a trick of the light, but for a moment, his eyes were a peculiar kyanite blue.

Odd.

“Have you been down to the Vault’s archives?” At her nod, he smiled wider and pushed away from his seat, hand held out in offering. “Come, let me show you something you might have overlooked.”

“Bold of you to imply I’m not thorough in my work, Emil.” She pursed her lips, even as she accepted.

“I would never— I only mean that you didn’t know to look for this.”

His smile widened when she placed her hand in his. As if she would ever refuse him. As if she ever could.

The toe of her boot caught on the ankle of her opposite foot when she made to stand— ah, new boots, damn it all— and she braced for a fall. Emil, always happy to help, had easily braced and caught her before she had truly fallen, and helped right her on her own feet. 

“Falling for me at last, my dear?” He asked with a dazzling smile.

“Fuck’s sakes, you know I fluster easily.” Ciri sputtered around her blushing, though she did use the excuse of wobbly legs to press close to him for a moment. 

Ahh, they never did talk about what they were after that one college party…

“Come on, I promise it isn’t long— and we’ll be back to finish our food, lest you worry.” 

Hand in hand, Ciri and Emil made their way down, down, down the winding steps of the Congregation, deeper and deeper still into the Vault, past the chapel, beyond the stained glass windows, until they were again wrapped in nothing but lamplight. 

How was this so familiar? How did this feel like they had done this before?

“You’re being silly!” The low alto voice of a woman rang in her mind. Ciri almost tripped on the steps.

“And dramatic, lest you forget, but pray allow me this.” She would have almost swore it was Emil that had spoken, had the dialect not been so old. 

What was happening to her? What was in that Udon?

The Archivist waved them through with barely a glance at their badges— they had become familiar faces at that point— and popped a grape in his mouth distractedly, eyes never leaving the book in his hand. With a word of thanks, they continued on their way.

It was in the darkest corner of the archives, one of the last bookshelves, where Emil finally came to a stop. The hand not holding hers thumbed through the volumes until he found an unmarked tome of deepest black and pulled it from the shelf.

“Look at this.” He said quietly.

Ciri studied the cover a moment with trembling fingers. Unable to contain that strange ache in her chest, that sense of longing and...fear? Bracing herself she opened the book.

It was such a worn thing, it practically fell open all its own. She nearly dropped the thing for how her hands trembled. A thoughtful frown marred her face as she read the title, written in neat penmanship. 

“The Last Will and Testament of Aymeric de Borel?” Ciri whispered. “But...I don’t understand—”

“Read it.” Emil whispered, close enough she could feel his warmth, a welcome, gentle hand at the small of her back. “You will, I promise you.”

Its first entry was, perhaps, its most telling. The last piece of the puzzle. The end of her journey— and the beginning of something so much more personal, as she recalled a life she never lived.

"Today I am married to the love of my life. Today, Aymeric de Borel dies. In his place, Aymeric Arcbane will find a thousand different happily ever afters, both here and on the road, as long as her hand is in mine."

In different handwriting, a cheeky remark of, “A bit of a dramatic exit, given we’re only going on an adventure, but it’ll do.”

“He found them.” Emil said softly. When she looked up at him, his bright eyes bore into hers. “Every one of those happily ever afters. He found them all, every time, with her. This was all he ever wanted.”

Ciri remembered being a full fulm taller, broader in shoulder, lighter in skin that was heavy with scars, and having two different eye colors. She remembered feeling her shoulders pulled down with a weight she herself couldn’t fathom. She remembered fighting, over and over and over again.

For him. For his smile.

Her eyes swimming with tears, Ciri gently closed the book, and with the hand not cradling such a precious treasure to her chest, she reached out to him.

Of course she had already loved him. She always had. Of course he had loved her in kind. He had never stopped.

“That’s alright, then.” She said.

They left the Vault together again, for the first time in six hundred years, laughing just as brightly as they had before.

[sweetheart-station]

Aymeric de Borel Boyfriend Headcanons

If there were ever a bolster to one’s confidence, it would be knowing they’ve captured the attention and the heart of the handsome Lord Commander of Ishgard.

This man is so well-mannered and well-spoken, but being infatuated with someone leaves him rather tongue-tied and flustered.

A relationship with Aymeric takes time, but oh is it worth it. He is a busy man, and romance unfortunately falls between the cracks. The moment he realizes he may have feelings for someone, however, he’s not going to deny himself. He’s a grown adult who can come to terms with emotions.

That doesn’t make it easy though. Between politics and duties as a knight, he’s pressed for time. On the other hand, this makes the longing all the stronger.

When he works up the nerve to start acting on his feelings, he plays it cautious and calm, not wanting to come on too strongly. He’s a gentleman after all.

He makes good use of his eloquent tongue, dancing the line of platonic jest and flirting as he feels out their reaction. Any positive reception encourages him to be a bit bolder, more obvious with his intent, while still sounding vague enough to not outright give himself away.

However, a bow and a kiss to their hand, along with his eyes flicking up to lock with theirs as he does so, makes his intentions quite clear.

This man is the stuff of romance novels. A confession likely occurs one quiet night in Borel Manor, in front of the fireplace as he and his paramour stand before one another. His eyes are soft as he speaks of how much they mean to him, and his face lights up when they assure him they feel the same.

Aymeric’s mind can’t help but wander. He’ll be working on paperwork, but end up thinking of S/O’s face as they smile, or the way their hair looks dusted with Ishgardian snow, or the sound of their winded but proud voice after fighting a hard-won battle. Then he’ll get flustered when he realizes his quill stopped writing five minutes ago.

Gentle banter is quite common with Aymeric, and if his S/O can make him blush it’s something to treasure because it’s just precious (and rare.) He enjoys having someone to talk to for things not just related to business, but appreciates someone who can offer him advice, or at least their opinion.

Absolutely adores being touched. Trace the back of his knuckles, or his cheekbones, or run fingers through his hair and he melts. Caressing the back of his ears, however, will make him shudder. They’re sensitive, and it makes his cheeks flush.

Another thing he cherishes are hugs. Sometimes the cure for a weary day is just a warm embrace in his lovers arms. He loves sleeping together too; to him, few things can compare to the warmth of another sharing his bed.

It’s a canon fact that Aymeric is good at dancing and culinary arts, and thus, he is delighted to show his S/O. He can and will sweep them literally off their feet. He’s not one to show off, buuuut he does enjoy seeing his S/O get flustered because of him. If they aren’t that good at dancing, he’ll be happy to teach them.

As for cooking, he’s a bit more bashful, because he worries about it suiting their tastes. Rest assured, whatever he makes will be delicious, but it better be appreciated. With his duties as Lord Commander and as the head of the House of Lords, he doesn’t have a lot of time to cook anymore.

Aymeric hasn’t much experience with kissing, but he learns quickly. Part of this is just from his need to do better for his S/O, and the other is natural instinct and just showing them how deeply he feels for them. His favorite kinds of kisses are the ones that start sweet and chaste and turn deeper. Think hands in hair and dipping his S/O a little. He also likes to steal kisses when out in public, just out of sight of others. There’s a certain thrill about it that makes him smile in boyish glee.

Aymeric is not opposed whatsoever to sweet words. His S/O’s heart will have a hard time because he’s good at them, both spoken and written, and he means every one. He has a habit of writing love letters as well, unprompted, and leaving them somewhere his S/O will find them. S/O keeps every single one.

Without a doubt, he plans to marry S/O someday. It might take a while, with conflicting schedules and his higher position, but he will make it happen. He’s embarrassed to admit he dreams of it sometimes. From walking down the aisle together to riding off on a white chocobo together. He just gets so enamored with the idea of their bright future together after his hard life growing up.

All in all, Aymeric is an amazing man who is the definition of loyal and true, and will do anything to make his loved one happy. He is patient and an excellent listener, and is willing to help to the best of his abilities. S/O will hardly ever be left wanting in his company, and will never feel unwanted in his care.

[elfyourmother]

“Well, twas was not my choice, in the end. Hien, with his keen insight gleaned from dwelling so long upon the Steppe, bargained fiercely with them. And, thus the challenge was set to me: I was to duel their Champion, and if I lost, the Buduga would claim me. Mayhap were it a traditional test of arms, I would have prevailed. But I had little defense for the Buduga way.” Haurchefant sighed a bit dreamily, and Gisele raised her hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter rising deep from within.

“Oh?” Aymeric asked.

Haurchefant tilted his head back, shutting his eyes with a snort of his hawk-like nose, and a wicked little snicker. “We wrestled in oil,” he replied rather casually.

Aymeric blinked. “You jest.”

“Oh, no, my heart; I am deathly serious. The combatants are stripped to the waist—which for the Buduga does not account for much, given their commendable aversion to shirts. But they don soft chaps of leather, with sacred loincloths, and each rubs the oil upon his opponent, as a gesture of profound respect. For the match itself, it is much like wrestling anywhere, but for the manner of victory: one must claim it by the groin, quite literally.”

“Haurchefant, be serious!”

“I swear upon the sacred hoplon and every saint there is that I am, dear Aymeric. And oh, it was magnificent! The warrior who challenged me is seared into my memory even now. ’Twas truly unfair, for he was the most handsome among them, with the most delectable body…ah, I was truly undone the moment I rubbed the oil onto those taut muscles. I had no hope of victory. When his hand slipped into my cloth and took hold of me, every thought flew from my head—what few remained. I writhed in his grasp like a drunken courtesan, and that was the end of it,” Haurchefant replied, with a sheepish smile.

“Far be it from me to question the ways of another culture, but doesn't all this sound like a rather elaborate excuse for fucking?” Estinien asked incredulously. “What’s with these Buduga, that they require all this ceremony? Can’t they just enjoy a normal spot of sodomy like the rest of us?”

“Because it’s fun!” Haurchefant protested. “What good is sodomy if it isn’t fun, Estinien?”

“Hear, hear!” Gisele giggled with a raise of her glass.

[inviouswriting]

Meeting - Butler!AU

Aymeric x Kiya.

Gonna get into some territories.

Part of @whitherliliesbloom ‘s Butler!AU

lengthy drabble.

Kiya felt nervous as she paced in front of the manor. She was meeting her new instructor, as well as the house she’ll be training under. Her tail tucked down near her legs, and her shoulders shrink in out of habit.

“Stand straight!” The headmaster woman that had taught her basic ettiquet training uses a ruler to the back of her legs. Kiya stands straight, and utters a “Yes ma’am!” The woman was old and grouchy. Having taught many girls before her. Madam Matoya was not one to cross on a bad day.

The door to the manor opens and out walks several men forming a line in front of her. The servers on the far left bowed. Kiya notes most of the house is only men, and only one other girl. One very young one. She catches Kiya staring and smiles. She didn’t look older than fifteen summers.

“Eyes forward!” Kiya snaps her attention to the men in front of her. She sees the older of them, with three sons. Kiya bows her head in respect, almost forgetting her place.

“Easy, Matoya. Let’s not scare the girl before she has a chance here.” Aymeric chides Matoya with amusement in his voice able to banter with her. Kiya sees him step forward to introduce the house.

“You ought to watch yourself with this one though. She is a bit of a slacker if you let her.” Kiya hangs her head a little, Aymeric lets the comment slide.

“Then we shall see that for ourselves” Edmont pipes up.

“I am Aymeric Borel. And this is House Fortemps. Lord Edmont is the current head of house, who you will be addressing as such. His sons are, Artoirel, Emmannelain, and Haurchefant. The handservants in house are myself, Saulette, and a few other manor manservants. From today on, you’ll be my charge, and I’ll show you everything you should need to know.” Aymeric’s voice is a bit more stern when introducing.

Kiya nods and takes it all in. Matoya leaves them, and from the moment they walk through the threshold of the manor. Aymeric shows her around the place from the large foyer, to several rooms, kitchen, laundry, and goes over a list of things to expect.

Aymeric shows her to a spare room set up for her to stay in. Kiya already sees her belongings in this room.

“If you have any questions, please feel free to come and get me. We’ll start fresh tomorrow on your training. So for tonight, please relax and get accustom to your surroundings. I’ll come get you for dinner.” Kiya nods, feeling shy and turns to greet him with a reassuring nod.

“Hey, don’t let Matoya scare you. The wards here are alot nicer than they appear.” 

“Thank you for sticking up for me.” Kiya manages out, and Aymeric graces her with a pleasant smile.

“I do not take well to bullying of others. Seen more than my share. Now I’ll leave you to your unpacking, unless you want some help with that.” He offers.

“Oh, no, please you’ve done enough.” Kiya waves her hands, and didn’t want to put more on his shoulders.

“Alright, then I’ll go see about other preperations.” Aymeric turns on his heels after giving her a graceful bow, leaving her to collect herself.

Kiya sighs once she is alone. Her heart wild in her chest. She sets about unpacking her things, and freshens up for dinner. The evening goes without a hitch, from people asking her questions about her life, she keeps details vague.

“Forgive my asking, but why did you leave the life of luxury?” Emmannelain asks, taking a bite of food. 

“That’s something I rather not go into . Just I did not get along with my parents and their way of handling things. So I left.” Kiya looks down at her plate, finding the overly rich foods a little too much for her taste. She eats more than enough but feels a sense of empty to her.

“You would give up all this over a disagreement with your parents.” 

“Lord Emmannelain, if I may. The questions you are asking, are making her uncomfortable. It’s not polite to ask a lady about something she does not want to talk about.” Aymeric pipes up, seeing how crestfallen Kiya looks.

“I’m only curious, it’s not every day we get someone who was of nobility turned server.” At these words Kiya excuses herself from the table to head back to her room. Edmont looks at Emmannelain with a sigh.

“You should practice more manners. Aymeric, would you check on her later?”

“I shall.” Aymeric goes about clearing the spot where Kiya sat at. Saulette helping him.

Kiya looked at herself in the mirror wondering if she is doing the right thing. Leaving that life behind. She changes her hair a few times before settling on a leaving it down then sitting down in the windowsil looking out at the ground.

A soft knocking on the door, and Kya opens it to Aymeric.

“I apologize for earlier.” He starts off.

“We’re still teaching that one how to talk to people better.” 

“It is okay, I’m over it.” She sees something in his hands. A small plate of sandwiches, a pot of tea and two cups. She looks up at him.

“I noticed you didn’t eat a whole lot. I thought these would be better. Something simple. May I come in?” Aymeric asks, and Kiya lets him into the room and he sets up at a small table in the room. He sets up the plate and tea cups.

“If there is anything you would like to tell me, so another event like at dinner doesn’t happen? Would you be comfortable telling me why you chose this life?” Aymeric asks, leaning forward as she sits down across from him.

