#azia writes

[coldshrugs]

longing's favorite season 🔹 prologue

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau rating: general - this is a simple introduction to the concept. later parts will be mature/explicit. word count: 925 additional entries: part 1 🔹 part 2 🔹 stable scene 🔹

Count Edmont De Fortemps has no cause to enter quietly, especially in his own home, yet he is quite good at it. Engrossed as she is in the most interesting part of this grand old house, Io doesn't hear him until a loose floorboard creaks under the weight of his bad leg.

She looks up from the shelf, "Edmont... Good evening. I was just admiring—"

"Yes, of course, Mistress Laithe, admiring..." He steps into the warm light cast by the fireplace; the red and black jewels decorating his coat take on a liquid sheen, like tiny droplets of blood suspended in time. It wouldn't surprise her if they fell to the floor with a splatter. "Exploiting. The difference is a matter of etiquette, is it not?"

What on earth? Io recoils slightly, shaken by his unfamiliar tone. "My lord?"

He waves a dismissive hand and settles heavily into an armchair by the hearth. "Come. Sit with me, then you may return to your admiring momentarily."

She follows him warily. The aura about him bears... not exactly a threat, but something malign. There is a game in process and she does not yet know the rules. With a satisfied smile, Edmont looks her over, sizing up posture and countenance as she sits across from him.

"My son is quite taken with you, Mistress Laithe. For now, in any case."

For now?

He continues. "Just two days past, he fairly begged me to sanction a union between you. He is an idealist—you are not free from his expectations, but if allowed, Haurchefant would live his life as a fairytale. On the other hand, I must be more practical, for the sake of my family and my country."

"Haurchefant wants to marry me?" Io whispers, looking from Edmont to the fire.

Haurchefant's attention has been plain since she stepped foot in Camp Dragonhead nearly a year ago. His warm welcome came with hungry eyes, and he proved an audacious flirt, in a charming sort of way. Charming enough to make a night in his chambers sound enticing once. While the interest and advances were not entirely one-sided and the time they've spent together has occasionally skirted the bounds of romance, Io feels his expectations weigh more heavily than hers can match. He's been a valuable friend and has shown her great kindness many times over. She owes him a great deal—her life and the lives of her friends most of all—but truth be told, they don't know each other very well...

With the Dragonsong War at its end and her name mostly cleared, she thought she might move on. But...

"That is his current whim, aye," Edmont sighs. "I was keen to deny it, of course. Heavens, the difficulty... You, a foreigner in these lands—Viera—with those markings on display, a bow on your back, and blood on your hands. I will hail you as a hero, of course, but I fail to picture you as a lady and wife. But perhaps... perhaps that is exactly what I need at this time."

Io stares into the flames as she listens to him. His hospitality seemed freely given but she cannot help but recall something he said moons ago: 'How quickly we forget the petty nature of men. I'd wager your friends are no more than pawns in another of my countrymen's games. Such is the way of things between the High Houses...'

House Fortemps is no different, she supposes.

Io's stomach turns. She dares to glance at him. The flickering light throws his features into a menacing caricature of the Edmont she's familiar with.

"At his side, and in residence at this estate, you could be the perfect example." He leans forward, looking at her through steepled fingers. "The less open-minded High Houses could learn to see the beauty in truly open borders. What do you think, my dear? You could help propel our fair city into its new age, complete with a life of comfort, free from grief, and you need do no more than you've already done: use my wealth, my resources, and entertain my son. What say you?"

"—daresay it was one of the more awkward sessions of my career. The bride sat beautifully while her soon-to-be husband fidgeted, though I hear he is an energetic man with a racing mind. They did converse during the sitting, as well-acquainted friends; his lordship is a veritable jester and his humor seemed to keep his lady at ease. I had been told they were a love match. Alas, I would liken the flame between them to a bedside candle instead of the roaring fire usually found in the betrothed... "

—Renowned portraitist Duremert, overheard while shopping in the Jeweled Crozier

"Preparations must be hastened, and leave the matter of gil to the Count. Unreasonable as his requests may be, surely we can provide yet another 'Wedding of the Season.' It does make one wonder just why the need for all this fuss and rush, but I digress."

—spied in a letter from Lisette Valentione

"His lordship has tasked me with a new mistress—the Warrior of Light herself! I want to hear all her stories! Although she's not a warrior anymore. She's a lady now, and I'm to look after her in the manor. I think she misses being out there. Can't say I blame her. If it were me, I wouldn't dream of giving up all those adventures to stay in this stuffy old house all day."

—Saulette, in service to House Fortemps, in a letter to her aunt

[hythlodaes]

to you alone

emile / estinien - 2k words endwalker spoilers, set after msq quest the color of joy

It’s difficult, with Estinien this close, to think anything other than, What are we doing?

The moon sets early. 

Emile only notices because he keeps glancing at the window, watching the light pass through and fade as the evening stretches on. He’d expected a quiet night alone upon their return to Sharlayan, but the simple happiness of his friends surrounding him surpasses any desire for solitude. He’d always prefer to watch Alisaie joke around with Raha, their happy chatter filling the spaces in between bites of food. Alphinaud sips at his tea across from Emile, and it reminds him of all the places he’s seen the same sight: the Rising Stones, the Fortemps Manor, the Crystarium. 

Krile watches with the same kind of amusement, something borne of recognizing peace while it lasts. Emile feels its warmth in his chest, and he lets himself savor the moment as he sips his own cup of tea. It would be perfect, if only for one thing—

“Lest you wonder, we’d invited Estinien as well,” Alphinaud offers, but his impression of him does little to settle the unease that stirs in Emile’s chest. Neither does Krile’s designation of Lone Wolf. 

He works up a smile in response—some part of him wishes it was that simple. 

The problem is, they were alone together in Radz-at-Han. They were alone for the first time since they sailed to Sharlayan, and it was too easy to fall back into it. Just you and me, then—Emile pestered him to play tour guide until he gave in, and for a moment it felt like they could just be themselves, walking through the busy markets, taking in the sights, Estinien pointing out the different foods he’s tried. 

They were nearly separated at one point walking through the crowd, but Estinien reached out and placed a hand on Emile’s lower back—a single tether between them, and Emile swears he can still feel his touch. 

Whatever is changing between them may be quiet, but it is hard to ignore. 

Perhaps that’s what makes Estinien’s absence even more noticeable. Emile knows him so well but he doesn't know about this, and though it feels like the wrong time to be asking the question, he doesn’t know if it can wait. 

For now he settles into the comfort of having his friends surround him, letting himself enjoy this brief moment of respite. It’s after they leave, when he still can’t let it go from his mind, that he realizes that he needs to find him. He climbs out the window and carefully picks his way over the ledge, blowing out a frustrated breath at Estinien’s penchant for heights as he pulls himself up to the roof. 

Of course Estinien is there. He sits on the far edge, his back to Emile as he looks out at the harbor. Starlight coats over him, a blue echo above the golden glow of lanterns on the street below. Emile freezes for a moment, the cold night air pulling at his shirt as he watches him, and he has to swallow back the affection that rises up his throat. 

“I thought I might find you here,” he murmurs when he crosses the distance between them. Estinien doesn’t look at him, but he angles his head towards him, his hair now bound and exposing the line of his ear down to his jaw, a sharp curve cut from light. It exposes his neck, revealing pale skin that Emile can’t let himself look at for too long. Instead, he takes a deep breath and sits beside him. “You missed dinner.” 

In the absence of an immediate response, the silence of the night is dotted only by the distant sounds of movement in the harbor, voices carrying from the paths below them, but then comes Estinien’s deep voice: “I needed a moment to think.” 

“Oh,” Emile says, and the uncertainty he’d been feeling gives way to doubt. It punches through him, and he swallows hard. “If you’d like to be alone, I don’t mind—”

“‘Tis all right.” 

He leaves it at that, and as many times as they’ve sat in shared silence, Emile doesn’t know if it’s ever felt uncomfortable. Maybe he’s overthinking it, but Estinien still just stares at the view before them, and Emile follows his gaze, wishing he’d remembered to bring his cloak—though he doubts that he would’ve kept it for himself, anyway. 