Kiya takes one of the sandwiches and finds it more filling than fancy foods on silver. There is a beam of happiness to her face, she notices Aymeric staring gently at her head resting on a hand.

“I’ll tell you when I am more comfortable around here. It’s something I rather not talk about right now.” Kiya answers honest, looking down at the teacup, finding the blue hue at the edge unique and different from the red ones the house uses. She offers him one of the sandwiches.

“When you are comfortable to tell me, I’ll listen.” Aymeric takes the offer and for the first time he sees a smile directed at him.

“Thank you for understanding. Did you make these? They’re good.” She gets a nod from him.

“Not to brag, cooking is a hobby I enjoy.” 

“I did not know you cook sandwiches.” Kiya teases him, and earns a laugh from him.

“No, you don’t cook certain sandwiches. There are ones you do though.” They share the moment teasing the other with soft banter.  Kiya feels a flutter in her heart.

“What sort of things do you like to make?” She asks as they finish the food between them and focused on the tea. She noticed a specific jar of syrup and how he takes the slightest drop of it.

“Things with more flavor than earlier, I was not in charge of cooking this evening.” Aymeric did note the foods from earlier were a little more saltier so he figured it was too heavy for her.

“Oh..” Kiya trails off, and stares at her cup. Aymeric dips his head down a little to meet her eyes.

“Did I say something that offends?” He checks, seeing vibrant green eyes peek up at him.

“No, just lost in thought, alot to absorb today and tomorrow is the start of training.” She felt nerves creep into her.

“Ah, do not fret. It’s easy work here, except the general cleaning which can take half the day. Overall, easy, you got lucky with being assigned here.” Kiya picks her head up and lets a brief smile cross her lips again.

“You look better when you smile. I find myself already enjoying it.” Kiya’s eyes widen at this and she looks away sheepish. Aymeric notes the time and stands up after the teas were finished.

“I’ll be going, you should get some rest. Tomorrow is a busy day.” He informs her and she nods with a still tinted blush on her face.

“Thank you for the food and company.”

“My pleasure.” He takes his leave, and Kiya is left to her thoughts again. Chasing the negative ones away for her reasoning. She looks through her belongings and finds a sealed envelope. She looks at it with disdain then settles for a woolen robe to curl up into her bed with. Her thoughts drifting back to the recent encounter. She had heard alot of women fawn over Aymeric. She only heard of their praises of how handsome he is. Kiya finds herself liking him for the person he is instead.

The following day is spent with her learning the trade of things. How to fix linens, strip beds, and remake them with Aymeric’s help. Saulette shows her how to prepare the food in the kitchen for the cooks. Kiya finds herself enjoying the down moments and by the evening she was tired. 

It was a few days after the dinner with the Lords of the house. On the evening of her fourth week there. She had grown accustomed to their lifestyle. To where Edmont looks at her fondly for bringing tea in the evening. Haurchefant would be courteous when she brought him a snack he wanted. Artoirel still took time to warm up. Emmannelain had apologized for intruding on her personal space.

Aymeric was sittind down with her again for the evening over soups and bread. They laughed over a few things, and he finds himself steadily enamored with her. 

“To think how the delivery moogle chased Emmannelain for touching its pom. I never seen an angry moogle before.” Kiya laughs a little more and Aymeric grins.

“They’re a curious sort, but one does not simply touch the pom of a moogle without them getting mad. I have a question for you.”  Aymeric says leaning back in his seat. They had steadily done this every evening, sitting down for gossip of the day, and made a habit of talking to each other over more simple foods and treats.

“I might have an answer?” Earns a chuckle out of him.

“Would you accompany me tomorrow for some shopping errands?” 

“Yes, I’d be delighted to.” Kiya earns a grin.

“Good, good. We’ll be up early so we can get fresh picks of food wares.” He informs her.

“What should I wear then?”

“Something warm. I heard it was going to snow from the skywatchers.” He catches her eyes widening at the mention of snow.

“Okay.” Aymeric begins to gather the empty dishes to leave.

“Aymeric...” Kiya says. Aymeric looks up at her.

“I think I am ready to tell you why I left.” Kiya fidgets with her hands. Aymeric sits back down to listen to her.

“Aye?” 

“Arrangement.” His eyes widen at that word. 

“I see why you chose to leave. May I ask more about it?”

“Yes, I was going to be wed off to someone I didn’t even know, just for the sake of tying some households together. Alot of the women are treated like that. Used as bargaining chips to wealthy men. I didn’t want that.” Kiya curls her feet closer to herself and appears small as she brings her knees up to her chest.

“I see.. Well, no one here will force you to do something you do not want to do. Or return to that life.” Kiya raises her head to look at him, seeing him give her a wink.

“I would be sad to lose my friend here.” They exchange looks to each other.

“Thank you.” Aymeric leaves the room and she thinks of what she should wear for the day. She settles on a thicker dress and tights to go with it. Then goes to sleep.

It is early morning when she is gently roused from her sleep by a gentle hand. Kiya blinks wearily at who is waking her up. Aymeric’s face is what greets her. Kiya glances to a chronometer and it was only four in the morning. She groans slightly at being woken up and turns on her side and covers her head.

“Hey, I did say we would be getting up early. Come on.” Aymeric tugs the blanket off her, and she scrambles for another sheet. Anything for warmth. A gentle hand taps her cheek a few times.

“It’s so early though!” 

“And alot to do. Wake up dear.” Aymeric wrests the second comforter from her. She then clings to him instead, burying her face into his torso still sleepy.

Aymeric blows on one of her ears. Kiya twitches it away and thrashes her tail. Aymeric does it again, earning a green eye staring at him. She closes it, and flattens her ears to her head.

“Just like a regular housecat. Except less cranky than mine.” Aymeric amuses aloud. He catches her ears in his hands and begins to pet them. Kiya feels jolts in her spine at them being petted. This rouses her more awake.

“Finally. Let go?” Aymeric refers to her hugging his waist. She lets go sheepish. Turning her head away; once he is sure she is awake Aymeric excuses himself to dress warm himself. When Kiya greets him at the main door, they take a moment to go over a list before leaving for the Jeweled Crozier.

[crystalsexarch]

Fade - E

“You are spectacular,” the Garlean said, wiping her forehead with her arm.

“And you...more skilled than I ever would have imagined.”

-

Explicit. Ambiguous female WoL. Lucia spies Aymeric and the Warrior of Light engaging in some manner of tussle, and thus tussles with her own romantic feelings...in a similarly physical way.

Aaaaaaand I definitely added a second part where the inverse happens as well.

Also on AO3.

Part of the 2020 FFXIV Writing Challenge

Aymeric spoke of you often, and he didn’t always use your name. But Lucia knew. She could read between the lines and pretend to be illiterate. For his sake. For her sake. For yours.

Some days her commander might stare at a dreary, cloud-covered sky and invite all the world’s sunlight into his eyes, saying something like “Oh, what a beautiful day!” Or perhaps a bumbling recruit would shuffle into the room with a sloppy stack of reports and neglected paperwork, only for Aymeric to sigh like the happy sap at the center of a satirical tract on optimism. “Ah, well it seems I’ll be getting home late after all!” With you at his beck and call, the star itself was in on his jokes, and there were no coincidences.

Make no mistake. The sour taste in Lucia’s mouth came not from you drawing her lord’s attention. Rather, she wished that she had drawn your gaze instead.

Aymeric was a logical choice. More than fair. Handsome, powerful, charming, and—perhaps most importantly—a man of character. After all, his integrity had drawn the Garlean to him in the first place. Bitterness aside, she was happy to serve him, honored to bow at his command, proud to have earned his trust…

Hollow at having broken it. Even in some trivial way.

Neither you nor Aymeric must have known Lucia lingered at the Congregation. Instead of accompanying her commander, she had volunteered to shore up a short-staffed infirmary with her limited medical knowledge and helping hands. Luckily, you were in Ishgard and more than capable of seeing to Ser Aymeric’s needs. And see to them you did.

She was making for the exit when she caught your croon. When your croon caught her. These sounds were forbidden, she thought, even as she held her breath to better hear them. You sounded gentler than she’d imagined. Softer. Not always a Warrior, then, but a pliant, focused lover as well. With her eyes drifting closed, it wasn’t hard to imagine those sounds rising from between her thighs instead of wafting from behind his wooden door. Not hard to imagine at all—too easy, in fact, to see you lifting your head with lust, finding out how many fingers you could fit inside before Lucia started crooning, too.

I must go, she thought, flattening her palm over her stomach. But she did not go anywhere but closer to her commander’s door, where she knelt—not for him this time, but for the keyhole.

You were half dressed and wholly spread across the desk. Aymeric, so professional, so put together, was making your breasts bounce so dutifully he should’ve been getting paid for it. What he was giving you looked thick. Equal parts pain and pleasure, begetting pleasure. And it painted something unforgettable on your face: an expression your watcher would’ve spent the rest of her days trying to recreate, if you would only make the offer.

Something stirred within her. Kept her stationary even as Aymeric’s hot lips whispered in your ear and you pulled him closer, tangling your arms and legs around him like vines. The voyeur’s heart was pounding. She could feel it in her fingertips. In her legs. Deeper. He was coming and she sat there watching until he had emptied himself entirely, emptied himself in you—the Warrior of Light. Ishgard’s savior and her own commander. She watched until he groaned and bucked twice, thrice, still seeking the carnal light you’d granted him, glistening in the holy water of sweat drawn forth in your image. Anointed. Blessed, as a sinner watched with her mouth wide open.

Lucia shook her head and rose. I must go. And this time she meant it. I shouldn’t have stayed in the first place.

In her quarters, she did exactly what you would expect. When she finally curled upon her bed wearing only a sheer nightgown and no smallclothes, her fingers couldn’t do what she wanted them to do, what her body needed them to do. How could she? Yes, your face had fueled her intimate thoughts before, but now she knew. Imagination ceded to memory. She had learned things she couldn’t forget. Things that would have her burning through her clothing if she didn’t douse the fire.

With upturned eyebrows, she sighed and let her hand hang between her legs. It wouldn’t take long. Just a touch or two, at most. By then, if she wanted to keep going, pleasure would have rotted the parts of her brain telling her to chastise herself and sleep the flames away. “Forgive me,” she said. But who would forgive her? You? The Fury? Aymeric? Herself?

When her fingers finally hit, they hit right. She crumpled over on the bed and rubbed herself madly over the edge. It was fast and full, the kind of orgasm she’d had with her first woman. And when her center stopped pulsing, she sat at another precipice; the fire was out, but a dutiful guardian would watch the embers fade as well, lest new flames arise from what she had worked to extinguish.

It seemed contradictory to continue touching herself, bent on tempering her heart against you. Sensation, though, was known for its ability to numb. A tool in the fight of body versus mind. Loneliness had turned to lust. Now in the forge of her feelings, she would strike the ugly, bitter metals into straight and stoic bars, strike them by bending her middle finger over her clit and telling herself that getting over you was as easy as getting off.

//

Aymeric could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Seeing. Feeling in his loins. The infirmary was supposed to be empty. His was an era of peace. And yet creaking wood had called him from his office to the second floor of the Congregation, where light filtered from a room at the end of the hall. Late as it was, he had minutes to spare before heading back to the manor—minutes he had expected to spend blowing out a candle, not staring wide-eyed at the Warrior of Light riding his second-in-command.

They must not have seen him. By the Fury he hoped they hadn’t seen him, because he had no immediate intention of walking away.

The Warrior, completely naked spare the stockings that hugged her supple thighs, had her hands clamped around the headboard, her eyes shut hard, her eyebrows knitted. Aymeric recognized Lucia by tufts of sweaty blonde hair plastered on the pillow. She was gripping the Warrior’s ass with gusto, apparently laboring at her lips with just as much fervor. The fingers would leave marks. Possibly bruises. They’d certainly left a mental impression on Aymeric.

How long have they been…?

While he rattled through the past few weeks, he paid no attention to the hand creeping to the erection threatening to tent his robes. At first touch, it felt like relief, not violation. A piercing voice reminded him he was watching something private through a door his friends had most likely left open on accident. He snapped both hands behind his back and held.

“Lucia…” the Warrior said, tensing her thighs and rocking faster. “I’m...I’m close.”

A husky voice replied. “Let me up. Let me show you something.”

The Warrior collapsed onto her back. The Garlean soon loomed over her and showered hot kisses down her body, her blushing breasts, until meeting her center again, green eyes lit with fiery lust. Aymeric spied her index and middle fingers curling together. She plunged them inside the Warrior, gently first, then with fury. The Warrior arched her back and shook, gave into expert ministrations, until finally she twitched her hips off the bed and melted into a puddle of her own liquid pleasure.

Lucia slowed her pace and sucked the Warrior’s clit until both of them started laughing. “You are spectacular,” the Garlean said, wiping her forehead with her arm.

“And you...more skilled than I ever would have imagined.”

Aymeric’s mind caught up with him...but not entirely. Thinking only of escape, not stealth, he plodded back down the hallway and descended the stairs like an entire army. The brisk outside air did little to cool his disposition.

By the time his bath was ready, he had listed a thousand reasons he should let himself soften and forget. Each time he remembered the heavenly curve of the Warrior’s ass, those reasons softened instead.

With Lucia…? Am I completely oblivious?

Oh, but lust could fill his questions with meaningless answers just long enough to get what it wanted. And it wanted to come.

With hot water at his back, he leaned on the tub and beat himself, full of weeping envy. He would give everything to taste what she had tasted. Fill what she had filled. Now, legs shaking, he filled nothing but his own palm, wondering if he’d be wondering about that flavor for the rest of his life.

[nozomikei]

Good Vibrations

☆Nsfw☆

Zenos x Ambiguous Wol

Aymeric x Ambiguous Wol

_______________________________________

Pretty sure I posted this once before, but I can't remember and I can't find it without the search function, so you all get to enjoy this ficlet again! Made some very minor changes too tonight. ^_^

_______________________________________

You squirmed nervously in your seat at the Rising Stones, your hot face hidden intermittently by your mug while you tried to read a tome on Kugane.

After your latest tryst with Zenos the man had given you a device, imperiously instructing you to wear it until you saw him next. It was a small enough thing and a brief examination gave you a clue as to where it should be worn - his smirk in response to your suspicious glance all but confirming it. You nearly refused just to frustrate him but your curiousity and lingering satisfaction at his hands (and mouth) won out. He had watched you put it in place as you dressed to leave, a smouldering blue gaze that nearly had you stripping again before your senses took hold and you made your escape.

[[MORE]]

Although it was an unusual sensation to have something in you this way for so long, thus far nothing unusual had happened in the day since you had left the monster's side, and you had about concluded that it was some strange Garlean fetish and nothing more. Still, the knowledge that you were wearing such a lewd thing given to you by your enemy (your friend, your lover) here in the heart of the Scion's territory had you on edge.

Nerves too frazzled to take it anymore you stood to leave, intending to check out some of the details mentioned in your book (and perhaps to try to get away from the tension your location was causing you). No sooner had you straightened your legs than they gave out as a sudden vibration from within you began. Sitting stunned and quite unexpectedly aroused by the sensation you almost failed to respond to Riol's question on your wellness in a timely manner, but you thought you choked out a mostly normal sounding 'Just got to a good part...' as no further questions followed.

What exactly had Zenos given you?! You should have known it wasn't as innocent (to be fair the location it was worn was hardly wholesome) as it appeared.

As soon as the supremely distracting vibrations had stopped you attempted once more to escape, this time more successfully, though you went to your estate instead of the Far East. The moment you reached your room you began pulling off your bottoms to remove the devilish device. You hesitated to simply place it on a table and eventually begrudgingly took it to the washroom to clean it before you plopped it down to receive your glower. After only a few minutes of intense glares it resumed its vibrations (you were glad nobody was around to witness you nearly falling out of your chair as you reared back), slowly moving across the table with the buzz. The memory of the... pleasant... sensation it had created earlier, and the fact that it had done you no harm that you could discern, had you blushingly pushing it back into place, the vibrations having yet to cease.

It felt even better than before now that you knew what to expect and you made your way haltingly to your bed. Irritatingly the vibrations chose that moment to stop and you let out a curse knowing that it could only be Zenos behind the controls of this thing. Before you could get yourself too worked up it turned back on, though this time it started and stopped in intervals, the pacing of which reminded you of your meeting with Zenos the previous night. In fact, it seemed to be exactly mimicking it. The bastard almost certainly knew you would recognize the patterns he had forcefully taught your body, had probably calculated that you would retire to somewhere more private following the initial surprise. A genius and master tactician putting his skills to work on such a thing was suddenly hilarious and you laughed around your panting. Well fine, if he was going to goad you to this you saw no reason to resist. Settling into your pillows you reached down and let yourself be taken away by pleasure.

---------------------------

The next time the Garlean demon struck, you were seated in the church in Ishgard. Aymeric and Lucia had invited you to attend their newly restructured masses, and you were happy to do so if it meant more time with your busy friends. Sandwiched between the two on the pews and the priest mid sermon it was all you could do not to leap from your seat when the cursed vibrations began. After the last time you had thoroughly conditioned yourself and knowing what they buzzes were and who was causing them, what he was probably doing at this moment himself, your mind was thoroughly clouding over with pleasure as well as panic. You thought you were doing rather well controlling your breathing after the initial surprise, but you could feel your face filling with heat, the warmth migrating to your ears and neck as well, and you were subtly shaking with the effort not to squirm or touch yourself.

Something must have eventually given you away though since about five minutes of pleasurable agony in Lucia leaned over and smirkingly whispered, "A Garlean lover, hm?" Perhaps the tech somehow interacted with her third eye, but regardless of how she knew, you were humiliated (and strangely turned on; look at how that monster had twisted Eorzea's Warrior of Light). After another minute she again leaned over to whisper, though this time she let you know that she would cover you if you left at the next break in the mass.

Stumbling out of the main hall it was all you could do to find a darkened alcove and shove your hand between your legs and bring yourself to completion embarrassingly fast. The wrongness of such a thing happening in a church, the public setting, the need to try to act normal instead of melting into a moaning mess all combined into an overwhelming, sinful pleasure you couldn't resist.

-------------------------------------

You were starting to think there was some sort of tracking device built into this thing.

You were at dinner with Aymeric that evening following the nightmarish (exhilirating) mass, finished with the main meal and now reduced to sipping wine and nibbling the delicious dessert that had been provided by the exceedingly handsome lord. The wine was just beginning to make itself felt when something else did as well. By this point you were constantly on guard and expecting Zenos to employ his evil device at the worst possible times and so at least managed to give no sign that something lewd had begun. You were as affected as before but managed to initially pass off your odd behavior as side effects of the wine when Aymeric had inquired. The lord's questions had grown increasingly personal and his demeanor more romantic as the hours wore on and your arousal deepened.

Zenos had made it clear that he had no expectations of exclusivity so when Aymeric had asked if he could kiss you, you had no reservations about nearly diving around the table to give your answer. Somehow the inappropriateness of your insides being secretly massaged at the hands of one man while passionately kissing another was electifyingly hot and you worried for a moment that you would scare Aymeric off, but he took your passion in stride and met it with equal fervor.

Eventually he called a halt to your joint exchange citing the late hour and newness of your open 'relationship', (the torture device fortuitously also giving you a rest) and invited you to stay in one of the spare rooms.

You were just leaving the washroom with your face still damp around the edges, still terribly aroused but restraining yourself until you got into your borrowed bed when you heard a noise from a few doors down. Your curiousity had you walking closer almost before you realized it. The door was not quite closed and this close you could hear the unmistakable sounds of Ishgard's Lord of Lords pleasuring himself. The desperate gasps of your name mixed among choked moans, shaky breaths, and the wet noises of a hand stroking a lubed up dick almost instantly had you weak kneed and slumping against the wall. You came before Aymeric did and hurried back down to the washroom, but you couldn't bring yourself to feel embarrassed knowing you had been close to the the edge after struggling with two highly pleasurable inputs at once. Loudly shutting the door and making your way to your room you settled in and quickly passed out, exhausted from the day's events.

-------------------------------

By the Twelve, did Zenos ever sleep?!

First thing in the morning you were awoken by an insistent buzzing inside, but it ended almost as soon as it began and you drifted back to sleep. Sometime later the same happened but you decided to stay up, puzzled by the change.

Breakfast with Aymeric was a sweet, blush filled affair interspersed with tense minute long bursts of activity from Zenos. Your companion's reddened ears made you wonder if he hadn't realized his error regarding the door at some point, though he did an admirable job at acting normally otherwise. There were more kisses before you left the handsome lord to take care of a variety of tasks you had gathered for yourself as the Warrior of Light.

----------------------------------------

Zenos was an ass and you were going to kill him. Or make him beg for release and then kill him.

Sadistic monster that he was, Zenos had kept up the short bursts of vibrations the entire day and you were certain you would go mad from the torture. You would have taken care of yourself already but you had gotten the coded signal from Zenos on your linkshell shortly after you left Ishgard and the day of a tryst following the signal neither of you was supposed to cum before you met up. You could always violate the agreement but where was the fun in giving in first when greater satisfaction was on the horizon?

[kivaember]

Prompt #9: Dense

In which my brain kept thinking dense = hot, muscular men and I just leaned into it. NO REGRETS. LET US ADMIRE AND THIRST OVER MUSCULAR MEN LIKE MEN!

Aymeric grunted when his back hit the training mat for the fifth time that hour, winded and aching and thoroughly, utterly, satisfied.

“Getting tired, handsome?”

“Beaten up, more like,” Aymeric replied breathlessly, tilting his head back to shoot Aza a smile when his partner leaned over him, “I think my bruises have bruises.”

“Well, it’s good for you,” Aza said cheerily, squatting down next to him, his forearms resting on his thighs, “You’ve been getting out of shape, trapped behind that desk of yours. You needed a good thrashing.”

A thrashing. Well, that was an accurate way of describing what had just happened. Admittedly, when Aymeric had approached Aza with a request to do some light sparring, just to scrape the rust off his martial skills, he had expected his partner to be, not quite gentle, but to hold his punches somewhat. Of course, Aymeric was quickly punished for his assumption of Aza pulling his punches on anything, and had just spent the last hour getting grappled, wrestled and thrown to total submission by a man almost half his size.

“Been getting soft,” Aza continued, a light, teasing lilt seeping into his husky voice, “See?”

“Oof,” Aymeric squirmed when Aza abruptly prodded him hard in the stomach, somehow managing to shove his partner’s jabbing fingers away, “Ow. That hurt.”

“Because you’re gotten soft,” Aza tutted, but he didn’t seem displeased about it. He rocked back on his heels, so he flopped gracelessly onto his arse instead, leaning back on his hands and crossing his legs, his tail lazily curled on the training mat next to him, “I think you’ve been having too many of those lemon crinkles.”

“Says the man who inhaled an entire platter of them within a minute. You know, it is unfair how you keep such a perfect six-pack whilst eating your body weight in all sorts of confectionary,” Aymeric grumbled, negotiating with his aching limbs enough to sit up. Something audibly popped in his back, and he grunted, slowly rolling his shoulders.

Aza was eyeing him critically, a small crinkle between his eyebrows, “You alright? I didn’t crack anything, did I?”

“No, no. I’m in one piece, love,” Aymeric shot him a reassuring smile, relieved when Aza’s worried look eased into a warm smile, “I think I might have to use you as a crutch back upstairs, though. I feel like your ‘thrashing’ has aged me thirty decades.”

“I can carry you,” Aza said simply, “That is, if you won’t find it too embarrassing being carried by a man half your size.”

“Half? I’d say… two thirds at most,” Aymeric said, “If anything I’d find you carrying me delightful. So rarely do I get to admire your strength so intimately…”

“You admired it intimately about a minute ago, when I tossed you across the room.”

Aymeric rolled his eyes, catching Aza’s teasing grin. The man was being deliberately obtuse, “Or I can carry myself to the bath to enjoy some private time-”

“Okay, okay,” Aza said quickly, “I’ll carry you. You can even paw at me if you want.”

“Thanks for the invitation to grope as I please,” Aymeric said dryly, though it was a nice thought. Aza was shirtless, displaying his solidly built torso in all of its dark-skinned, heavily scarred glory. Aymeric never tired of staring at his partner’s muscular frame – in fact, it was probably a mercy that Aza insisted on wearing bulky armour in public, otherwise he’d be a menace to Aymeric’s productivity whenever his partner invaded his office to chat with him if he wore anything remotely flattering to his body. Thank Halone for Aza’s breastplate, protecting everyone from the seductive powers of his pecs.

As if somehow sensing his thoughts, Aza let out an amused noise and said, “Let me put on a shirt first.”

“Ah, there’s no need to…”

Aza pushed himself to his feet and wandered to the edge of the small training room to pick up the light, cotton tunic he’d been wearing at the beginning of their ill-advised training session. Tugging it over his head carelessly, Aza meandered back, brushing his hands down the front in an attempt to smooth the tunic out.

“There. Alright, handsome,” Aza said cheekily, squatting down next to him and reaching out, “Come and swoon into my strong, manly arms.”

“I will not swoon,” Aymeric said primly, but he did willingly allow himself to be scooped up into said strong, manly arms without a fuss.

Despite being only five fulms, Aza supported his weight well enough in his arms. They probably looked ridiculous – actually, no, Aymeric knew they looked ridiculous – but they were in the privacy of his own home, so what did he care? No, all he cared about was feeling the firm flex of Aza’s biceps as he held him in a strong bridal carry, the dense muscle of his shoulder beneath his palm as he encircled an arm around the back of Aza’s neck to better steady himself, the way Aza did all this without a single stutter in his breathing, easily supporting him like he weight nothing at all.

For, while Aza was small, even for a Miqo’te, he was dense with muscle. He was strong from decades of fighting and working, with hands as heavily calloused as any Ishgardian farmer and carrying scars from all manners of weapons and beasts. Aymeric knew many of the Ishgardian nobles thought Aza too rough, too bulky and too wild to be an attractive partner, but Aymeric loved him all the same. He always had a weakness for men with more muscle than sense (Estinien’s words, but true, considering he also fell under the category of ‘more muscle than sense’).

“We should probably limber up too,” Aza said as he carried him up the stairs – carefully, in an attempt to stop Aymeric’s feet from knocking against the bannister, “You know, stretch off after our hot bath.”

“Is that what we’re going to be calling it?” Aymeric asked wryly, “’Stretching it off’?”

Aza huffed, “I really do mean stretching as stretching,” A pause, “But if you wanna make it fun too…”

“I am always up for making things fun.”

“You’re such a pervert,” Aza said, sounding delighted, “Mm, alright, fine. But after we do some actual stretching. I’m not going to sit through you whining tomorrow morning because you stiffened up during the night and can’t get out of bed.”

“I wouldn’t mind being stuck in bed for one day.”

“You’ll fucking hate it,” Aza said dryly, “You’ll feel like you’re being lazy and try to escape before noon even hit.”

Well… yeah, okay, that’s exactly what would happen, except- “I’d last until two in the afternoon, at least.”

“Psh, as if. You always go for a piss by dawn. Once you’re up, you’re up. Eleven in the morning, at the latest.”

“One,” Aymeric countered, feeling the stirrings of meeting a challenge now, “And I can take mid-morning naps if I feel like it.”

“Yeah, but you get grouchy when you do,” Aza muttered.

“I do not get grouchy-”

They continued their inane yet comfortable bantering all the way up to the bathroom, and even though Aymeric was sore and tired, he was so terribly satisfied and content. He was certain somewhere in Halone’s Halls, Lord Borel was probably spluttering himself into his second grave at his adopted son shacking up with a rowdy, buff Miqo’te man instead of a lady noble, but he knew he would have been happy for him all the same. Lord Borel always advised him to find a partner that suited him, rather than a partner to suit his station.

And Aza, who pushed him to be better and better, suited him very well.

[dragons-bones]

5 Questions for Writers

Tagged by: @frostmantle (thank you!)

Tagging: @ishgard, @starsandauras, @twelveswood, @autumnslance, aaaaaaand YOU (because I cannot keep track of who’s done this or not XD)

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

----

Cut for length!

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why?

I am, of course, obviously quite fond of snarky, quick-witted characters, and my OCs banter a lot. Dialogue is one of my favorite things to write, so chatty characters in general I find easier to approach. It’s fun slinging sass back and forth! (This tends to be why I focus a lot of Synnove and Rereha most often--they’re the snark queens of the Squad and the most likely to turn the sarcasm filter off and just go off on someone. Which further reminds me I need to have Thancred and Rereha trading jabs, too, at some point...)

I’ve also really been enjoying writing Aymeric specifically, even if it is intimidating to do so at times. I obviously headcanon him as ridiculously smitten with Synnove (the feeling, of course, is mutual), and finding the right balance of “deeply in love with a Warrior of Light” without it coming off as overly saccharine or out of character is a great mental exercise. Also of course I enjoy indulging my personal fantasy of having a handsome man be a badass, deeply in love with his lady, and perfectly delighted to kick ass beside his lady!

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write?