The chill of the night freezes the air itself, and stray snowflakes drift around them despite the clear sky. Emile’s eyes linger on the stars for a moment, at the skewed shapes of the constellations he knows by heart, and then he looks out at the water. The ocean blurs deep blue into black, a distant push and pull that sinks towards the horizon until it disappears entirely. 

His skin itches as he tries to think of what to say, but how do you talk about something like this? Estinien seems lost in his own thoughts, still leaving Emile with only his profile lined in ghostly white, and it wears on so long that it feels like it passes them entirely.

“Estinien,” he says, his voice so much quieter this time. “I don’t mean to intrude. You merely have to say the word and I’ll go, I promise I won’t take offense.”

But the sharp cut of Estinien’s gaze finally turns to him, intent and steeled with resolve. Emile wants to understand but he feels overwhelmed by the way their eyes meet, and he realizes that for the first time since they were on that damned ship, they’re truly alone. 

“Stay,” Estinien says. “Please.” 

It leaves no room for question, and neither of them look away. It brings Emile back to that place they were those last few nights they had together, and he feels his heart pick up a beat, wanting only that closeness again. He swallows the desire back, clearing his throat as he searches his mind for something to say. It’s difficult, with Estinien this close, to think anything other than, What are we doing?

It’s in his eyes, shining silver in the stars’ reflection. He always looks beautiful in this light, which is when Emile knows him best, where they have found each other again and again, and that has to mean something, doesn’t it? There has to be a simple answer, here.

“Do you—,” he starts, but hesitates. Do you want to talk about it? he was going to ask, but it sounds so foolish in his head. “What were you thinking about?”

Estinien is quiet for a long time, but then comes a single word: “You.”

“Me?” he repeats. “Why?”

Estinien’s brows dip down at the center. “Do you truly need to ask?”

When Emile thinks about it, he supposes he doesn’t. In his mind, he sees the two of them dancing driftless into the night, drawn in and out of each other's space until they lingered, faces close. There was that last embrace, the strength of Estinien’s grip around him, his hands bunched in Emile’s sweater, and his breath against his neck. In his most recent memory: there’s the sound of Estinien’s rumble of a laugh as he led him through Radz-at-Han, his gaze on him each time he glanced over his shoulder, and his fingertips just barely touching the exposed skin at his waist.

Emile’s breath shakes on an exhale as he looks down at his hands in his lap, and he admits, “I cannot deny that things have felt different between us as of late, but I dare not let myself hope for more. In truth, I’m afraid to want what I cannot have.”

“Emile,” Estinien murmurs, and Emile’s attention snaps back up to him. His expression has softened, eyes crinkled at the corners, and there’s something so gentle about the way he says his name, something that contrasts the rasp of his voice. He lifts a hand to Emile’s cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth as he cups his face, eyes searching his. He breathes out, “You need not fear.”

Emile watches him until he can’t take it, and he turns into his open hand, closing his eyes as he presses a kiss to the rough, calloused skin of his palm. When he opens them, there is something in Estinien’s eyes that he’s never seen before, something open and wanting. He draws his hand away, his fingertips cool along the heat of Emile’s skin as he traces them down to his neck, and Emile’s all but certain that he can feel the rapid thrum of his pulse underneath—his nerves alive and rushing through him, giving away his desire. 

“May I?” Estinien asks, glancing down at his mouth before returning his gaze. 

Emile nods, just the slightest tip of his chin as he leans in. “Please.” 

The gap between them isn’t so far, after all.

Emile’s eyes fall closed as Estinien kisses him, the touch of his lips far more gentle than Emile had expected. He feels the warmth of it spread through him against the cold of the night—warm like honey, like the morning sun, like home. It surrounds him: the proximity of Estinien’s body, his breath against his skin, the way his fingers curl around the back of his neck to pull him closer. It’s what passes between them: the confirmation that they both want this just as much as each other, that it’s more than just a kiss, it’s a beginning. 

The world around them feels so far away that it hardly matters at all. 

Emile licks at his bottom lip, every thought held captive by the slight gasp Estinien makes as he parts his mouth, as he lets him in, as he shifts so he can wind his arms around him. Emile responds in kind, fingers pressing into his back until they’re chest to chest, and it deepens as they find a rhythm, something slow and languid that builds too strong. A soft moan crawls up Emile’s throat, and every beat of his pounding heart says, this feels right. 

They linger forehead to forehead when they part, sharing the same space for a moment longer before Emile pulls back, and he marvels at Estinien’s messy hair, the shine of his lips, the way his eyes blink slowly back into focus.

Emile reaches up to smooth part of his bangs down before he leans in to kiss him one more time. This one is brief—something chaste, something sweet—and he feels himself grin after. He has to bite down on it, unable to contain his happiness, and he clears his throat before he asks, “How long have you been up here? ‘Tis freezing.”

“I thought you would bring your cloak.”

“I left it inside,” Emile murmurs, but he pauses as his words catch up with him. “You knew I would find you?”

His lips curve up at the corners. “You always do.”

“Oh,” Emile says absently, and his face warms with a blush that he thinks he should be embarrassed by, but he can’t find it in him. He keeps watching Estinien and Estinien watches him back, and there’s an intimacy in that, in knowing what his lips taste like, in not being afraid to look. He watches Estinien and he fights a shiver, because he wasn’t exaggerating about how cold the night is, and all he wants is to warm up. “Come here.” 

Estinien draws closer, shifting over until there’s no space left between them. He fits himself into Emile’s side, wrapping his arms around his waist, and Emile rests his cheek against the top of his head as he closes his eyes, shutting out the night, shutting out the view, until it’s just them. He can see it so easily—the two of them curled up together on the roof, the stars turning above them, and he feels like he’s outside himself, watching them breathe slow and deep against each other. 

They won’t stay much longer, not with the temperature still dropping, not with the new weight tomorrow brings, but this is its own kind of promise, a way of saying, No matter what happens, we’ll have each other. Hold onto me through the night.

Emile presses a kiss into his hair, and for now, it’s enough. 

[myreia]

33 for aurcred from the sleepy prompts 😌 there could be an implication there...

for all the truths left unspoken

Rating: T Characters: Aureia Malathar, Thancred Waters Pairings: Aureia/Thancred (not established), Aureia/Aymeric (implied), Thancred/Hilda (implied) Words: 1520 Notes: Welcome to the Aymurcrilda Polygon, everyone's a little fucked up and a little messy. Set during HW patches. Prompt: Prompt #33 - “Look me in the eyes and tell me what time you went to bed last night.  Or if you went to bed, for that matter.”

The sun has barely risen when Aureia leads Filo from the stables, saddled and prepared for the journey ahead. In a remarkable change from Coerthas’ usual weather, the sky is cloudless, the pink and orange hues fading to a spectacular blue. Without snowfall as a deterrent, they should make good time to Thanalan border.

Aureia chews her lower lip and casts an eye across the stable. Should is the item in question, given how late he is. At this point, she wonders whether they are going to leave at all.

Filo bumps her shoulder, nudging her insistently.

“I know, I know,” she murmurs, patting down the restless chocobo. “We’ll be off soon, I promise—”

He chirps and rustles his feathers.

“It’s fine, Filo, really. Thancred will—”

He butts her with his head.

She makes a face and grabs him by the harness, staring him in the eye. “Now, look here—”

Filo stares at her unblinkingly with those large, dark eyes. He chirps once and cocks his head.

She sighs, shoulders slumping. “Perhaps you’re right,” she mutters in defeat. Trust her chocobo to know her better than herself. The bird has a preternaturally ability to discern her feelings, and express his opinions on them. She shouldn’t be surprised. When she first received him from the Immortal Flames, she would recount every thought that came to mind. It began as a way to pass the time, riding from one end of Thanalan to the other. But now it’s habit. There is no creature of person in Eorzea who knows her better or trusts her instinctively. Filo has saved her life more than once, defending her from everything from bandits to local fauna to Garleans, swooping in and drawing their attention while she cast her spells. She can’t imagine venturing anywhere without him.

And if the cost of that is dealing with an opinionated chocobo who likes to headbutt her when he thinks she’s being foolish, then she will have to live with it.