Food porn. My mother’s Italian, I grew up being taught to enjoy food, I love sharing my enjoyment of food. Plus it’s usually accompanying some happier moments, or domestic ones, and is basically a cue to the readers that the story is meant to be light and fun.

I have no idea what the proper trope name would be (and going to TV Tropes to asking to start a rabbit hole dive I shouldn’t begin), but as we all know, I love Shenanigans. I typically write them in reaction to how serious the setting is; I deeply enjoy stretching how far I insert some humor and levity without it becoming crack. I think it provides some fresh air; I enjoy angst and hurt/comfort and dark themes, but frequently it’s not something I prefer to write for myself.

I also enjoy found family, battle couples, magic-as-science... Anything that gives me an excuse to write character interactions and/or worldbuild. The great fun of fanfiction, particularly in a setting like FFXIV, is that we’ve got a bare bones foundation, with some areas more developed than others, but otherwise there is a ton of room to grow my own ideas. I personally like to work within lore, but it is hugely enjoyable for me to figure out how to get certain concepts to work with the lore rather than against it. (See: my approach to arcanima.)

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written?

This obviously changes all the time, but there’s a couple I really love:

From Pearls of Wisdom:

It was one of the most basic principles of magic, not just arcanima: astral elements and umbral elements. It was such an accepted, unquestioned foundation that she had never even considered that the three elements most commonly used by arcanists for their carbuncles were not all the same primary polarity. Every element could manifest as either polarity, but Roksana Blackspark was correct, now that Synnove properly thought about it: wind, earth, and fire were much, much more likely to be found in a stable state. Even the Guild’s enormous aether batteries, all the way down in subbasement twelve, had been initially tricky to install until they found the right combination of overgrown elemental clusters, with most of the problems coming from the water, ice, and levin clusters.

Of course trying to infuse any sort of gem with those three elements specifically was going to fail, they were fucking overaspected to astral or umbral. The equations didn’t fucking work as they should because they were built to account for elements that naturally occurred in stable states, and so the infusions fizzled and the gemstones cracked and no carbuncles could manifest.

But.

But if she did account for instability, or, in fact, deliberately found crystals with which to infuse gems that were of opposite polarities so that the final infusion was stable…

A new thought made itself known, and Synnove stuffed the rest of her cake in her mouth, set the plate and fork aside, bookmarked her spot in the journal, and opened up the note taking program, yanking the stylus from the side of the case. As she chewed, she began scribbling in frantic shorthand. Perhaps in addition to ensuring stable aetheric polarity, she could also try infusion over time as well? Even when artificially infusing emeralds, topazes, and rubies, the stones still cracked every one time out of eight. Certainly, working with water, levin, and ice aether would benefit from a slower infusion speed, as it would allow her to keep a better eye on maintaining polar equilibrium, and if that issue was what was affecting the failures for wind, earth, and fire, then that would be two problems solved.

…Perhaps three, Synnove sucking in a deep breath and her heart pounding as she wrote. A proper balance of aetheric polarization combined with a slow enough infusion potentially meant that she could, theoretically, infuse any precious stone she desired, not just ones with a specific hardness and durability. Of course, the equations would need to be further adjusted to take into account the specific chemical properties of the specific gems and how they would need to interact with different elemental aether, but that, while difficult and tedious, was still doable.

Writing characters smarter than oneself is really difficult and intimidating, but I think I did a really good job showing Synnove’s thought process, and based on some of the feedback I’ve gotten, I succeeded! So I’m really, really proud of this passage.

From Suffer, Promise, Witness (FFXIV Write 2019 #19):

The ground shook, suddenly, and Synnove whipped her head around to the direction from which it originated, staring in shock. In the distance, an enormous red…key, for lack of a better term, pulsing with blue aetherlight, had struck the ground. The dust cloud kicked up rose immediately into the air and began obscuring it, and even from here she could see that the force of the strike had knocked down allies and foes alike around it.

Then a roar of sound—a deep, resonant thunder of triumphant, all-consuming rage—engulfed Carteneau, drawing every eye skyward, to see Dalamud’s outer shell, glowing with more of that sickly blue aetherlight, cracking open.

And Dalamud exploded.

The shockwave hit her first, throwing her and every other living being on the Plains still alive and standing to the ground with a force that punched the air from her lungs. The sound came next, shaking her bones and cracking the stone around her in an awful crescendo of combusting, howling aether. Her ears rang—or maybe it was just the screams of terror from every damned soul on the Carteneau killing fields all blending together.

The sky was aflame, and then the first of the pieces of Dalamud impacted the ground. Molten earth flew into the air, and then again from another impact, and another, and another, until the heavens and the earth were indistinguishable from how they both burned. Synnove desperately tried to sit up, feet scrambling to find purchase on the broken ground, as Galette and Tyr converged on her, eyes wide with fear as they tugged and pushed on her to get her upright.

Honestly I love this whole piece, but trying to describe what’s basically a trailer from another perspective (while also trying to portray the passage of time in an accurate manner) was difficult. I’d been dying to write the Synnove at Carteneau piece for a long time, and I just let myself write without worry. I think it came out pretty well! (Everyone screaming at me after the fact certainly boosted my confidence. :D)

From Assessments (FFXIV Write 2017 #25)

He did not attempt to step softly, as it was always a poor idea to sneak up on any warrior, never mind a Warrior of Light, but apparently Synnove was deeply enough engrossed in her text to not register his approach. Tyr, however, looked over as soon as he noticed the loud clacking of boot heels on stone floor coming closer to his mistress. He perked his ears up and came to meet Aymeric, shoving his face into the elezen’s hands.

“Maow!” the topaz carbuncle said, deep and echoing like a brass bell, only a little bone-rattling.

Aymeric laughed softly and obliging scratched behind his ears. Tyr thrummed happily, enjoying the attention for a few moments, before he disengaged and went back to Synnove. He braced himself on the rungs of the ladder and reached up with his paw to tap her foot, chirruping quietly.

“Hmm? Whazzit, honey?” Synnove said, voice distant and distracted. She did not look up as she turned the page.

Tyr sat back on his haunches and said, “Maow!”

Aymeric hadn’t the faintest idea of what Tyr had said, but Synnove most certainly did, as her head jerked up in surprise. (He winced sympathetically; when she had straightened, her spine had made an awful crack.) She frantically looked around until her gaze settled on Aymeric. She blinked rapidly, quite obviously not yet comprehending what she was seeing, until a smile finally bloomed across her features, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, fancy meeting you here,” she said, her cheerfulness tempered by the slight slur of exhaustion in her voice.

There were dark circles under her eyes, her hair was obviously unkempt up close, and her fingers were ever-so-slightly shaking from the particular combination of too much caffeine and not enough sleep, but Synnove Greywolfe was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Aymeric grinned up at her, not bothering to disguise how besotted he was with no witnesses about to see, and said, “What brings one of the celebrated Warriors of Light to Ishgard a bell before midnight?” He took a few steps closer to the ladder and held out his arms.

Synnove winced as she closed and shelved the book she had been reading. “Thal’s balls, that late?” She slid to the edge of the ladder’s seat, pushed off with her right hand and foot, and unceremoniously dropped into his grasp.

He tightened his hold on her as he caught her, drawing her close, and he dropped a kiss on each of her eyelids, relishing the giggles the action elicited from her. Another kiss on her nose, one to the beauty mark at the side of her chin, and then he finally kissed her properly. Synnove, in turn, languidly draped her arms around his shoulders and ran her fingers through the hairs on the nape of his neck, practically purring as she did. He hummed appreciatively against her lips, and they both ended up laughing into the kiss.

(Next to them, Tyr sighed, and rolled his eyes.)

Aymeric reluctantly drew away and set her on her feet, keeping Synnove steady as she wobbled and her spine cracked yet again. His beloved immediately leaned back into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and slouching so her cheek could rest over his heart. He smiled and returned the hug, resting his chin on her head. He closed his eyes and swayed with her gently, enjoying the familiar and much-missed comfort of her presence.

An older bit, but I love these two goobers, and I love writing them being physically affectionate and just basking in each other. Fucking cuties.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written?

FUCK I HAVE TO CHOOSE. Okay, let’s start with Pearls of Wisdom again:

Rereha threw open the doors to Aymeric’s office, shite-eating grin firmly plastered on her face as she skipped inside, and sang out, “Congratulations! It’s twins!”

Two things happened.

First, as soon as the doors opened, but before Rereha even opened her mouth, Lucia, she of finely honed Frumentarium instincts and years of friendship with a lalafell infamous across the realm for her Theatrics and Shenanigans, reached out and yanked the multitude of reports on the desk in front of Aymeric out of the way.

Second, Aymeric, who had been taking a sip of tea at the exact moment Rereha entered the office, choked and spat out said tea across his desk—and where all of the paperwork had once been not even a second before—in the most glorious spit take Rereha had ever engendered. A tiny part of her was saddened at the waste of perfectly good tea, but, wow, that had been spectacular. She gave herself a mental pat on the back and came to a stop in the middle of the office, grin widening to manic levels.

Lucia pounded Aymeric on the back between his shoulder blades as he coughed and sputtered, stopping only when the Lord Commander wheezed out, wide-eyed, voice high-pitched and halfway to a full-blown panic, “WHAT?!”

THREE YEARS THIS LIVED IN MY HEAD. THREE FUCKING YEARS I HAVE WANTED TO WRITE THIS STORY AND BEGIN IT WITH THAT LINE. THREE YEARS AND IT’S FINALLY OUT IN THE WORLD AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH

From Needling (FFXIV Write 2019 #17):

Merlwyb drained her cup dry and poured herself a fresh serving (no whiskey this time, however). Grudgingly, she filled a second, and slid it over to Synnove, along with the bowl of maple sugar cubes and jar of cream. The arcanist doctored her tea as she preferred it—three lumps, generous dash of cream—and took a luxurious sip, humming in satisfaction.

“Why are you here?” the Admiral finally said, tea cup in hand and elbows braced on her desk. She wedged her feet a little firmer beneath Tyr.

“Mmmm, we had to bodily force Thubyrgeim to take a vacation,” said Synnove. She took another slow sip of tea. “Accounting realized she hadn’t taken a proper one in nigh on three years. So, we kicked her out of the Gate, with the caveat that she wasn’t to come back until next moon, and then we divvied up her usual responsibilities among the lot of us. I volunteered for the pleasure and delight of taking over our dear Guildmistress’s sennightly meetings with you.” Here the woman batted her eyelashes.

Merlwyb eyed her. “You have an ulterior motive,” she said, enunciating clearly for emphasis. “You always have an ulterior motive.”

“I enjoy the faces you make when you are confronted with the stark reality that every single one of your arcanists is capable of rewriting the laws of creation but are, simultaneously, godsdamned lunatics who should be taken out back and shot.”

“I should start with you.”

“Start with aetherochemistry; they just invented a new plague.” Synnove took the top folder from the pile and slid it across the desk to the Admiral.

“Of course they bloody did,” Merlwyb growled, opening the folder and skimming the abstract on the first page. Dear gods, did they really decide to mix malaria and consumption? Always so busy wondering if they could they never bothered to consider if they should. She plucked her reading glasses from their usual spot, sliding them on as she turned the page to the formal report, written in the aetherochemistry department chair’s tiny, cramped hand. Absently, she said, “And no, we are not testing it on the faculty of the University of Radz-at-Han.”

Synnove pouted. For the first time that afternoon, Merlwyb cracked a grin.

Merlwyb doesn’t get enough love, in my opinion, and of course I imagine she’s a salty bitch underneath the cool, commanding exterior. Couple that with Synnove probably letting loose the Full Sass (she would never behave such with Raubahn, Nanamo, or Kan-E, but she’s been an assessor for fifteen years, she knows exactly how far she can poke the Admiral and is well aware it’s tolerated only because she’s been an arcanist for so long) and the “out back and shot” line is my single favorite sentence from the whole of FFXIV Write 2019, and this is my favorite character exchange that’s I’ve done in a long time.

From Of Taunting and Tales (FFXIV Write 2019 #25)

Knock knock a-knock—knockknock! “Guess who~.”

A loud groan answered her. “Go away, you debauched scandalmonger!”

Rereha poked her head into one of the private rooms of the Rhalgr’s Reach infirmary, wicked grin firmly in place. “Now, now, Mr. Scaeva, is that any way to speak to the lady come to relieve your unending boredom?” she drawled.

The former tribunus laticlavius of the XIVth Imperial Legion raised his arm, hand up and middle finger extended, without lifting his head from his pillow.

Rereha cackled and stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her. A disgusted sigh came from Nero’s direction, and he flopped his arm back down on the mattress with a characteristically overdramatic wave of his hand. She grabbed a chair sitting by the wall and dragged it behind her as she waltzed towards Nero’s bed, the wood shrieking angrily against the stone of the floor, and whistled a cheery little ditty deliberately out of tune. She could see his jaw clenched in annoyance as she set the chair up near the head of the bed and cackled again as she hopped up into it. She placed the book she had been carrying on her lap and folded her hands primly on top of it, beaming.

“How are we feeling today?” she chirped.

“Like I’ve been run over by a flock of rabid chocobos.” Nero stubbornly refused to open his eyes, instead folding his hands on his stomach in unknowing mirror of her. “And then sat upon by a buffalo.”

“That’s an improvement! Last time you said you felt like you’d been chewed and spat out by an enraged king behemoth!”

“Rereha,” he sighed, still not opening his eyes. “Why are you here? Garlond and Greywolfe are infinitely more stimulating conversationalists, for all their damned sanctimonious self-important morals and ethics.” He spat out the last word like it was a particularly loathsome curse.

“I’m hurt, Nero,” said Rereha, placing her hand on her heart. She pitched her voice to express layers of emotion: disappointment, regret, sadness. “Genuinely hurt. A friend of mine has been grievously wounded in the course of his attempts to safeguard not just Eorzea, but Hydaelyn as a whole from an interdimensional entity of vast and unfathomable power. I come in my spare time to bring some light and laughter to his dreary hospital room as he heals, and he insults me and wishes for the company of others.”

A long silence descended over them both. Finally, Nero arched one golden eyebrow and cracked an eye open to stare at her incredulously.

Rereha pursed her lips together and said pensively, “Laid it on a bit too thick, didn’t I?”

He raised his hand and held his forefinger and thumb a quarter of an ilm apart.

“Damn,” Rereha said, crossing her arms. “Ah, well.”

Rereha basically exists to let me write Sass and Irreverent Humor. Nero is full of Salt and Sass. Together they could flay someone with words alone. I also really enjoyed writing Nero being a sassmaster without using words. Wordless dialogue is fun!! :D

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?