Aureia pats his beak. “Thank you, Filo,” she says heavily. “I’ll keep that in mind—”

Filo chirps, pulling out of her grasp. She glances over her shoulder, pressing her lips together as a familiar figure arrives. Thancred strides through the stables, briskly collecting his own chocobo without speaking to the stable hands. He doesn’t raise a hand in greeting as he leads his mount over to her. Nor does he says a word when he draws up beside her and checks his gear and saddlebags.

Aureia busies herself by checking her own saddlebags—a useless endeavour, considering she has already inspected them twice—and waits for him to speak.

Resting a hand on Filo’s side, she smooths down his feathers and gives Thancred a sideways glance. He looks worse for wear in a way that cannot be blamed on the early morning. Pallid and gaunt, hair a tangled mess pulling free from its braid, dark circles beneath his visible eye… She can sense the tension in his body language, derived from lack of sleep and discomfort. He keeps himself turned from the sun, avoiding the direct glare at all costs, but his brow still furrows with the recognizable pain of a hangover.

She knows these signs. She’s intimately familiar with them. They’ve been through these cycles before—after the Praetorium, after Moenbryda’s death… Only this time, it’s different. This time, the cycle has endured for months. And there may be nothing she can do to snap him out of it.

It may no longer be her place to do so.

Aureia inhales a breath, stomach twisting. One of them has to break the silence. Otherwise, they have an uncomfortable journey ahead of them.

“Thancred?” she begins softly.

He grimaces. “You do not have to do this for me,” he says, disappearing behind his chocobo as he tugs on the straps.

“It’s no trouble—”

“You have more than enough to take care of here—”

“I am faster on my own.”

She stiffens, bristling at his tone. “I only proposed I come with you because I wanted to help—”

“I mean no offense, Aureia, but between the two of us, who has more experience traversing the wild, hm? As I said, I am faster on my own.”

Her grip tightens on Filo’s saddle. They are straying dangerously close to the first of two unspoken topics that have put a wedge between them. Y’shtola warned her to say nothing about his damaged aether and so far as she has kept her promise. But the longer this goes on, the greater the divide grows between them. She can’t help but think it is causing irreparable damage in another way. She is a mage, subconsciously pulling on aether for every little thing. How much does her mere presence remind him of what he’s lost?

“If you were so opposed to the idea, then why did you accept in the first place?” Aureia snaps, irritation getting the better of her. “You could have told me no.”

He straightens, surfacing from behind his chocobo, and meets her eyes. A faint flush crosses his cheeks. “I am not going to tell you what you can or cannot do,” he replies. “You have enough people jostling for that privilege. I assume the Lord Commander has sanctioned this mission?”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t need Aymeric’s permission to leave the city. I’m his ally, not his subordinate.”

“From what I’ve seen, you are many things to him.”

The words sting. Aureia folds her arms and levels a glare at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“Only that you look particularly well-rested this morning,” he retorts. The bitter tone is impossible to ignore. “I am happy for you, Aur. Truly. You deserve this.”

She flushes, heat spreading across her cheeks. The recent change in her relationship with Aymeric has left her confused—happy, but confused. It is a question mark, undefined, uncertain, but full of possibility. With the chaos of recent events, she has barely had time to process it, let alone admit that something happened between them. Regardless, Thancred’s assumption cuts at her like a thousand knives. She wasn’t with Aymeric last night.

“And what of you?” she spits back. “If we’re trading observations, then I could say that you look like you had an eventful time last night.”

He scoffs. “Nothing of the sort—”

“Oh? Because you seem a little haggard, Than. Why don’t you look me in the eye and tell me what time you went to bed last night. Or if you went to bed at all, for that matter.”

“It is not your concern—”

“No, but you could have at least done the decency of admitting what was going on before you started fucking my friend.”

The words come out in a rush. Aureia bites her tongue, wishing she could take them back, but it’s too late now. What’s done is done. This is the second wedge, perhaps more painful than the first, albeit for different reasons. She has tried not to care—she has—but ever since his arrival in Ishgard, it was impossible to ignore how his gaze strayed to Hilda. She knew it was only a matter of time before the two of them ended up in… well… whatever it is.  

Thancred stares at her, anger flushing his face. “How long have you known about that?” he says, rounding his chocobo.

She shrugs and releases her grip on Filo’s saddle. “Since the Grand Melee,” she replies, folding her arms across her chest. “Don’t even try to deny it, the two of you have not been subtle—”

“I could say the same for you. Aymeric’s eyes do not stray far from you whenever you’re in his company—”

“Leave him out of this—”

“Then leave Hilda out of it—”

She snorts with disgust and looks away.

He scowls. “Don’t pass judgement on me, Aur,” he hisses, stepping into her. They are almost eye-to-eye. “Not unless you tell me why you’re angry.”

She stares back at him. “Then why don’t you tell me what you wanted to say to me back in the waterways. You remember that, right?”

His expression hardens. “I said everything I intended to that night. No more, no less.”

A furious squawk deafens her ears. Filo charges forward, nudging Aureia out of the way, wings half-open as he bears down on Thancred. He reels back, hands raised, eyeing the angry chocobo with cautions. Cursing under his breath, he shakes his head and returns to his own mount.

“Enough talk,” Thancred says irritably, pulling himself into his saddle. “Are we going or not?”

Aureia places a hand on Filo’s side, calming the bird with a touch. Thancred rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, urging his chocobo forward without another word. Doing her best to ignore the hollow pit in her stomach, she swings herself into the saddle and follows him. Perhaps there is a reason to leave unspoken truths unspoken.

It’s going to be a long journey.

[veeples-archive]

musicalis interruptus

fandom: the wayhaven chronicles ship: specialist agent mason x faustus word count: ~800 warnings: minimal suggestive text 🤷 set around general book three-ish. it's summer.

Cutting Faustus’s hair hadn’t been in their plans.

Plans weren’t really structured a thing, but they’d established a pattern. Expectation. Watching some shit ass horror movie Faustus dug out of a bargain bin. A pack of cheap beer shared on the warehouse’s roof with only each other and the stars for company. Sometimes not talking to each other at all, only the sound of Faustus picking his guitar and scribbling notes between them.

It was all pretense for one thing, really: a bed or a couch or an alley if they were both desperate enough, Faustus under him, or him under Faustus, tallying each time they’d made the other come undone.

(Faustus is in the lead by two. He doesn’t play fair, especially when it comes to his mouth, but Mason finds it hard to fault him for playing dirty when it does it so damn well.)

They know the game, they play it well. 

Yet here is instead. In Faustus’s kitchen because the bathroom was too small to fit them both, a halo of black hair around his feet, an electric razor pressed into his hand to clear the overgrown backside Faustus couldn’t reach. At least Faustus had clipped and sheared the front and top himself.

“Gonna miss this fringe on you.” Mason runs his pointer finger around the black hair curling down Faustus’s neck. When Mason first met Faustus four months ago – Had it already been four months? Had it only been four months? – it’d been short and neat. “Like having something to pull.”

Mason catches the eye roll in the mirror Faustus propped on the kitchen table. “Me too, sunshine, but you don’t have to put up with the dumbass way it sticks up in the morning. Besides, it’s getting too hot to have it this long.”

Mason understands. He’s started pulling back the bulk of his hair into a loose ponytail to stave off the summer heat encroaching down on them. It didn’t explain why Faustus had decided that Mason of all people needed to cut his hair in the middle of Reanimator.

“No shit.” Mason thumbs the switch of the razor. He hates to say he’s hesitating, but most of his experience with tending to his own hair was trimming the dead ends, and even then it was only something he did every few months. “You know I’ve never done this crap before, don’t you.”

“It’s just hair. Even if you manage to fuck it up it’ll grow back.” Faustus shrugs one shoulder. 

“Don’t tell me this backwater town doesn’t even have a lousy barber.” 

“You’re here, aren’t you? I’ve trusted you with more than just a pair of fucking clippers, Mason.” Faustus twists in the worn kitchen chair to grin up at him. One hand hovers close to the one holding the razor, as if in motion to take it. 

Mason pulls the razor away and sneers at the smirk he receives in turn. “If you end up bald in the back don’t blame me, handsome.”

“Unless you fuck around with the settings I won’t. Anyway, wouldn’t I look hot as a cue ball?” Faustus bats his eyelashes, voice all plastic sweetness.

“No.” Yes. “Are you going to turn around so I can do this or what?”

Dramatics aside, Mason knows there’s a nugget of honesty hidden in it. Faustus trusts him. It’s a more plain show of truth than he’s come to expect from the detective who lies as easy as he breathes. Mason figures he can at least put in some amount of effort to not screw up his hair for it.

Lengths of hair fall away as Mason pushes the razor up the curve of Faustus’s head with no real grace or finesse. Mason goes slow, methodical. Faustus offers some direction, telling him where to stop, taking the razor to change the setting, and giving it back. They pass twenty minutes like this, swapping banter with the razor, until finally Mason does his best to neaten the back into an even line.

It’s not bad. It’s not great, either. The back’s a little choppy, but so are the bangs that Faustus took a naked razor to. Messy, punk, but fitting; Mason feels proud enough that Faustus doesn’t look like he went through a wood shredder. 

“You’re done.”

Faustus’s fingers reach back around his neck, skimming the jagged half circle scarred into his skin, feeling the sharpness of freshly cut fuzz. He sighs his approval, rolls his head back. Upside-down smiles at Mason, all syrupy laziness.

“Thanks,” Faustus says, reaching for him. Mason shuffles forward, leans down when Faustus tugs the loose flap of his shirt. “Feel better already.”

Faustus kisses him with a curious gentleness Mason is becoming more familiar with.

He’d kissed him like that after they saved that fortune teller woman in Mason’s bedroom when he’d been expecting fire instead of warmth. Mason had kissed Faustus like that at the bakery without understanding why. He still doesn’t. He doesn’t care to explore it either.

It’s enough to know Mason never liked kissing anyone more than he likes kissing Faustus.

“C’mon.” Faustus says as he rocks forward out of the chair, hair fluttering around him, immediately ignored. “We still gotta finish Re-animator so we can put on Bride of Re-animator.”

[scionshtola]

figure my heart out

summary: Mirren tries to want someone new. It doesn't work like she hoped. pairing: Mirren Sero x Aeran Kellis, Mirren Sero x Veyer Krellion (sort of/minor) word count: 691 | rating: Teen | read on ao3 notes: Mirren's thoughts during the Veyer gallery make out hehe

Mirren should step away.

She’s encouraged Veyer far too much already. She’d seen the way they looked at her in the library after the meeting and she had sought them out in the gallery anyway. But they had been kind to her, too, comforting her when the news about Sirin had overwhelmed her. When she’d seen them out here, clearly waiting for her, she’d hoped—she’d needed more of the same, after—

Maybe it was a mistake, Mirren. Looking for you in Karth.

Veyer’s hand is warm on her bare shoulder, their lips brushing her ear as they whisper to her. She should put distance between them. More than that, she should leave the gallery behind and everyone watching her with it.

Their fingers slide over the curve of her hip. She should stop them, should want to stop them. She hardly knows Veyer. That alone is usually enough to make the touch unpleasant, to make her shy away. They’re close enough that she can feel their breath on her cheek.

She’d been tired and angry when she’d walked up to them in the gallery, still upset after the things Aeran had said. Veyer had asked after her, comforted her again even when she pretended she didn’t need it. Maybe that is why she doesn’t feel the need to draw away, why she covers Veyer’s fingers with her own, inviting them even closer.

It doesn’t ever matter what anyone else wants as long as you get what you’re after.

Veyer hasn’t hidden what they want from her. It’s refreshing, after the night she’s had, after the confusing disparity between Aeran’s cruel words and the strange regret in his eyes as he said them. She knows what they want, and it’s easy. Uncomplicated. She can want it, too.

They pull her in with one arm around her waist, their smile growing. She can want someone new, someone that’s not Aeran. She can want their fingers pressing lightly to her lips, their desiring gaze that heats her skin, their murmurs in her ear, their fingers cupping her chin.

Mirren lets it all happen, asks for more with her own heavy lidded gaze, the shivers of excitement that dance down her spine, the way her breath catches in her chest when they look at her. She wants them to touch her, to pull her against them, to lean in…

Veyer kisses her, their body pressing her against the stone archway. They’re speaking to her in between kisses, but she can’t concentrate on the words, and not only because she is too preoccupied with their lips against her neck.

The truth is you need me more than I need you, you always do—

She pulls them closer, fingers clutching at their jacket. She wants this. She can prove to herself that he wasn’t right, that she doesn’t need him—someone who keeps things from her, someone who shot her—more than he needs her. She can go through with this, can keep kissing them, can let them lead her away from the gallery for more. If Aeran saw her right now, he would know, too. If Aeran saw her right now…

Veyer’s lips at the hollow of her throat are too much, their hands too heavy as they caress her through her serithan. A different, more familiar kind of shiver ripples through her, unpleasant, as she stiffens in Veyer’s grasp.

She doesn’t want Aeran to see them. Whatever he said to her, whatever he was hiding from her, she doesn’t want to hurt him. Her fingers uncurl from Veyer’s jacket, the palms of her hands sliding to their shoulders to give her some room to breathe.

Maybe she needs Aeran more than he needs her. Or maybe she would be better off following Veyer out of the gallery to a private corner of the palace. It doesn’t matter. She knows what she really wants, what she’s wanted ever since he held her hand on the white sands of Tol Covere nearly a year ago. She’s not going to find it in Veyer’s hands, or their lips, or their body pressed against hers. 

Mirren steps away.

[thevikingwoman]

Please don’t be weird to IF authors challenge continues 😠

And since I’m not in favor of vaguing - this time it’s about parkerlyn’s The Nameless and their decision to have Oisein genderlocked as non-binary. It’s Parker’s character and story and please respect the choice that made sense for the story and the character.

Don’t be weird

[consulaaris]

for zori, is there anything you're looking forward to? and how are you holding up, beloved?

[oc interview questions]

.

Zori stiffens, slightly, and though her face is fixed in a neutral expression she seems suddenly smaller-- crossing her arms, tail drooping. 

“I’m looking forward to a break,” she says dryly, “And a hot cup of tea.”

She clears her throat in a vain attempt to cover up the crack in her voice that follows. 

“And I…” Zori’s red eyes flutter shut, and she draws in a breath as if to steel herself. “It’s been a long time since someone asked me that.” A smile twitches at the corners of her mouth, but it’s not a happy one. “I’m just doing my duty, is all.”

[musingmycelium]

what about "to keep your mind off of things" for the kiss prompts?? 👀

Even though it's exactly the same somehow the kitchen in Ortega's apartment feels different. Oh of course it isnt the same one, she's moved more than once by now since Fennel was last invited over, but the recipe box Julia's mother gave her is still sitting on top of the fridge. Her hand towel is the same old thin cloth with tiny flowers embroidered on the edges. On the wall there's pictures Fennel remebers taking and the silly little sun plate with its shades and grin shines where hangs. Its been years and its the same.

Except it isn't. It looks the same in all the ways that matter doesn't it?

Fennel listens to Ortega make them dinner, the rhythmic thud of a knife on a cutting board, while fae prepare dessert. This is the same too, in the ways that used to matter. Folding fluffy egg whites into banana custard making sure not to bump Ortega's elbow with fae own over the shared counter space. It's easy and familiar and the radio is playing something loose and quick and Ortega is singing along under her breath and Fennel.

Fennel is the dust on the top of the recipe box. Fennel is the mound of take out boxes in the trash. Fennel is watching Ortega smile and chop scallions and something they used to love isn't the same. Not in the ways that matter.

Ortega glances up at faer when she realizes Fennel has stopped moving and her smile is soft until a question turns its edges down. "You're thinking too hard again aren't you."

Shrugging Fennel pushes the custard bowl further back on the counter and pulls up the crust, ready to put everything together. It could be so simple, so familiar. But maybe it isn't just Ortega who has changed beyond recognition. Fennel is so very good about looking and fitting where fae shouldn't after all.

Or, fae would pull the crust closer but instead of reaching cool ceramic faer hands are suddenly full of soft waist. Ortega's slipped herself in between Fennel and the countertop and her quick kiss fills Fennel's thoughts entirely.

She only kisses faer for a moment, a peck more than a kiss, but she's done with dinner prep and so, by extension, so is Fennel. Arms smoothly coming to land on Fennel's waist and shoulder, eyes taking them in. "Just something to take your mind off things."

And she kisses faer again.

And again.

And again.