One day I’m gonna get over my hesitation about writing (and sharing) smut and fucking write the first time Synnove and Aymeric had sex. I know exactly when and where and how.

...Also Synnove getting ravished in one of the Neo-Ishgardian dresses. That’s, like, second on the list. Ooohh, and the Vacation Fic; maybe I should write that one as scenes and worry about connecting them after the fact. I think because that one will require chapters and I’m more of a one-shot person is a reason I have yet to start it.

[ladyramora]

I don’t suppose I could request a nameless WOL high school AU with all the elezen guys can I? ;) I love your writing.

(This is so long. And not super shippy, but I hope you like it. I thought I’d try a magical type of school. Hope I didn’t miss any typos. Please enjoy! ❤)

Eorzea Academy for the Gifted and Magically inclined

You don’t know why you’re here.

Sitting on a train travelling to some sort of special school. Trying, and horribly failing, not to stare at the twins sitting across from you.

They are so very beautiful and you cannot help but stare. At their fair colored hair, the delicate fan of their pale eyelashes. The rosy tint to half smiling lips.

The girl is leaning against the boy, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping. The boy is facing you - eyes flicking up and catching your stare with a knowing curl of his rose colored lips.

You tear your eyes away, heart catching in your throat.

When you look back again his eyes are closed like before. He doesn’t look at you again.

- - -

Introduction into the academy is a blur. So many faces and voices telling you what to do and where to go.

You forget it all instantly when you see the twins from the train again.

“Alphinaud Leveilleur, at your service.” The beautiful boy introduces himself. Inclining his head towards his sister and twisting his wrist, “And mine sister, Alisaie.”

You hardly listen to the introduction of Houses. Too consumed by the murmur of Alphinaud’s voice, light yet faintly mocking as he explains what each House was trying to do.

At the end you haven’t the faintest idea what those representatives of each House had said.

Caught instead by the way the twins smiled at you. “Should you find that none of these Houses suit,” Alisaie starts.

“Then you are certainly welcome to join our own,” Alphinaud finishes, smiling that same knowing smile. “But you needn’t decide now. You will, of course, have a few days to gather your bearings.”

And with that they leave you.

- - - The House of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. That’s the House the twins spoke of. Or at least, what you were able to gather by poking around in a room filled with books. You’re still unsure if it’s an actual library or just the large collection of the book keeper. The keeper of said books being a strange man named Urianger - whom you have the mild suspicion of being a dragon in disguise. What with the deep rumblings of his voice and the way he spoke being rather disconcerting.

Still, you thank him for his help and find your way out again.

- - - You’re a Scion before you know it.

You’d hardly realised when it happened. You’d heard a scream and without thought of your own safety had blindly run to help.

The issuing scuffle sending your foes fleeing with their tails between their legs and issuing promises of revenge. And then suddenly you’re surrounded - Scions on all sides. Dragging you away to meet their leader.

You had meant to refuse. Really, you had. But then Alphinaud had walked in behind you, his blue eyes twinkling at you with that knowing smile. And your refusal had died on your lips.

- - -

You spend the next week on an endless adventure. Talking to this person, to that person. Taking classes. Running this errand, but oh this person needs help as well. At one point you’re attacked by a living tree in a training exercise. It’s horrible and exciting. You’re exhausted, honestly. You could really use a bit of a break.

So when you stumble across a door you hadn’t seen before you take pause. Tracing curious fingertips over the unicorn carved into the ornate wooden door. You test the handle out of curiosity and find the door to be unlocked. It swings open on whisper silent hinges. You hadn’t realized how cold it was in the hallway until you stepped into the warmth of this room.

It’s a room filled with books again. A study hall? You half expect Urianger to pop up from behind the stacks.

You amuse yourself by traversing through the labyrinth of books. Only mildly concerned about how you’ll find your way back again. You wonder if there is some sort of treasure at the end. A secret room? Ah, perhaps the forbidden section of the library?

Instead you find a circular enclosure filled with shiny wooden tables and overstuffed comfy chairs.

A lone student sits in the far back slumped over an overly large tome. You can see the easy rise and fall of their sleepy breath.

You try not to wake them, really you do. So careful are you in quieting your steps whilst staring at you own feet that you fail to notice an odd stack of books in a tilted lean off one table.

You bump against the table.

The resulting crash of falling books jerking the other student out of their study time nap.

“Wha… I wasn’t sleeping!” The student gasps, bolting upright with a stray page of paper stuck to the side of their face.

It falls loose and you lose your breathe as you finally catch a glimpse at their face. It was a boy. By the twelve was he handsome…

Even with ink on his nose and indents from his notebook lining his cheek.

“Oh,” The handsome boy smiles, “Hello there.”

You clutch at your uniform shirt, swallowing heavily. Why was everyone here so attractive?

He kicks the chair across from him, sending it scooting across the floor and open for you to sit.

“Please, sit! Haurchefant Greystone, at your service!”

You sit across from him. Your hands empty of any such implements used for studying.

Haurchefant lends you a spare quill and an empty notebook. All smiles as he asks you of your classes and which House you had chosen. He is bright and cheerful, and effortlessly soothing.

The first time he laughs you feel your heart jump. Twelve have mercy, you think. You’re doomed.

You hardly notice the hours pass in his company. It is not until Alphinaud himself comes to fetch you that you realize how late it had become.

Yet you are not blind to the haughty way Alphinaud speaks to the other boy. His hold on you almost too tight as he drags you away.

Still Haurchefant is all smiles as he bids you goodnight.

- - - The next few days are a blur. The only respite being that you find yourself often in the company of Haurchefant.

You had incidentally and accidentally uncovered a plot to have his friend Francel expelled.

A fact of which Haurchefant was eternally grateful. His praise was a tad overzealous and somewhat embarrassing. Don’t get you started on the explicit detail….

Still you find yourself exploring the academy. You find yourself looking for a place outside. A place where you can sit and breathe for a moment without a Scion constantly at your side. After that first day with Haurchefant you’ve come to suspect that Alphinaud had put the other Scions on babysitting duty.

You finally find a hallway promising you the sweet relief of fresh air. A door leading up a set of stairs to another door at the top.

You’re so happy to see the sky when the door closes behind you that you don’t look at your feet.

A mistake on your part as you trip over a pair of legs outstretched just beyond the doorway.

You stumble and fall with a startled yelp and land in the unfortunate lap of the student sitting next to those treacherous legs.

“Ah,” the lap your laying in voices. “Are you all right?”

You groan, rolling off his lap to the floor of the roof. “Only my pride is injured. How are your legs?”

The lap having boy chuckles, “Mine or Estinien’s?”

You huff, squinting through the sun in your eyes to see his face and, oh - of course! He’s unfairly attractive with deep blue eyes and dark, gently curling hair.

“Yours, no offense Estinien,” you grumble, waving at those legs that had tripped you.

“None taken,” replies the legs-having-boy you now know as Estinien.

You turn your head to peek at him too. Thankfully his face is covered by a book. Ha, cute. Was he napping?

“My legs are fine, thank you.” The other boy smiles. “Ah, where are my manners? Aymeric de Borel, at your service. So kind of you to drop in.”

You groan.

Aymeric laughs. “Mine apologies. That was in poor taste. That is… would like like to join us? I’ve still more studying to do. We do not mind the company. Right, Estinien?”

Estinien grunts.

You smile.

You sit yourself in the space between them, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine in the peaceful quiet. The quiet scratch of Aymeric’s quill lulling you into a pleasant doze.

You’re almost asleep when Estinien shifts next to you. You turn to look at him half drowsy, blinking rapidly as he pulls the book off his face. He’s all blue eyes and long pale hair.

“Ugh, you too?” You say with feeling.

“What?” Estinien huffs.

Your hand flops instead of replying as you grab one of Aymeric’s books to cover your face.

It was ridiculous how attractive everyone was. Was it in the fine print?

- - -

“Who is that?” You ask, eyes glued to the group of people in the far corner of the room.

“Who?” Thancred replies with an easy smile.

You shake him, turning his face with your fingers on his chin - pointing, “That!”

Thancred groans. “Oh, that. Don’t bother with that. Only trouble comes with that.”

You gape. “What is that’s name?”

Thancred sighs. “His name is Zenos. Trouble, my friend! Trouble!”

Zenos turns his head and meets your eyes. You freeze - pinned in place by the weight of his stare.

He smirks, slow and wicked.

“Thancred!” You hiss, slapping at your handsome friend. “Thancred! Thancred, he’s looking!

Thancred gasps loudly and covers your eyes. "Quick! Look away before you turn to stone!”

You pry his hand away from your eyes, grumbling, “Thancred! I can’t see!”

You look back in the corner to find Zenos and the grouping of other students had vanished.

You sigh, turning your head to frown at Thancred as he throws his arm over your shoulder. “He’s gone. ”

Thancred grins roguishly. “Tough break, my dear friend. Shall we eat?” And drags you away to join your fellow Scions at your usual table.

[baymeric]

Aaaa could you do another Estinien x WoL? Maybe something where Estinien is extra grumpy because he's so flustered around WoL? If not that's ok!

(I’m sooo sorry this took so long nonnie, thank you so much for waiting!! some awkward grumpy dragoon fluff below the cut!)

It was uncomfortably quiet, and though it usually was around Estinien, this quiet seemed forced. Alphinaud and your gracious host Aymeric had left the dining room to discuss something probably related to politics, and you were left alone sitting across from the dragoon at an unusually wide dining table. 

“So…” you started, attempting to break the pregnant silence, but you could not think of anything that would interest Estinien, and your words left you. The entire dinner had gone in a similarly awkward manner: though Alphinaud, Aymeric, and you were conversing as normal, the dragoon seemed uneager to participate, and was irritable—more so than usual. 

Was it something you had done? Something you had said to offend him, perhaps? Your thoughts wandered towards Estinien, and your eyes followed not long after. He was not wearing his dragoon’s armor, and though you had seen him without it before, he seemed very handsome in the room’s soft caramel lighting. You took note of his sharp cheeks and silky hair, and the way the unlaced part of his shirt gave you the slightest view of a toned chest.

“What?” Estinien asked sharply, and you had to dig your fingers into the wood of the table to keep yourself from jumping in your seat at the surprise of his voice.

“W-what?” you parroted, cheeks rapidly turning red. Gods, did he see you staring at him? At his chest?

“You were staring,” he grunted.

He did. 

You considered it wiser to stay silent than to admit you were admiring the view in front of you, however, and another awkward silence ensued, in which Estinien crossed his arms and his eyes examined everything but you. 

“Estinien,” you attempted again, and Estinien sighed. 

“What is it.” 

“I’ve never really seen you dressed so fancily before. You look nice.” 

You thought you saw a tinge of pink smatter Estinien’s cheeks, but it could’ve just been the lighting, as it was gone in an instant. He recrossed his arms and cleared his throat. He opened his mouth as if to respond, but decided against it.

Another prolonged silence. You felt anger bubbling up inside you, and you had half a mind to leave, since apparently the dragoon had nothing to talk to you about. You furrowed your brows and placed your cheek in your palm. 

“My thanks,” Estinien muttered suddenly. You were confused, and turned to look at him. His head was in his arms in the table below, and you couldn’t see his face.

“For…?” 

“For saying I looked nice.” 

Though Estinien’s face was still planted on the table and he couldn’t see you, you found yourself beaming. 

“You’re welcome, and I mean it! I feel a bit under-dressed, actually…” you trailed off, chuckling. 

Estinien’s head came up, and his eyes met yours. It was a moment before he spoke. 

“Don’t worry yourself over that. You look quite wonderful.” 

You blushed at his words. Though the dragoon had spoken praise of your combat-related achievements before, he had never complimented you regarding appearance. In fact, you hadn’t heard him sing praise to anyone else regarding appearance, either. You smiled again. Estinien didn’t meet your eyes anymore, choosing instead to rest his cheek on a knuckle and stare at the table’s centerpiece. 

You expected the rest of the night to be silent until your young partner and the night’s host returned, and resigned yourself to the silence, but were surprised when you heard Estinien mutter something. 

“Sorry?” you cocked your head to the side. You could say with certainty, this time, that he was blushing. 

“Mine apologies,” the dragoon said a little louder. Before you could ask him to elaborate, he continued with a sigh, “I’ve been treating you cruelly. Mine apologies for being so petulant. As you may have garnered, I’m not suitable to dealing with manners of the heart.” 

Your eyes widened, and you realized that Estinien probably meant not to admit his feelings for you so casually, as his eyes widened too. The two of you stared at each other for a few seconds, until the other broke your gaze and hissed.  

“Confound it all. I’m hopelessly enamored by you, and should you not return my sentiments I would not hold it against you.” 

You opened and closed your mouth a few times, attempting to find the best way to admit your feelings as well, but mentally said “confound it all,” as Estinien just had, practically launched yourself across the table, grabbed his face in your hands, and kissed him slowly and deeply.

You two broke away for air, and Estinien’s hand lingered on your cheek, rubbing his thumb across your cheekbone.

[starswornoaths]

Ever a Seneschal, Ne’er a Princess (4/4)

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Serella volunteers at this year’s Little Ladies’ Day event, same as all the years preceding it. Being urgently called by the sultana, however, is a first:

Or:

These two are dummies, diabetes inducing sap ensues, and finally, everything comes together and I bait a follow up *cough* 

Word count: 7,427 (I’m so sorry I clearly can’t just get to the point with these two ;-; )

Another spring brought with it another Little Ladies’ Day celebration— and with that celebration came volunteer work. Unlike much of the go-here-do-this busywork she had been given in the years since she took up adventuring, however, Serella volunteered willingly for such work.

There was enjoyment to be had in the simplicity of helping set up decorations for the festivities— and a strangely domestic type of cameraderie between everyone who participated because of it that she genuinely enjoyed; it helped remind her of why she fought as hard as she did for the realm in gentler, warmer ways. By the time preparations had been complete and they were all changing into their suits, the seneschals were all laughing and bantering, and the mood was already jovial. The suits were more or less the same as they had always been, which was fine; it meant she could simply slip into the same one from last year that way. When the Chief Seneschal began to pass out baskets of the favors meant to be handed out, Serella couldn’t help but be curious as to what they might be as she waited for hers. 

This year’s favor that was to be handed out was quite different from offerings other years: braided flower crowns. When she was handed a cloth lined wicker basket laden with the hand made crowns, she found herself a bit taken aback; previous years had seen simple things with flowers; a corsage, a hairpin, a bracelet, always something that was quick to make and easy to stick on someone. This was more elaborate. More...personal.

She hated that a part of her wanted one.