[lavampira]

you know i'm dying over the bodyguard situation but the name "lady's knight" is sending me..... 🥴🥴🥴 please say more!

wip roundup

ty azia!! and @creaking-skull for asking about this one as well 🖤

okay so I have. clowned. and named the actual fic that I said I wasn’t writing for it and then did start writing for it. petals for armor <3 but the tag I’ve been using for my spiraling is LADY’S KNIGHT AU and it’s really the root of it — alia as minfi’s dark knight-esque protector, though she’s far from helpless, because I’m planning to work some political and bureaucratic manuevering into it as well to let her shine, too. we’re going beyond wlw princess and knight for an efficient ex-miner diplomat and sharp-around-the-edges magical knight bodyguard au situation.

and I mentioned a bit of this scene recently, as the catalyst for their big mutual realization of feelings, but here’s a rough snippet of it that I’d been jotting down:

“I… need to know that you’ll be safe.”

Minfilia lifts her gaze to meet hers through the mirror, furrowing her brow. Even through the reflective glass, her light eyes pin D’alia in place and cut her to her core, almost certainly splaying her wide open for the root of all her concern to spill in the middle of the room. She shifts in her seat with a toss of her blond hair over an elegant shoulder, lowering her brush to her lap.

“I don’t wish to be an obligation,” Minfilia states plainly, distantly, not unlike the even-mannered tone that she takes in a diplomatic summit, so far from how she’s grown to speak to her. Another knife through her cuirass to her heart. “And especially not to you.”

Before she can think better of it, D’alia glides towards her and sinks to her knee before the vanity chair, clasping a hand over the other woman’s still holding that damned brush. “You’re not. I swear, you’re not.”

[i-am-azia]

Heyy

You can call me Azia🦋

18,

I write.

What do I write? Mostly poems.

Feel free to send me asks or dm me on any prompts as I’d like to share and improve.

[coldshrugs]

talk me down

pairing: io laithe/estinien varlineau word count: 1.8k note: this is a modern au in which io and estinien are roommates but io has been offered an orchestra chair in a city across the country; she accepts it. estinien is grumpy about it. some cursing and alcohol mentions.

There’s nothing between them—not like that anyway—so why is he bothered?

Io would be stupid not to take this opportunity. Estinien told her that much. He insisted. And when it became real, well… it was easier to be excited about an application than the acceptance.

Now it's easier to hide.

Estinien shifts his weight and the fire escape creaks, another notch in his confidence that this place is actually suitable for inhabitants. The rent is cheap and the neighbors mind their business. That's always been good enough, because Io made it home.

The sounds of her going-away party stream from the window he crawled through. He tries not to think about each second bringing tomorrow that much closer. Focuses instead on the cars a few stories below, the wail of a siren in the distance, the glittering lights and warm breeze and none of it works.

Two years in this apartment together, a few years of therapy and studying and feeling each other out before that. “Friends” doesn’t feel like the right word, but it's the word he's got. The word they use.

Tomorrow he will take her to the airport and watch her fly east, and that will be that.

“Hey,” she says, more question than greeting. Io is already halfway through the window by the time Estinien turns around. “I thought you’d be out here. Everything okay?”

Last he saw her, she and their friends were getting a little rowdy during a drinking game, making the kind of memories he isn’t ready to accept as only memories. Each time she laughs, it’s a reminder this is finite. This isn’t how his life will be next week, or six months from now, and will they even be in contact next year? Just… fuck. So he came out to the fire escape (where it’s easier to hear her if he can’t see her), a reasonable behavior any of the people inside would expect from him.

Except for Io, who knew a going-away party was not his idea from the moment she walked through the door. And she knows he’s not out here just for a smoke.

Her hair has frizzed a bit with the sheer amount of body heat in their apartment. She wears an alcohol blush and a smile that says I can leave you alone if you want. But that’s the last thing he wants so he digs deep, past his natural inclination to run away.

“Just needed some air.” He lights a cigarette and leans against the rusted metal railing. An invitation if she wants it. “You know how it is. How I am.”

Io nods, and the sobering breath she takes, the mental armor she slips on to be around him right now... it kills him. He thought he was doing a decent job of keeping his sulking to himself. Her eyes flick to his, then out at the restless city as she says, “If there’s one thing I know, it’s you.”

But she decides to ignore the eggshells for now and pulls up next to him at the railing, their backs to the noisy street below and the bright lights beyond. Shoulder pressed tight to shoulder, and there's nothing between them.

They face the worn, brown-brick building. Their home. Tucked into the corner of the fire escape, Estinien catches only blurred glimpses of the party inside, but someone (Thancred) has found his guitar and a chorus of off-key voices squeeze out of the partially open window to join them in this already public hideout.

Io hums along for a line or two, then nudges him gently. “You like this song.”

“Alberic likes this song,” he corrects.

“And you like what he likes. Albie may not be your dad, but your taste in music? Something genetic about that.”

A tiny part of him wishes she would stop. That she wouldn’t put her blowout evening on pause just to stand in the dark with him. That she’d do him the service of pretending she doesn’t know his life inside and out.

But the bigger part of him is selfish.

He nudges back. “Yeah, well, you try being impressionable and depressed at fourteen, getting dragged to Blue October and Hinder shows every month. Not my fault it stuck.”

“I think it’s sweet.” Io shrugs. “It’s not just Albie, either. I like how you pick up things from people you love.”

What does he say to that?

His responses snag on "I like how you," trying to twist it into something... Something. So he takes a long drag from his cigarette and says nothing. As they stand there, listening to their friends (badly) sing this song, leaning on each other a little heavier than before, he wonders what she thinks he’s picked up from her.

The song ends in a round of cheers and whoops that cut through this little calm. Estinien shakes his head. Maybe they should go back in. He might be more fun after a couple of shots.

Next to him, Io laughs. The sound is small and out of focus, her real laugh. It’d be lost in the noise inside, so he commits to a few more minutes on this metal deathtrap.

“What?” He passes her the cigarette and she takes it without looking.

He looks though, watching the way their fingers graze, barely, handling something small and smoldering so delicately. Watches her follow some movement from inside, her smile creeping from lips to eyes until the skin on her nose wrinkles. A strand of dark hair blows across her cheek. She raises the cigarette to her mouth, pulls in a slow breath, and his smoke rolls between her lips and into the night.

She passes it back to him, still looking inside.

“Urianger just cleared the table for a tarot reading, but Tataru picked up his spread like he dealt her a hand of poker.” She mimics holding the cards, laughing again. Looks like her buzz is back, and maybe he’s catching it too. “He looks crushed. Ugh, I'll miss this. How am I supposed to do this without you guys?”

Estinien chuckles. He takes a final draw and stubs out the finished cigarette. “They'll be lost without you and you know it. You won't be left out of anything, whether you like it or not.”

“What about you?” She turns to him, breaking the line of warmth at their sides. Replacing it with a teasing smile. “Can't wait for me to go so you can finally have some peace and quiet?”

He looks through the grates under their feet, thinking about this apartment—this city—without Io: Never finding his clothes in her laundry, no surprise takeouts when he’s home late from work, not getting absorbed into her fucking obscure dramedy binge-watches. Her quiet hope, the music she radiates even in silence. The thing that’s taking her away.

How did she come to occupy so much space in his life, burning through him, like smoke in his lungs? Their friends won't be the only ones lost without her.

“That’s not true.” His lop-sided grin feels out of place in this sea of sudden nerves. Honesty has never been a difficult thing before tonight. “I’m gonna miss you like hell. I just—” he looks at her, and now he’s the one being watched. She holds him in those big, dark eyes, and maybe there is something between them. Maybe it’s always been there, dormant, or intrinsic and now he's forced to see it for what it is. “I just worry you leaving means we won’t… be like this anymore. That you won’t miss me like I’ll miss you.”

“Estinien—”

“Io—”

“Hey,” she says. Comfort, not a greeting. She surges forward, arms around his neck and waves of puffy blue hair in his face. He feels her cheek on his neck. Her breath, warmer than the night.

The railing is a  sharp pressure against his back as he wraps his arms around her, squeezing her closer. The wind moves their hair and clothes, but they stay, swaying when one repositions an arm or chin. The lights and sounds fade to nothing. There’s only this.

Estinien isn’t ready to let go when Io loosens her grip and pulls back. He hasn’t fully etched the feel of holding her this close into his memory—then there's another feeling. Io presses a kiss to his cheek, so soft he isn’t sure it’s real. She turns her eyes on him again, and his are wide with surprise.

“Estinien." Her voice is low. It shakes. "All I can think about is how I miss you already.”

She lingers, too close to the corner of his lips, arms loose around his neck. Her full weight leans against him, trusting him to hold them both upright. What the fuck is happening? He hasn’t processed her breath rushing over his mouth or her half-closed eyes when she pointedly brushes her nose against his.

He doesn’t know when he started wanting this, but good god, he does. Whether she is in the next room or two thousand miles away isn’t going to change that.

He nods. Their faces glance. There is something comforting in the way even that new touch feels natural. They hover in the almost of it all, and Estinien wonders for the first and final time what Io’s lips will feel like against his, how she tastes.

They meet, then they sink. He follows her lead, the gentle press and the beginning of a hungry rhythm. Her hand drifting from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, and he shivers at the thought of her sliding it into his hair, fingers tangled and tugging—

Glass breaks, and so does their kiss.

“Shit!” Cid’s unmistakable voice is thick and slurred.

Io bolts toward the window. “What on earth did they do?”

“Hey,” Estinien says softly. She turns back to him and when they're eye to eye, he knows she finds his meaning without the need to spell it out. She’s confused like he is, and sheepish delight brightens her expression as she waits for him. “Are we okay?”

“We’re always okay.” She climbs back into the apartment and pokes through the window again. “Now please come back inside. I don’t want to be at the party you planned if you’re not there.”

She air quotes you and planned. Estinien laughs through his nose, but even this pulls him toward her.

“Fine. Move so I can get through.”

They rejoin their friends. Tomorrow still fucking sucks. The difference is now Estinien thinks about how his life will be next week, or six months from now, and how many times he will have kissed Io by next year.

[galadae]

SCAR KISS UWU!!!

thank youuu azia and dani @lavampira 💗

This is post ENW but before the patches. Cala is not having a great time. She hasn't told Hien how she got the scars from That Event yet because she doesn't like talking about it, but I thiiiink it's going to happen here (unless I decide to write another part to this lol) Here's some dialogue from early on:

"At least now we are rid of him for good." Hien's voice brings her back to the present. She can sense the concern in his voice. She squeezes his hand and she's not sure whether it's to comfort him or herself.  "He won't be coming back this time." She tries to laugh, but it comes out dry and quiet, empty in the silence of the room.  Hien cups her face. "Then let us not think of him any longer." She looks away.  "Would that I could. I see these mementos of our battles every morning when I dress." Her voice is low, biting. "Whenever I bathe or swim. Even when I'm with you, I--" She stops. Her eyes brim with angry tears that she dashes away with a sweep of her hand.  "He couldn't just die, could he? He had to make sure I remembered. He had to write his final twisted wishes onto my skin." She spits the last words out with a bitter disgust.

[myreia]

A Question of Home

Rating: Explicit Characters: Aureia Malathar, Aymeric de Borel Pairings: Aurmeric Words: 2143 Notes: An unplanned sequel to A Question of Desire. Set the night before Baelsar's Wall. Read on Ao3

I need to thank Lucia later, Aureia thinks distractedly.

It occurs to her that she and Aymeric are very fortunate there was no one in the halls. She has been to the Carline Canopy and its associated inn more times than she can count and the halls are never empty… Not that she can give it much thought much attention right now. Not with her legs locked around him and her mouth firmly on his.  

He lifts her easily, fumbling with the handle before he pushes his way inside. Her chambers are small and modest—little more than a bedchamber and a connecting bathroom—but Mother Miounne insisted she be given a room with a view. The windows are large, the gorgeous detailing on the border only enhancing the beauty of the forest beyond.

Aymeric nudges the door closed with his foot and breaks the kiss, casting an eye about her room. Small lanterns hang on the walls, illuminating the room with a warm glow. Though the decorations are simple, it is well-furnished and inviting—and a complete disaster. Though Aureia has spent little more than five minutes in here, the room is already a mess. Her pack on the floor, its contents upended. Extra clothing strewn about, some hanging off the back of a chair, some piled haphazardly on the dresser. Only her weapons—staff, rapier, focus, the tools of her trade—are set away with any care, positioned respectfully in a corner.

It’s always the same whenever she arrives in a city. Some habits are impossible to break.

He coughs, covering a laugh, and leans his back against the door.

“What?” Aureia says, brow furrowed.

“I see you have approached Gridania with your usual flair,” he replies, a smile playing across his lips.

She tilts her head, scanning his face from her position above, and threads her fingers through his hair. She can never help herself; she has always loved playing with his hair. Humming with satisfaction, she bows her head and nuzzles his cheek. “Is that a criticism?” she murmurs.

He laughs and adjusts her weight, hoisting her higher. “An observation, perhaps,” he counters. “That you live in a state akin to a maelstrom—”

She trails her lips across his jaw. “Oh?”

He inhales sharply. “I wouldn’t change a thing. Though a thought has occurred to me, for the next time you visit Ishgard—”

She cuts him off with a kiss. He groans softly, leaning into it, and she laughs with delight. “Save it for later,” she murmurs against his mouth.

She can feel him smile.

Aymeric shoves off the door, carrying her across the room with quick, powerful strides. Aureia tightens her legs, squeezing her thighs to prevent herself from sliding down. She kisses him fervently, her hands drifting from his hair to cradle his face. Her heart flutters, the heat of anticipation already coiling deep within her.

They have reached her bed.

“Don’t put me down,” she breathes. “Not yet.”

He chuckles, eyes shining bright. “Whyever not?”

She loops her hands around his neck and draws herself upright. “Because I enjoy being taller than you,” she says with a little wriggle, testing his grip. “For once.”

His hands press into her rear. “Ah,” he replies, his gaze flickering over her. He lingers on her face, her collarbone, her breasts. The intensity is enough to make her blush. “If you want me on my knees, you need but say.”

She cocks her head, raising an eyebrow, and whoops with surprise as he loosens his grip, setting her on the bed. Her coat flips out behind her, the rich red fabric vibrant against the bedspread. He cradles her, a knee pressed against the mattress, and kisses her as she kicks off her boots. Her breath hitches as he trails from her mouth to her ear, gently caressing the lobe. When his tongue flicks against the tip, she all but melts, a little moan escaping her.

Chuckling huskily, he trails kissing down her jaw and her neck to her collarbone. His fingers are already pulling her shirt from her trousers and tugging at the buttons.

“Aureia…”

He mumbles her name against the hollow of her throat, his breath warm against her skin. Her hands brush against his as she claws at her clothing, eager to have it undone. She tears the buttons—she doesn’t care, she can fix them later—and pulls her shirt open. He sinks to his knees before her, his nose skimming her sternum, and kissing her collarbone, the tops of her breasts, her stomach. She gasps at his touch, heat pooling between her legs.

A low hum murmurs deep in his throat as he reaches her trousers. Unlacing them quickly, he hooks his fingers into the waistband and peels them away with practiced hands. The room’s cool air ghosts across her skin, sending shivers down her spine as he grips her hips and pulls her to the edge of the bed. His palms slide across her thighs, coaxing them apart—

And then his mouth is on her.

The first touch sets her senses aflame. His tongue glides through her folds, sweeping through her with unrestrained ecstasy. She gasps, swallowing a moan as he flicks her clit, trembling with pleasure. He chuckles at her response, his tongue roaming across her, through her, drifting in intoxicating circles. Her head tilts back, her hair brushing her shoulders, and she closes her eyes, giving into the sensation.

“Gods…” Her hands tangle in the bedspread, twisting fistfuls of it between her fingers. “Aymeric, I—”

He shifts his weight, relishing the mewling noises he coaxes from her with every lap of his tongue, and slips a hand between her thighs. His fingers press hesitantly at the entrance to her cunt, gliding through the slick heat. She groans and spreads her legs further apart, her hands now threaded in his hair.