It was silly— and a waste on her besides, seneschal that she was. She hadn’t been a princess in decades, what good would it do for her to have one? As quickly as her heart melted at the thought of being presented with one she forced it to harden again: if she was so smitten with a flower crown, she could go braid herself one. She knew how; she’d braided flowers with Ysale, once, even. 

Ah, Serella realized the source of the blooming, bittersweet warmth in her chest; she had not thought of flower crowns since she had found wild stems of Lily of the Valley and vines of Forget-Me-Nots in the Forelands and placed a braided crown of them on Ysale’s head. Before that, she had not thought of it since childhood, but seeing Lady Iceheart so despondent at the revelation that she was not, in fact, Shiva reborn but some dark shadow of her own want to be, Serella had felt moved to at least try to comfort her. 

Better she leave such niceties in the past where they belonged, she decided as she spied Uthengentle taking up his own basket of crowns and grinning smugly at her from over his shoulder. In response, she tapped two fingers below her eyes and scrunched her face as she pointed them towards him. Victory would not be obtained while she ruminated on melancholic nostalgia, after all. 

As the morning wore on and princess came and went, however, Serella’s first inclination that something was afoot was, incidentally, when Uthengentle began to lose their annual friendly competition to see which of the two of them were the better seneschal.

He had never lost to her! In all the years they had done this together, he’d been the one to thoroughly and decisively out-perform her as a seneschal! Oh there had been times where she had pulled ahead momentarily, but he often rallied himself to outmatch her in all manners gentlemanly and chivalrous the moment he realized he had fallen behind. Hildibrand himself would be proud, if he saw how gallant and graceful her brother was in his duties.

But when she began to attract a larger crowd than he, with little ladies actively passing him by for her, her suspicions were instantly raised.

Still, there were princess to escort and assist, and she would rise to the occasion with or without her brother’s fierce competition; as much fun as it was to keep score, she did it for them, not her ingrained sibling rivalry. Though she wondered—and vaguely worried about—what had caused him to fizzle out even before noon, she lost track of him for how many different princesses needed assistance with dances or flower crowns or anything else that might make their day at least a little better.

She wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when she moved to grab another flower crown for what felt like the hundredth princess in only a few short hours, she was shocked to find that the freshly refilled basket she had just gotten from one of the seneschals managing the event had simply vanished.

Had someone run off with it? Did another seneschal mistakenly take her basket? She froze for a moment, unsure of whether looking for the basket or just getting another one would be the more expedient course of action.

When she spied Uthengentle walking back to his post she was at first relieved to find someone she could ask, but when she spied a familiar basket—complete with her own green ribbon, no less!—cradled in his arms as he moved, her hackles were instantly raised. They’d never resorted to cheating before!

“Uthen!” She said in exasperation, barely refraining from stomping her feet as she drew near. “What are you doing? Those are—“

“For the little ladies, I know, I know,” Uthengentle yessed her with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Yeah, but shouldn’t you get your own basket?”

“Usually, yeah,” Uthengentle agreed as he set the basket on his hip, “but you’re about to be relieved from your shift.”

She balked for a moment—when had she had a shift? And who was meant to relieve her from it?

“Wh—“

“By me.” Uthengentle said flatly. “I’m your relief shift.” He patted the linen lined side of the basket. “This is mine now.”

“Wha—“ She tried again. 

"Ah, there you are, Serella!" She heard a voice she recognized as Papashan’s call out.

When she turned to greet the retired Sultansworn, still waist deep in her own confusion, she found him holding out a letter with a familiar wax seal for her to take.

"Master Papashan—"

"Your presence has been requested by Her Grace in the fragrant chambers." He handed her the letter. "Urgently, I am told."

“Well, well,” Uthengentle spoke up from behind her. “Looks like you’re needed elsewhere anyroad. I’ll take it from here, you see what the Sultana needs.”

His tone indicated that he was, somehow, a part of this whole...she didn’t even know what to call it. The Sultana needed her, “urgently,” evidently, but one look at Master Papashan told her that, “urgent,” was a relative term; she’d seen the man near panic when it was well and truly urgent, so for him to be so cavalier was...suspect.

“I don’t know what you lot are planning,” Serella groused, even as she pocketed the letter, “but I don’t trust a one of you.”

“Skepticism is a healthy thing in Ul’Dah,” Papashan mused sagely, already making his own way back to the palace.

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Uthengentle conceded, though he was already nudging her by the shoulders toward the Chamber of Rule. “Now shoo, I have ladies to charm.”

“Sure thing, Thancred, I’ll just get right on that.” Serella muttered as she tried not to trudge to the nearest aetheryte shard.

Trotting her way up the steps to the Chamber of Rule she had an errant thought that perhaps she should change— she was getting odd looks as it was, a seneschal so far from the festivities, but there was naught to be done for it, she decided: if it was truly as urgent as the missive claimed, then it should be of no consequence what she wore. All she had brought with her was her armor besides.

Presenting the letter with Nanamo’s seal on it was sufficient enough to grant her entry, though she did as instructed and waited outside the fragrant chambers and waited for one of the staff to see her in. Ere long, a lady in waiting ushered her through the doors, and with a word of thanks, she stepped inside to see what was so urgent that it demanded her attention and hers alone.

“Forgive me my tardiness, Your Grace,” Serella said before she had even fully entered the fragrant chambers. “When Master Papashan approached me, I was otherwise engaged with—” she cut herself off in words and step when she realized that Nanamo was not alone at the table. “Ser Aymeric?” She blurted dumbly when her mind registered that her lover was seated beside the Sultana.

With a smile he set his dessert spoon down and stood in greeting— the perfect picture of a lord in his crisp dark suit, all clean lines and blue and gold trim and unfairly handsome, how dare he—

“‘Tis a pleasure to see you again, Warrior of Light.” He said smoothly, and not at all as though he were the very same man that she’d practically forced out the door because he was not satisfied with the amount of goodbye kisses he had given her as they parted for the day.

“Mistress Serella, how glad I am that you answered my summons,” Nanamo replied without looking up from her tart. “You have come in the middle of negotiations between myself and— Serella!” The Sultana gasped as she looked up and leapt from her chair. “I thank you for your alacrity, but what are you wearing?!”

“Err...my Seneschal attire…?” She answered hesitantly, still frozen mid-step. With a self-conscious glance down at herself, she could admit that in her hurry she had managed to make her suit more frumpled and wrinkled than it had before she’d left the event. “I thought this was urge—”

“It would not do to have a guest of the Sultanate in such a disheveled state!” Nanamo said, her aghast expression clearly theater for something else beyond Serella’s scope; the Paladin had presented before her still covered in soot from battle, and never had the Sultana so much as batted an eye before. “Oh, but I fear we might lack clothing appropriately sized for an Elezen guest…” she tapped at her chin to feign deep thought. “This will not do, not do at all…”

“I didn’t think it looked that bad…” She muttered, though sparing another glance at Aymeric’s cleanly pressed Lord Speaker attire she had certainly conceded that she looked more than a mite haggard by comparison. She thought of her chivalric coat and offered, “I...could change into my armor…?”

“In such sweltering heat?” Aymeric spoke up, a hand over his heart— and now he was sticking his toe into the theatrics, and Serella’s bafflement reached new limits. “As a gentleman, I could not abide by having one succumb to vapors for propriety’s sake— and it must be fate itself that brought us both here today—” He bent to reach behind the seat he had only just vacated to produce a box— and she knew that yellow fabric ribbon holding it as Dottie’s signature box ribbon. “—I had a delivery meant for you, but had resigned myself to not seeing you for some time.”

Hadn’t thought he’d see her, but brought the box with him to Ul’Dah, of all places? She really hoped he thought more highly of her than that. Fate indeed— or my brother, more like, she thought wryly.

“Must have been serendipity itself.” Serella blanched, even as she accepted the box with a bow of her head. “I thank you, my lord.”

“Pray think naught of it,” Aymeric replied, his smile remaining even as he returned to his seat.

“Ahh, what a splendid coincidence!” Nanamo exclaimed, returning to her seat. “Pray go and change in the guest rooms and return when you are finished— and worry not for your suit, it shall be laundered for you.”

“Thank you, Your Grace, but wasn’t this urgent—?” Serella tried to ask but a lady in waiting was already leading her out the door as quickly as she came in, and the Paladin was half way down the hallway before she had even registered she’d been moving at all.

Hmph. Urgent, indeed! She huffed as she was unceremoniously nudged into an empty guest room.  

Once she'd crossed the room and sat the box upon the plush bed, she carefully undid the ribbon and slid the lid off— and the second she spied the ivory top and navy skirt neatly folded within the tissue paper, she realized that perhaps Aymeric had given her exactly as much credit as she deserved, not realizing this had been planned for at least a fortnight. Though to be fair...what could she have really prepared for? She had no idea or inclination that anyone had intended to participate in all of this.

With great care she removed the articles of clothing and laid them out on the bed— and when she spied black stockings at the bottom of the box, she knew damn well Dottie had included them for no other reason than because she had suggested it. There was a note scribbled on a scrap of paper beside the stockings— breezy top, light stockings, should keep you nice and cool. I look forward to hearing all about it over tea!

Serella grappled with whether she should feel flattered or foolish, but just decided she had the capacity for both as she hastily removed her suit. Folding each piece as best she could she tucked it in the box for lack of anywhere else to put it, really, and though she wobbled as she hopped into the stockings one foot at a time, she was just glad they were the right size. She half wondered if Aymeric hadn’t just grabbed a pair of her winter stockings for Dottie to reference.

The top felt cool and soft as she slipped her arms through the long sleeves and buttoned it. Thick enough to not be see through but light enough to breathe, she sighed at the temperature difference; she hadn’t realized how warm she had been under the layers of her suit. The skirt slipped over her hips and fastened just below the bust with enough room to comfortably tuck the shirt into it, as she expected. Though it fit flush against her waist, the skirt flared out at the hips and flowed rather nicely when she gave into her girlish enthusiasm and twirled on her stocking clad foot. Fits almost like it was made for me or something, she thought, though what sarcasm she might have felt was tempered greatly for how touched she was by such a gesture from so many she loved.

There was a moment where she looked into the mirror on the dresser and nearly didn’t recognize herself, and the thought was sobering. With so much of her time spent in either armor or uniform, she had almost forgotten what she looked like in clothes that, while more formal than her everyday attire, were still normal clothes. A stranger in her own skin, she scarcely knew what to feel draped in such lovely clothes— clothes commissioned for her specifically, another odd thought. How could she feign at being worthy of this, knowing how little she would be able to use it?

Because I’ll get gently berated otherwise by those who love me. Serella reminded herself, and found that reason enough. She took a moment to undo her slightly mussed hair to redo her half braid...and then a moment longer to dry her misty eyes, not wanting her kohl to smudge.

She was just glad she’d worn simple black kitten heels with her suit— they matched well enough with the rest of the ensemble, and once she’d put them back on she returned to the hallway outside the fragrant chambers to wait for permission to enter. Again.

Thankfully, she didn’t wait long this time around either, and stepped back inside a bit more hesitantly this time lest they deem something else in need of changing.

“I hope I didn’t take too long, Your Grace.” She said with a bow— half out of respect but half so she didn’t see Aymeric’s face.

His soft gasp seemed loud to her ears, and she straightened to see him watching her with wide, bright eyes. Though he did not smile his lips parted and his shoulders softened with his sigh. Despite how much cooler the top and skirt she wore now were, a peculiar heat spread across her cheeks at the near reverent way he took in the sight of her.

“Ahh, much more appropriate for an esteemed guest,” Nanamo said, and made no effort to hide the sly glee in her grin when she turned to her actual guest and asked, “would you not agree, Ser Aymeric?”

He seemed to catch himself in his reverie then, and hid his faintly flushed cheeks with a cough behind his hand. “Wholeheartedly, Your Grace,” he replied, even as his gaze never strayed from her.

“Now that I’m in attire that suits,” Serella said flatly, hoping it wasn’t obvious that her face was flushing ever darker shades of red. “I was summoned here urgently? How might I help you?”

“Urgent indeed!” Nanamo said with a decisive nod. “Ser Aymeric and myself were renegotiating trade agreements between Ishgard and Ul’Dah.” She made a grand gesture of fanning her face. “We are close to an agreement, though I fear I am beginning to wilt. I would ask that you escort the Lord Commander about the city while I rest— though I would not have him heckled and mistaken as a seneschal for the event being held.” She seemed utterly pleased with herself when she added, “Thus I did request that you change your clothes!”

Rest. Mhm. Well, call Serella convinced.

“As you will, Your Grace.” Serella said instead with another bow— for really, who was she to complain about so generous a gift as this? When she rose this time she turned to Aymeric, who had risen again from his seat. “Provided you are amenable, my lord?”

He was at her side before she had even finished asking him. With a bow and a hand over his heart he said softly, “More than, I assure you.” He offered her his arm, “shall we, Mistress?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at the way those enchanting eyes of his glimmered like polished Kyanite as she threaded her arm through his. “With you, Ser Aymeric? I would go anywhere.”

***

**

*

“Alright, be honest,” Serella said once they had stepped out into the Ruby Road Exchange. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Though it doubtless beggars belief, scarcely a fortnight.” Aymeric replied easily. “Though I have your brother to thank for the idea— in fact, t’was he who approached me with the idea.”

“I suspected he was involved…” She said, and though she caught sight of the back of his head she still scowled at him. “Asshole.” She hissed at the back of his head, assured that by sibling instinct alone he would know she’d said it.

“Was this...unwelcome?” When she turned back toward her lover she found him looking worriedly at her.

“Oh— gods, no, dear one!” She leaned more into his side as they slipped through the bustling crowd. “I’m still a little dazed that it’s happening at all— and that he got so many people involved under my nose.” She pursed her lips. “While I’m certainly glad for the chance to dote on you a bit, I do wonder what his intention was behind this plot— noble as I’m sure it was.”

Though she said it teasingly, she didn’t doubt that Uthengentle had gone to such lengths for genuinely good reasons; he’d never had to resort to cheating in their past competitions, after all.

Aymeric had a peculiar look on his face then, and Serella found she couldn’t read it beyond, “debating what to divulge,” and wondered what he was thinking of this time.

“Though I might speak on his intent, I would rather he do so himself— and if the lady is not opposed, I would very much like to escort you to the festivities.”

“Escort me? Wasn’t I tasked with keeping the locals off of you, Ser Diplomatic Tourist?”

Aymeric laughed brightly, and she felt his hand move to the small of her back as they wound their way down the steps and tried to avoid the festival goers. “Be that as it may, given the holiday t’would seem meet that I be your seneschal, would it not?”