“Go on,” she breathes, chest heaving. “Go on, please—”

He obliges. She moans, tugging gently at his hair as he slips two fingers inside her. Exhilaration clouds her mind, pleasure rippling through her with every thrust. He sucks her swollen clit, stoking her desire, urging her towards the edge. She gasps his name, chest heaving, and shatters beneath his touch. Her hips buck, nearly throwing him from her, but he holds her tight, kissing her through the throes of bliss.

Exhaling a long, satisfied sigh, Aureia glances down, her fingers still in his hair. Aymeric draws back and looks up at her coyly from beneath his long, dark lashes, grinning from ear to ear. He rises up and kisses her gently, cradling her back as he pulls her close.

“Content?” he murmurs.

She smiles and loops her arms around his neck. “With you?” she replies, breath still ragged. “Always.”

Her hands wander across his chest, toying with the thick fabric of his uniform. She fiddles with the clasps and belts, slowly shedding one piece after another. It’s not easy maneuvering around someone so much taller than her, but she manages, flicking away his hand whenever he moves to help. Soon, his robes and armour are a collection of blue and gold on the floor.

Aymeric stands naked before her, skin glowing warm in the lantern light, and cups her cheek. Leaning into her, he kisses her once, and lets them fall into the bed, pulling her on top of him. She straddles him and shrugs out of her coat, letting it slip from her shoulders to her elbows. The pleats flare out behind her, draping over her rear and across his legs.

She pauses, sensing him watching her with that captivated look he saves only for her. With an impish smirk, she tucks her hair behind her ears and rolls her hips against him. He grunts, face flushed, and his teeth scrape his bottom lip.

“Content?” she challenges, arching an eyebrow. Her gaze does not leave his face as she fiddles with her breast band, quickly undoing the knots and clasps. She pulls the garment free and tosses it aside, toying with her breast as she grinds against him.

He stares wildly, drinking in the sight of her. It is so rare to see him speechless, and yet tonight he has no words.

Not that she needs them. He hardens against her, responding to her touch. Leaning over him, she presses a quick kiss to his mouth. Then she reaches between them and takes his cock in her hand, guiding into her slick heat.

He groans, trembling, as he slides into her. She locks eyes with him, setting the pace, breathless at the feel of him moving inside her. He grips her hips, adjusting her position, and slips his hands beneath her open coat and shirt. His fingers rake across her back, mindful of the scars, marveling at the feel of her body against his.

She quickens the pace, heart hammering in her chest. Her body is alive with an energy to which no spell—thunder or otherwise—cannot compare. She bucks against him, guiding their paired pleasure to its zenith, sweat clinging to the nape of her neck and beneath her breasts. They move together, panting and breathless, lost in this moment they have carved out for each other.

He gasps as he comes, her name a jumble of vowels on his lips. She pulls free, falling against his chest, and he wraps an arm around her. He slips a hand between her legs, seeking her clit, and sweeps a finger across the slick, sensitive nub. She quivers, consumed by her blooming pleasure, and kisses him, moaning against his lips as he strokes her to her finish.

Lightheaded and dizzy with desire, Aureia disentangles herself from her coat and shirt, lobbing the garments onto the floor with the rest of them. She collapses on top of him and buries her head in the crook of his neck, clutching at him as if she can never let go. He holds her, those strong arms wrapped around her, and kisses her forehead.

They lie there for some time, tangled together, watching a sliver of moonlight on the hardwood floor. Outside, the woods dances in the wind, the canopy’s leaves black against a deep purple sky strewn with stars. Aureia has never felt more at peace. She wonders if it is the same for him.

“The thought you had earlier,” she says after a while. She props herself up on an elbow and runs a hand from his shoulder to his forearm, staring intently at their hands as she twines their fingers together. “What was it?”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to her cheek. “While your propensity for staying in inns is charming—”

She shoots him a look.

“—and logical,” he adds quickly. “I thought that perhaps you should consider a more permanent solution?”

“We’ve been over this, I’m not staying at House Fortemps. I can’t, not after Haurchefant—”

“Aureia—”

“I’m happy at the Forgotten Knight, it’s what I’m used to—”

“Aureia.” He runs his fingers through her hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. “I was not speaking of House Fortemps.”

She meets his eyes, a lump forming in her throat. If he is proposing what she thinks he’s proposing… No. They can’t. The uproar it would cause. He’s too important, too crucial for Ishgard’s advancement, he can’t involve himself in a scandal. At least not so openly.

 “Aymeric, I…” She exhales a long breath. “I don’t know about that.”

“Even so, you should have a place to call your own. In that way, no matter how far your duties take you, you will always have a home to return to.”

Her stomach twinges.

Home…

Can she even call Ishgard home? Does she even dare? Home has brought her nothing but grief. She fled her first home, sending herself into permanent exile for the atrocities her family committed. Not along ago, she called Ul’dah home, but she lost that, too, to treason and greed. It’s a sad tradition, one that makes her heart ache if she thinks on it for too long: whenever she chooses a place to call home, it is inevitably ripped away from her.

She can’t bear to let that happen to Ishgard. To him.

Then again, that he even dares to ask her that question now, when they are on the brink of so much uncertainty and chaos… It is nothing but a demonstration of how much faith he has in her. Neither of them know what will happen tomorrow at Baelsar’s Wall, but there is no doubt in his mind that she will return to him.

Just as she always does.

She smiles and curls into him, grateful for his warmth. “I’ll think about it,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. “That’s the most I can promise.”

[the-rogue-mockingjay]

'Tis never easy to lose the ones we love.

A scene from a fic I haven't been able to write yet, in which the gang gets together to discuss Krile and Y'shtola's warnings about the risks of even attempting to save a Nidhogg-possessed Estinien and the likelihood that one way or another, Estinien will die. It gets...a little heated when Emrys reminds everyone what Estinien would wish.

A lil breakdown of who's who:

Emrys of the Darkened Steel is the Viera gunbreaker;

Félicienne Greystone is the woman in white drachen armor;

Ysera Rowan is the Viera dragoon;

Asha Alaqa Sagahl is the Xaela warrior;

Rian Ashbrooke is the hyur paladin;

Merethe de Sofinoy is the elezen black mage standing beside Rian;

Aurélien de Sofinoy is the machinist leaning on the railing;

and Marielle de Dzemael is the reaper perched on the railing.

Their opinions re: can Estinien be saved are below the cut :>

(Big thank you to Azia, whose gpose tips + knowledge helped make this possible! ❤️)

Alphinaud and O'ravi, of course, will stop at nothing to save their friend, no matter the risks or how slim the odds of success; there's been too much loss lately, too many lives sacrificed for the cause. Moenbryda, Haurchefant, Ysayle, Minfilia- they've had enough of it. No more. They'll save Estinien or die trying.

But many of the others have reservations. Not knowing when or where Nidhogg will strike next, and with no way to know how much longer Estinien's soul will survive- the fact that his soul has survived at all was a surprise to Krile and Y'shtola, and they don't seem to believe that there's any way to save him. But the whole thing is uncharted territory. Ascian possession is a pretty well-known phenomenon, but I daresay this is the first time a dead member of the First Brood has possessed anyone! Merethe is lost in thought pondering how it works and what the differences are between Ascian possession and great wyrm possession.

Emrys and Rian want to try to save him, at least, but they're afraid of what could go wrong, especially since the city is a horrible battleground with the potential for astronomical collateral damage. How much are they willing to risk or sacrifice for just a chance at saving one man? Is the possible survival of one man worth the deaths of a dozen others? Two dozen, more? That is what Rian struggles with. He wants nothing more than to draw the line in the sand, as O'ravi and Alphinaud did - no more loss, no more sacrifice, to hells with the cause and to hells with duty - but...he cannot, in good conscience, do so. Not when there's no guarantee that Alphinaud's plan to tear off the Eyes will even work.

Aurélien, too, has been counting the cost. He's seen the destruction wrought by the Horde firsthand, he's lost track of how many times he's run to whatever part of the city got the worst of it to help the survivors. And while he doesn't want Estinien dead, he believes that the price of his possible salvation will be too high. No, he believes to even attempt to save him would be unwise.

Aymeric has already proven his willingness to kill Estinien if it comes down to it. His oath to protect Ishgard comes before all else: his life, or the life of his dearest friend included. He doesn't dare to hope for Estinien's salvation. Neither does Marielle. The odds of success are so low, she believes they should simply kill Estinien and be done with it. She won't admit how something in her heart breaks at the thought, however.