“That’s silly,” Serella dismissed. “Seneschals are for escorting—”

“Princesses, aye.” Aymeric agreed with a bow of his head. “Allow me to rephrase: might you permit me the privilege of escorting you as your seneschal for the day, then?”

“Aymeric…” She let out a huff of a laugh, already prepared to explain that she wasn’t a princess, hadn’t been since childhood, but that she greatly appreciated his company regardless. It was a well practiced bit— one she had told Uthengentle near every year for a while now— but heard the distinct sound of someone clucking their tongue in admonishment. “I haven’t been one in some time—”

“Tsk, tsk, we go through all the trouble a’ getting you out here in a dress with your beau, an’ you still regurgitate all that drivel?” Uthengentle asked as she turned to face him.

“Drivel?” Serella frowned. “Uthen...I appreciate all that you—”

“Oh I know you do; our folks didn’t raise an ingrate.” Uthengentle held up his hand. “But there’s a fine line between humility and shame. You walked past it about two decades ago.” He shook his head. “High time you stop hating yourself for other people’s perceptions of you.”

“I don’t...hate myself.” Serella argued gently but incredibly uncertainly.

“If I might interject, dear one,” Aymeric spoke up quietly. When she faced him  he softly held her hand in his. “Perhaps hatred is too strong a word, though...’tis apparent you struggle with loving yourself.” After a moment of clear debate with himself, he went on, “Uthengentle...told me of your history with the holiday.”

Surprised, she spared a glance at her brother, who only shrugged unapologetically. She took no offense; her past was hardly a secret.

“I’m guessing you told him about when we were kids.”

“Yep.” Uthengentle replied, popping the, ‘p.’

Looking back to her lover she shook her head, “I’m touched that you would go to such lengths to be here, though I wouldn’t want pity to compel you—”

“Naught but love guided me— and guided all involved, lest you wonder.” Aymeric reassured her with a squeeze of her hand. “...You may not realize it, but seems almost as thought you actively punish yourself for your titles. When you have a want, you deny it for fear of it being somehow wasted, and though you do not lack self confidence, I have never once heard you speak highly of yourself as a person, even a little.”

“That’s...disliking myself?” Serella asked— out of bafflement, not anger. She had not...considered it such. “It didn’t feel like it. I was just...I was being honest about what I am.” She shrugged. “I’m an adventurer.”

“So am I, Ellie, but we’re people before we’re professionals. S’alright to want things and...you know. Shite like that.” Uthengentle said with gentle exasperation. “...Thank your man for that line, by the by. Wouldn’t have thought to put it like that.”

Serella regarded her brother— really regarded her brother, and though he hadn’t said it in any of the years preceding this one, and realized that he’d been asking her to just let herself want to be a princess when the mood struck her— that she could be both, and an adventurer besides. She had...more or less just accepted, of her own volition, that she shouldn’t, though hadn’t recent events told her that having a life outside of adventuring was worthwhile? That building an identity outside of, ‘adventurer,’ was permitted, encouraged even?

“So, err,” Uthengentle had clearly run out of steam, holding up the basket he’d taken from her. “Pick a crown, eh, and get goin’, princess. I have more ladies to impress and all that.” He spared a sidelong but meaningful glance to Aymeric. “You be the seneschal I wasn’t, you hear?”

With an expression too solemn to only be regarding Little Ladies’ Day, Aymeric nodded.

“Uthen.” Serella said quietly, and let go of Aymeric’s hand and faced her brother fully. “I’m not a little girl crying over my scars anymore.”

“...I know.” Uthengentle said in a tone that matched hers. “Doesn’t mean I won’t still fight anyone what treats you wrong. If it came to it, him included, titles be damned.” He nudged the basket in her direction again and said in a thick voice, “Go on, pick one for your seneschal to give to you so I can give up the title for good.”

Looking at how upset her brother was at the mere suggestion, she wondered if, perhaps, she had been unknowingly hurting him, too, rejecting that she was allowed to be soft and want such soft things once in a while. Had he feared he wasn’t good enough at it because of what happened when they were kids, and taken every year’s offering to be her seneschal as personal rejection that stemmed from it? This had always been such a good holiday for them both, she had thought— at least, in their adult years...

“...Next year!” She blurted.

“What?” Her brother turned his head fully in surprise.

“Next year, I’ll still volunteer.” Serella said. “But I can take a break to be...not a seneschal. Wouldn’t mind having the best seneschal around escorting me for a bit, you know.”

“Oh? Escorting yourself, then?” Uthengentle sniffed.

“Nah, that’d just be conceited. But I’d like my brother to be my seneschal next year, if that’s alright. Just for a bit.” She puffed her cheeks out. “But it doesn’t count toward your score!”

“Sure,” Uthengentle agreed, his eyes shimmering. “I’ll still beat you, though. Always do.”

“That’s because you’re the best seneschal around.” She said with a sagely nod.

“...Pick your crown, Princess Shitehead.” Uthengentle groused in a voice warbling with unshed tears.

With a smile and eyes still stinging— from her allergies, that was her excuse— she carefully picked up a crown of red and mauve flowers and held it in her hands like it was some ancient and otherworldly relic she had no business holding.

“...Thank you, Seneschal Fuckwit.”

With another nod her brother beat a hasty retreat, though she didn’t take offense; he hated her seeing him get worked up over, “sappy things,” as he’d called it. Something she could work on with him, she supposed. Only seemed right, considering how far he went for her.

That would be later— next year, I’ll get him back! She swore as she took a breath and smiled over at Aymeric. A twinge of guilt hit her nerves when she realized he’d been trying to be respectful of their familial moment, having taken a step backward and averted his gaze. In a fluid motion, however, his attention returned to her with a step to close the distance and a widening of his smile.

“Think I picked a good one?” She asked, holding out the crown for his inspection.

He spared it a cursory glance and gently took it in hand. “I would say so,” he said with a nod. Holding it out as an offering, he asked, “May I…?”

Her already flushed cheeks growing more heated, she curtsied low enough for him to softly set the crown atop her head. When she straightened he beamed like the sun itself at her.

“How does it look?” She asked, though already fiddled with her sleeve cuff before he answered. “Silly, right? It must look silly.”

“Not at all— even such red roses pale in comparison to you.” He replied with that unfairly smooth godsdamned smile of his as he bumped their noses together. “As ever, you are a vision, Ella.”

“And as ever, you’re a sap.” She hid the way her face must have resembled a rolanberry with a kiss, and was reminded of how much she loved feeling his smile against her lips.

“With you alone, rest assured. Now, then: where might we start?”

“With the festivities?” Serella hummed and tapped a finger to her chin. “We could look at the decorations while I give you the grand tour of Ul’Dah; the event is more about the seneschals than anything else these days and, well,” she fanned her lashes at him as she kissed his knuckles, “I’ve already got my favorite one.”

“I am yours to command, Mistress Arcbane.” With a sweep of his arm, he bowed.

“Ser Seneschal,” she gasped as if scandalized, “so very forward!” With a laugh she laced their finger together. “Come, I know a few places you might like.”

***

**

*

As promised, Serella showed him places within the city she thought he’d like— and eagerly answered his questions about areas of Thanalan she could take him someday. Much as she would love nothing more than to spirit him away and show him more the this corner of the realm, he was, however superficially, acting as a political delegate, and thus could not leave the city proper without appropriate cause. Just as well; the city itself was entirely new to him all the same, and even something as mundane as introducing him to Mylla and Adalberta was, in itself, an adventure, he reassured her.

“This is one of my favorite quiet spots in the whole city,” she explained once they had stepped into the cool shade of the halls branching out to the many guilds in town. They took a seat at the lip of the fountain, and she let out a blissful sigh at the muted noise of the hustle and bustle of the city. “There’s many like it, but so few people come ‘round the Alchemist’s Guild— though that’s likely for fear of running into Guildmaster Severian.”

“‘Tis quiet here,” Aymeric mused softly. “And yet...I can still hear the whole city.”

“That’s why it’s my favorite!” Serella leaned in to murmur as though it was a secret. “The fountain helps mute everything— but the opening above us where the water comes in?” When she looked upward, his eyes followed. “Also lets in the echoes from all over the city. It’s a good place to duck into that’s quiet without feeling lonely.”

“The Vault has some such places,” Aymeric mused quietly, “in the halls near where the Houses of the Lords and Commons convene. The fountains there have not frozen, but no longer run.” His voice was soft as he admitted, “I tend to duck into such places between meetings— with so little foot traffic for the cold and the snow that drifts in, ‘tis a place of great solace for me.”

With such soft thoughts of muted sanctuaries, Serella’s imagination ran rampant with visions of her bringing lunch or tea for them to share in such places. Though sheltered, such places with open ceilings were doubtless still cold. They might press together— if she brought a blanket, or perhaps one of her fur lined cloaks, they might huddle together as they sipped. Moments of crystalline domesticity formed aching fractals in her mind— and ah, but it should perhaps worry her that the mundane had become fantasy.

“If it would not disturb you,” she spoke up before she could stop herself. “I might bring tea or something for you to take for lunch.” She shrugged. “I’d had half a thought to anyway whenever I was home, though I feared disturbing you between meetings.”

“Please disturb me so regardless,” he implored, cradling her hand with both of his. “Seeking respite as I might be, there is no peace I could find quite so soothing or so deep than by your side.”

Flatterer, the affectionate term pressed against her teeth but she swallowed it— she refused to ruin what felt an importantly tender moment.

“Tea and a blanket, then?” She suggested. “Maybe with lunch?”

“Just you would be more than enough.” When he caught sight of her blush he leaned to kiss her cheek. “Your company is more than enough— pray do not think aught else is needed for me to be the happiest man alive.”

“Right, sorry!” She shook her head with a laugh. “I try not to get carried away with such things, but sometimes my imagination gets away from me.” Ignoring the way her cheeks flushed she pointed at the flowers atop her head. “I blame the season, really. Makes me a bigger sap than normal. And really, I must look silly, rambling about such things in a flower crown like a mewling maid—”

“I would marry you in such soft splendor.” Aymeric said so softly she nearly missed it.

They both froze. He hadn’t meant to say as much out loud. She had simply not been expecting such a declaration.

Though the idea of marriage had been discussed near a year ago, it was more regarding the concept of marriage itself, and the hypothetical of them being married was only tangential. At the time, she had told him marriage was, “nice but not necessary—” and though she still held that belief in regard to the intimacy of their relationship not needing marriage to be as deep as it was, she could see it had merit. With her life as uncertain and treacherous as it was, to know that there would be no doubt as to what would happen to her pets, to their home, in the event of the darkness catching up to her would be an immense comfort.

And...well. She had decided some time ago that she would spend her forever with him, for so long as he wanted the same.

Aymeric’s eyes were wide with something akin to muted panic, and she realized that though there was only a moment’s silence it had doubtless been mistaken for her answer. She lowered her eyes demurely to watch the flower petals float gently in the fountain.

“I don’t think—” Serella felt him tense when she spoke haltingly. “—the church would let me wear a flower crown.”

Lifting her gaze to regard him with a sidelong and bashful smile she couldn’t help but giggle at the rare befuddlement that he gaped at her with. He looked at her as though he had not thought she would ever agree to marry him— had she done that, too, refusing to want for things as she had?

“No?” His voice cracked with his bewilderment. He cleared his throat and quietly admitted, “I, ah, I do not know what requirements the church would have for a ceremony.”

“Nor do I.” She leaned more full against him with a sigh. “I’m sure we’ll find out later.”

“Together, I should hope.”

“Naturally.”

She felt his smile when he kissed the top of her head— though that was followed by a huff of annoyance ruffling her hair when his linkpearl chimed. Knowing it for the call to return to the palace as it doubtless was, Serella sat up and pulled away from him.

“Ser Aymeric.” He answered with a finger pressed to his linkpearl. Though she could not hear the other voice from the caller, the way his expression fell gave away that she had guessed correctly. “Of course, I shall be there at once.”

“Duty calls?” She chanced, even as she knew the answer.

“As ever.” He answered in a tone that suggested he was trying not to grouse.

“T’would not be a day ending in ‘y,’ othewise!” Serella gave a laugh and stood. “Come, I’ll escort you back to the palace— I need my suit back, regardless.”

When she offered him her hand and wiggled her fingers he offered her a wincing smile as he accepted and stood. She paused mid step when he gently squeezed her hand and did not move.

“Ella,” he called to her around a thick swallow. With a breath, he tried again, “much of my time is already claimed by bureaucracy and politics. Such is the nature of the path I have chosen.”

“I know.” She reminded him.

“That...that does not mean, however, that I will not take what time I can and make it yours.”

“Make it ours, instead.” She shrugged and offered him a wide smile. “I like it better that way.”

Her words soothed the pinch out of his smile.

“Ours.” He promised, though his eyes were still clouded when he continued, “though I fear such time will be minimal— I know not when I would even be able to get away for something such as this again. But any chance I have to do so, I will.”

“I don’t want to be an obligation, dear one. I only ask you do so as often as you like.”

“Then my vow does not change.” He brought her hand to his and kissed her knuckles. “’Tis as I said: naught but love compelled me to be here.”

Ahh, but this conversation was familiar to her— though with a different context and a different sort of love. That it was some decade and a half past was of no consequence: Serella remembered a certain Captain Seneschal speaking to her in the same hushed, regrettable tone that something out of his control but a direct result of the life he led left little chance for them to have such a sweet day together. Though she herself was the Captain now and her Lord Commander didn’t need a cane this was no less loving, no less important. She was only sorry they would not meet in this life, Aymeric and her Da. That was alright, too, though; she’d tell him all about it later. Right now, in this moment with their hands intertwined she confirmed what had known for some time: that if there was a single soul on this star she would share forever with, it would be his.

“Now look who’s being silly.” Serella breathed a huff of laughter. “There’s so little of myself I can promise to you— you know that.” He nodded. “Our obligations have always come first because they must, but that doesn’t mean we can’t create our own happiness. That we try at all is what matters.”

“I fear you will grow tired of waiting for my availability.” He admitted with a wince— as if he had not taken every effort to be hers. “I worry I am denying you greater happiness elsewhere.”

“Ridiculous.” She replied. She  leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth— for how else could she nurture the wilting smile that sat there? His smile bloomed when she asked rhetorically, “for who could I love but you?”

***

**

*

Though being mother to not only one, but two Warriors of Light made visits with her children difficult, Myrina was still never surprised when either of them stopped by for a visit.

So when she heard a knock on her door just as her kettle began to whistle, she merely smiled and pulled a second cup from her cabinet— she measured the cadence of the raps on her door: four, equally spaced apart. Serella was paying her a visit this time.

Sure enough, her daughter stood in her entryway brushing off what dusting of snow had gathered on her shoulders.