Félicienne is among the cynics. She's known Estinien for a long time, but she is a dragoon as well, and she will not hesitate to deal the killing blow if the situation gets out of control. And unlike Aymeric, she could live with that (though she would go to her grave wishing it hadn't been necessary).

Ysera is also a dragoon, she even shared the title of Azure Dragoon with Estinien for a time, but...if it comes down to it, can she kill him? Is she prepared to kill him to fulfill the promise she made to defend Ishgard? Knowing it's what he'd want her to do doesn't change the facts, which are: the answer is likely no.

Asha isn't certain what to make of all this. There's too much they don't know, too many variables and factors at play. Quite frankly, she'd prefer to hunt Nidhogg down and confront him much like they did the first time, but he's proven to be more elusive than anticipated. And if they did set out to hunt him together, it would mean leaving Aymeric and the Temple Knights to defend the city unaided should Nidhogg or his Horde attack while they were away. The lack of an easy answer frustrates her. Additionally, she's monitoring everyone's emotional states and trying to prevent the tension in the air from escalating. Many of the group are hiding their true feelings, and this has not escaped her notice.

[scionshtola]

from the kiss prompts :> 9. to shut them up 💗

ty azia!! this was a lot of fun to write 😌

kiss prompt 9. to shut them up || Corisande x Y'shtola || 794 words || divider credit

Y’shtola’s childhood bedroom had changed little since she last called Matoya’s cave home. The same books lined the shelves, the same quilt spread across the bed, the same quill and ink sat on the desk. Though the room had obviously been kept free of dust by Matoya’s enchanted brooms, they had seemingly left everything else untouched since her last visit. The only additions were done so by herself: new books stacked in front of the old ones, her notes scattered haphazardly across the desk, and Corisande standing in front of the bookshelves, studying the spines. 

They pulled a book from the shelf, idly flipping through its pages before setting it back in its place and pulling another. After a few more books, their soft hum of amusement made Y’shtola’s ears perk in their direction.

“Is there something amiss?” she asked archly, glancing at them from where she was perched at the end of the bed. 

“All of your childhood books are quite…academic.” They turned a few more pages in the book they were holding, and Y’shtola could hear the grin in their voice when they added, “‘Tis exactly as I expected.”

She pursed her lips, feigning indignation as they sat cross-legged on the rug, the book held open in their lap. “You were a scholar of the arcane arts in your childhood, were you not? Was your own library not similarly curated?”

“I was hardly so difficult to please as you,” Corisande teased. “My library was not a curated collection so much as a hoard of every book I could get my hands on. At least, as many as we had room for.”

Corisande tilted her head back, looking up at the shelves that stretched high along the wall. “Though I would have loved to have a collection such as this—mayhap with a few adventurer novels thrown in the mix.”

A soft ache thrummed quietly in Y’shtola’s chest for that younger Corisande. She remembered the way Corisande had devoured each book she’d recommended to them from the library at the Waking Sands. After so many years spent teaching themself all they could about arcanum, they had been so eager to discuss their readings with Y’shtola and Urianger, both of whom happily obliged.

Y’shtola may not have had peers her own age, but she had always had Matoya to learn from. She always had the cave to which she could return.

She rose from the bed and knelt next to Corisande, her shoulder brushing theirs. “Had we known each other then, I would have been only too pleased to share my library with you.”

Corisande turned her head in Y’shtola’s direction, a soft smile gracing her lips. She started to lean in, her fingers twining with Y’shtola’s, but at the last moment she veered sharply to the right. Y’shtola pulled back, watching as she stretched across the floor and reached her hand under the bed.

Y’shtola’s stomach dropped—how could she have forgotten? But it was too late to stop Corisande now. 

“What is this we have here?” Corisande said, rising back into a sitting position. She held aloft a plush creature, exhumed from its tomb beneath Y’shtola’s bed. “Evidence that a child once resided in this room after all?” 

“‘Tis only a plush paissa,” Y’shtola muttered. She could not make out the features well, but she recognized the malleable roundness between Corisande’s hands. “A poro roggo brought him to the cave for me when I was young.”

“Does he have a name?” Corisande asked, a gentle fondness in her tone that softened the teasing.

“No,” Y’shtola said pointedly, ignoring the growing warmth in her cheeks. “He does not.”

Corisande’s smile only grew wider. “Shall I guess then? Given your history of creative spellwriting, I imagine ‘tis something special. Let’s see…mayhap—”

Before Corisande could finish her sentence, Y’shtola leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips. Corisande leaned closer, her smile giving way to parted lips for a brief moment before she pulled back, evidently undeterred.

“No guessing then. Mayhap the poro roggo will tell me.” She fell silent as Y’shtola kissed her again, but pulled back to add, in a tone far too delighted for Y’shtola’s liking, “Or mayhap I ought to ask Master Matoya herself.”

“I assure you Matoya is not inclined to such conversations.” Y’shtola slipped her fingers into Corisande’s hair, tilting their head back as she leaned over them. She kissed them again, deeper this time, until she felt one of their hands find purchase on her waist. “Nor would she be so kind as I in her discouragement of the subject.”

Corisande laughed against her lips, and settled her other hand on Y'shtola's waist as well. Y’shtola, pleased by the acquiescence, set about ensuring the subject would not rise again.

[thevikingwoman]

A small gift for @coldshrugs​, featuring Wayfarer Ephyra Metaxas. That you for being you, Azia, and for joining me in being utterly normal about Veyer ;). This was inspired in by this lovely art by @ranyani-arts​ and by Azia’s writing.

Fandom: Wayfarer IF | Words: 501 | Read on ao3

Veyer Krellion x Ephyra Metaxas | future | romance rating: Teen. Fluff, slice of life, some time in the future, established relationship

Laughter

It was nice for Ashani to offer the Order’s safehouse, as they claim it is. Or maybe nice wasn’t quite right. A sense of guilt might have played in, Veyer supposes. Whatever Ashani’s reason, they can’t complain.

They brush their hand against Ephyra’s as they walk through the modest garden. The place is tucked away in Ithyria, and the tiny garden is private, as is the house itself. They have no idea how long Ashani has been the owner, perhaps centuries. Long enough that the house isn’t associated with Lethalis or perhaps even The Guild of Mages. Very convenient, and Veyer suspects the house is simply one of many Ashani has access to.

Ephyra stops, admiring the large orchids growing in pots on the wall. They’re stuck there with magic, but they don’t bother warning her. If they fall, they fall. They’re still a little curious about how her abilities works, but mostly it doesn’t matter. It matters that when she touch them, the burning inside of them ceases.

Ephyra touches the soft petal of the delicate flowers.

“Pretty.”

“Yes.”

They walk on, circling the small pond, the water feature somewhat predictably taking up most of the outdoor space. Every time her hand brushes theirs it’s like drawing a fresh breath of air. They give in to it, and grasps her hand. She lets them, with a small smile and something akin to triumph in her eyes. They flick their thumb across Ephyra’s hand in slow deliberate motions.

The garden isn’t big, and soon they’ve circled the pond and admired the rest of the exotic flowers.

“Let’s explore the inside?”

“Of course, Ephyra dear.”

They had decided to walk the garden first, each of them slipping inside the hidden door – hidden to them at least, possibly not to Ephyra – using Ashani’s passphrase.

The house isn’t big; a sitting room connected to the garden, a kitchen and dining room, and a stair leading upstairs. Ephyra lets go of them and throws herself on a divan in the sitting room.

Veyer sits on the other end, and Ephyra throws her legs across their lap.

“Tell me a story. Something funny, or embarrassing from court.”

“Do you think the nobility has a habit of making fools of themselves for your entertainment, my dear?”

They slide their hands up her legs and her pants are heavy, offering no reprieve, no contact with her skin. Their banter isn’t new, but this is – the delay of gratification, spending time together before the inevitable crash together in bed. Or if they’re lucky, on this divan. They can wait.

“Perhaps not for me, but for you. Or are you telling me truly nothing ever happens?”

They know the well muscled legs underneath her clothes; they know every scar on them. Veyer tries not to think too much of what that means.

“Barely,” but they grin and launch into a story, only embellishing slightly. Ephyra’s laughter is worth it, and they try not to think too much of that either.