“Evening, Ma!” Serella greeted. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Don’t be ridiculous— I’m your mother...and retired, besides!” She tutted, ushering her daughter inside. “I half expected to hear from Uthen; always calls to brag about how the festivities went and all.” She shook her head distractedly as they moved further into the house. “But here we are, but a week on after Little Ladies’ Day, and not a peep! I presumed he was still tending his wounded pride.”

“His first loss to me as Seneschal!” Serella beamed. “He took it with grace when we tallied everything up at the end. I would have been an ass had I gloated.”

“Did you?”

“...Privately.”

Though they shared a laugh, Myrina couldn’t help but worry when she saw how distracted her daughter looked even through the smiles and laughter— had something happened?

“How are you, Ella?” She asked instead.

“Hm?” Her daughter blinked widely as though she hadn’t been prepared to be asked that question— odd, given that she had come for a visit. Every motherly instinct that Myrina had instantly told her that there was something wrong. “Oh, I’m alright, Ma.” Serella promised. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“You could never— though you already asked that,” Myrina admonished gently, already ushering her into the den. “Kettle just went off— tea?”

“No thank you.” Serella replied, and Myrina noticed her hands were fidgeting.

For her daughter to decline tea...was she ill? Had she been hurt? Had someone hurt her?

“What happened?” She asked stonily. Even as she asked, the retired Dragoon winced; she knew her overprotective nature regarding her children was silly, grown as they were now.

It didn’t prevent her from devolving into a snarling wyrm ready to tear the flesh of those who wronged them asunder.

“Nothing,” her daughter reassured her, at last having her focus honed. “Nothing, I swear— or at least—” fidgeting hands again. Myrina prayed to Halone that no one had upset or tried to hurt her little girl to make her fret so. That she was a near fulm taller and built like a mountain did not matter, Myrina would demand blood regardless. “Nothing bad, please stop glaring a hole into the wall, Ma.”

Myrina hadn’t even realized she’d been doing it, though her daughter’s words did much to put her at ease.

“Well, what’s this all about, then?” She asked, hands on her hips. “You’ve not even taken your coat o—”

“Are you familiar with societal standards for Ishgardian courtship?” Serella blurted.

Though not surprised, Myrina wondered where this was going— and what had prompted it to begin with.

“As much as one like myself can be, yes.”

“I— I debated coming to you about it. I wasn’t sure if it would bring up unpleasant memories or not, speaking of Ishgardian courtship and expectations.” Serella explained, stumbling over her words. “Then I realized that what you know might just be outdated— no offense, Ma— so I wasn’t even sure whether I should ask you or go to Lord Edmo—”

“Serella.” Myrina cut off her rambling as gently as she could manage. Even before she had snapped her mouth closed and blinked owlishly at her it was clear that her daughter was having, admittedly funny, troubles in the area of romance. “Ishgard is changing, but like a great many things, society changes slowly. Courtship rituals are largely the same, from what I have observed.”

“Alright...good, that’s a start.” Serella nodded to herself. “And did you? Court anyone, I mean? Before Da?”

“A knight or two,” Myrina replied coolly, and resisted the urge to puff her chest out just a little when she added, “I was no noble by birth, though that hardly made a difference to the squires and the like.”

“Was marriage ever discussed?”

“Ella...what do you really want to know?” Myrina frowned. “What is this about?”

“Is it...would it be inappropriate,” Serella began slowly, “if I were to ask a lord to marry me?”

“‘A lord,’ she says, as if I wouldn’t know who,” Myrina scoffed, even as she smiled and shook her head. “Not inappropriate at all— knights propose to one another often, my dear.”

“But he’s the Lord Commander!” Serella blurted. “And the Lord Speaker, and the viscount of his house!”

“And you are the Warrior of Light, Slayer of Nidhogg, Captain of the Lominsan Maelstrom, and bearer of a dozen other titles I’m forgetting in my old age.” Myrina gently reminded her. “And he’s smitten with you besides.” She patted her daughter’s hand and led her toward the table. “And though it wouldn’t be inappropriate for you to ask, there’s still a way you need to do it— come, let’s plan this out, my dear. Honey with your tea?”

Finally, her Ella released the tension in her shoulders and smiled. Shucking her cloak and hanging it up, she moved to sit at the table. Cups duly sat upon saucers and pen and parchement laid out upon the table, Serella listened to Myrina’s guidance, and her trembling hand began to form her petition.

[moon-lily]

November/FF14 Writing Prompt #21

~ Fireplace ~

(Telling stories in front of a fireplace on a cold Coerthan night.)

“Mn, cozy,” muttered Amaris, smiling contently with a blanket around herself. She glanced over to her left and right, seeing her friends Lilith and Sariel also sitting with her in front of the fireplace, looking more than please to be bundled up with blankets.

“Might take a bit of time to get used to the cold out there,” Lilith commented, chuckling a little. “Not like we can complain too much about it when Count Edmont is letting us stay here.”

“Though tomorrow we have to start putting our work in,” Sariel reminded them, gazing at the crackling fire. “We’ll have to help Artoirel and Emmanellain with whatever task Count Edmont asks of us.”

“Oh, right... Now, I’m hoping I’m not the only one that picked up on it but did it seem like Artoirel didn’t really like us much,” asked Amaris, keeping her voice low. “He’s really different from Haurchefant.” 

“Ah, the two of you have been getting pretty close, haven’t you,” teased Lilith, making the pinkette blush and pull the blanket over herself more to hide her face. “No need to be so embarrassed! He’s a good man, and it’s pretty obvious he likes you back. Well, you’re the only one of us three to really return his advances.”

“Eh!? Wait, he’s said similar things to you two before!?”

“Yes,” replied Sariel in a deadpan tone. “I, however, am not interested in that. As Lilith said, he’s a good man and his nature is refreshing in this thorny world. But I personally don’t feel compelled to be involved with him - or anyone else - in that manner.”

Amaris nodded in understanding, a tad relieved that Sariel simply just didn’t have an interest in the Elezen - or maybe she hasn’t met the right person yet? - though it did make her feel a little insecure that Haurchefant apparently hit on her friends at some point. Though, considering how he was, he most likely didn’t mean any harm in it. Just some playful flirting - if they returned it, good; if not, then it was in good fun.

“And you, Lilith?”

“Hm? Oh, I did consider it but... Well, I’ll admit there’s someone else who had caught my eye a bit,” Lilith said with a small chuckle, grinning some. “Ser Aymeric is handsome, sensible, charismatic... I guess some Ishgardian men are very exceptional. Not that I’m hoping for a lot but I am curious to see where it might go with him.”

“Aiming high with the Lord Commander,” Sariel said with a slight smirk.

“Oh, it’s not anywhere near serious,” Lilith said defensively, looking away indignantly. “Clearly we haven’t had much opportunity to spend much time together. If anyone made progress on that front, Amaris is far ahead.”

“Ah, stop pointing it out,” Amaris whined, burying her face in her hands.

[inviouswriting]

Dreams

This will be in Trust when I update it. I just need to set about how to revamp that story.

Aymeric x Kiya. This is smut.

  In Gridania’s inn, Aymeric had woken up to his beloved still in his arms. Her face still relaxed in sleep, he had worn her out well the previous night. His hands simply touches over the skin of her face, back of his hands brushing hair off her eyes. Aymeric barely wonders where his feelings come so strong for her. All he knows is she cherishes every part of her. From the nightmares they have faced, the tears they both have shed for those they lost.

Aymeric sees a strong woman next to him, but one vulnerable as she sleeps. No titles, no threats, no clothing between them to shield them. She had bared her entire soul to him days after The Vault. All her feelings, struggles, he had almost forgotten there was a person beneath the titles. Still a woman underneath every thing. A woman he had admired at first for all she stood for, her kindness most of all. Now he can’t see himself without her by his side.

He remembers that day when Kiya came to him after she cried her heart out over losing Haurchefant. She had thanked him, even hugged him for it and he returned it. Aymeric had already fallen deep for her, seeing her smile through her tears. He knew she was putting on a strong face for him so he didn’t worry over her so much.

He did worry, he feared every mission that she took on, how she buried herself deep to prove herself something. Someone worthy of the titles she earned. He had beseeched her to slay his own father, he harbors his feelings on it, he could never resent her, Thordan he did.

Kiya is more than everything he has seen her become. She had become savior to so many nations, and carried dreams. His own included. Now if he could, he wished to protect her from the sight he is all too accustomed in the tears that dot the edges of her eyes in her sleep. She does it subconscious and only when she will visit a spot where she lost a friend.

Them being in Gridania, his mind goes to Papalymo. He had given his life in the same manner Louisoix did. Aymeric tugs the blanket that covers them both up more onto them and further pulls Kiya into his arms. He brings her up so he can kiss away her tears, pressing her form as close as she gets to his. He feels her arms wrap around him and her face press to his cheek.

Aymeric smiles against her forehead where he lingers his lips, then trails a string of them till he presses against her lips. He tilts his head enough and seals the kiss full. Kiya makes a muffled sound, and he takes advantage of her parted lips, delving his tongue inside them to deepen the kiss.

Kiya wakes to the sensation of being kissed so feverishly, her hands grip his shoulders, and feels overwhelmed in the sensations the moment she opens her eyes. Aymeric has her tighter in his arms, even as Kiya begins to return that kiss. Hot and heated, Aymeric moves his own hands down the center of her back. Kiya makes another noise into the kiss, he had not pulled up for air yet, and she feels her head spinning from how intense the kiss is.

Kiya breaks the kiss and pants only to have Aymeric kiss her again, tugging on her bottom lip with his teeth gently. He was distracting her from the feelings she would have had when she woke up. His method worked well, she is greeted to ice blue eyes staring softly into her own.

Aymeric feels her hands slip down his back, and Aymeric’s own hands pet at the base of her tail. He feels her reaction in a jump when his fingers brush just along the underside of her tail. Very sensitive and soft skin there. Kiya is moved onto her back, and gazes up at Aymeric as he adjusts her legs, parting them so he can rest between them.

Aymeric’s hands caress from breast when she uncovers her chest for his eyes, down to her abdomen and further to tease her with his fingers. He watches her face as her eyes light up in bliss when his fingers dance over the bundle of nerves to sinking inside. He notes how wet his fingers are from just a few thrusts of them.

Kiya writhes from his fingers thrusting into her, moans soft from her mouth, and Aymeric is there listening to every whisper and whimper for more. Even as he lowers his body down and uses his mouth to lavish her in more pleasure.

He feels nails in his scalp, and ignores them, having gotten use to her hair pulling. Her thighs closing at his head drawing him closer as his tongue joined his fingers taking turns between rubbing the nub with his fingers or lavishing it with his tongue.

Kiya tugs on his hair more when Aymeric thrusts his fingers in deeper curling them, his mouth taking up permanent placement teasing her nub till her legs shake from the pressure in her belly. Kiya’s ears flatten to her head and tail thrashes wild. Aymeric stops, and gives a kiss to her folds glancing up at his love. He hears the frustrated sigh from her and only chuckles at her impatience at being denied release just yet.

“I naught let you have all the fun my dear.” He raises up, and coaxes her legs further apart to accommodate his hips. His hands going down to line himself to her entrance, and further parts her folds to push in. She felt hot around him, and Aymeric lets out a moan against her ear.

Kiya feels him stretch her, thick, long and hot. He fills her in such a way, at first she struggled to fit all of him. Their size difference playing into it, he is a large man, in size and in other areas. He had worried so much over when he first took her. Now she takes him without him worrying so much, except when she asks him to be rougher.

Aymeric’s movements now are soft and gentle, taking his time to please her as well as feel her around him. He stills enough for her to adjust, only to have her urge him to love her. He does eagerly, the draw back still slow, but harder on the push in.

Kiya makes a few sounds that has her covering her face, and him tugging her hands off to see how red she is. He litters her face with kisses, he picks up his pace; his own desires becoming more prominent. Aymeric lefts her at her waist to change the angle so she accepts all of him. He hears her cry for him, a sign she enjoys feeling him buried so deep within her.

Kiya reaches a hand up to Aymeric’s face drawing him out of his concentration, and he leans into her touch smiling to her while one of his hands holds hers there. Her left hand on his face, he takes it and places a kiss on her wedding band down to her fingertips. Kiya feels her heart full and wonders how such a man loves her so tender.

Aymeric winds his arms around her and lifts her better into his arms holding her as he loves her. Soft sighs coming from him against her shoulder as he desires to fill her. Each thrust he makes now is harder and faster while guiding her hips down on his. He presses his forehead to hers, and claims her lips in a deep kiss again, swallowing down the cries she makes when one of his hands slips down to tease her to draw her closer to that edge.

They peak together, she had buried her face into his shoulder and bit harder than she intended. The warmth inside her, makes her face heat up. It never failed to make her do that, the fact that he would fill her as they both desired a child together. They had talked a lot about having one back when they were planning the steps in their marriage. They both wonder what a child from them would look like. Would a daughter retain Kiya’s stunning features and be blessed with Aymeric’s eyes, or would a son possess his father’s handsome features with vivid green eyes that can stare down others. Or perhaps a mix somewhere. Slitted lenses of an elezen daughter with green eyes, or the looming height of a miqo’te son and stronger features. They both know their child will be well blessed.

Aymeric lets Kiya lay on her back, but he is still connected to her. He waits for the swell to go down, she grips him tight to where he can’t pull free just yet. He instead leans over her, pushing his hips against hers as he lays on top of her to cover her face in more kisses.

To Aymeric, Kiya has become more than all of her titles to him, she has become someone he loves and cherishes as much as the sun rises. She became his eternally bound love, just as he became hers. A husband to a wife, a wife to a husband. Their love sealed three times, a fourth from the dragons. Kiya is everything and more to him. Aymeric is everything to her.

He is the solace she seeks when she needs him, the shoulder for her tears, and soothe to her heats and pains of her heart. She is the strong reminder of everything he has gained, she is his shoulder to seek solace in, hands that hold his in reminder of their love. She is a soothe to his soul and aches in his heart.

Aymeric finds himself staring into her eyes, and Kiya locked hers with his. They never have to say anything, only grin and wonder if they will start again. A subtle kiss placed says everything between them.

Kiya takes his left hand in her own and sizes their hands together. The difference in their hands. He closes his on hers, Kiya wriggles her fingers enough to lace their fingers together. They exchange a glance then start laughing together. Both of them lovesick fools for the other. Estinien had even called them as such.

“I am hopeless for you.” Kiya breaks the silence.

“Aye; alas so am I for you.” Aymeric leans in to press another kiss, and holds her tight to him.

The morning can wait a little longer.