#reading de fics again

[poladraws]

kimothy

[tomasz-the-hater]

me when the guy who consistently fucks up my marriage each time he's around says he wants my husband to answer a couple of follow-up questions (i'm not even getting into the guy's thoughts because it sure must be harmless, nothing wrong can happen to my marriage this time)

[claudiadpdl]

for fellow amc iwtv enjoyers do you guys have fic recs? specifically for fics you've read a million times and still absolutely love. im not looking for any genre in particular either, tho i do lean more towards longer, serious or serious-ish fics! tysm 😌❤️🙏🏽

[some-pers0n]

My favourite part of writing fanfiction is when I don't care about romance or relationship building and just get completely absorbed in the worldbuilding and character writing aspects of it because 97% of the time it's far more interesting to me

[breezy-cheezy]

Febuwhump Day 28: You’re safe now

A voice hushed him in his ear, and a large warm hand continued to gently rub his back in one of the only places that wasn’t covered in bleeding cuts.

“I promise Vash, I promise.”

He sobbed.

“Just rest for me Vash, okay? Okay? You’re going to be okay I promise.”

ART FOR @insertsomthinawesome‘s WONDERFUL fic that’s been giving me brainrot lately ;;v;; Hug time.

[aura2023]

when i draw hiccup with jack i think about that vine with a man yelling "heart eyes motherfucker!"

"The ripple of a snowflake" makes me emotional, the slow burn is good i want to yell at my screen like my family does with the telenovelas on the tv.

| The ripple of a Snowflake by  EmerialynCodeVenice and Jack’s armour design by twiafom |

[aq2003]

fishing boat percy

[nodominion]

For vcmicroficmay, I am planning to write four micro fics about hunting. One of my favorite aspects of VC is the fact that they are vampires, and all that entails. This first one is a Claudia POV, a month or so after being turned. @vcmicroficmay

Claudia | Sleep | 648 words

They are sleeping, says Lestat. That is what it feels like when I have my fill: that the humans are going to sleep and shall wake soon. But Louis whispers, though he does not think I can hear him, that it will do no good to hide the truth from me. But I already know. They, the mortals, are dead after we drink. Dead like Mama. My new Papas do not know that I know, though I only discovered such after being with them for a month. Mama would have come for me, unless she was no longer able to. She would not have let me stay here with two strange men. Though they are not strangers anymore. 

It is odd to drink, to kill, to put them to sleep. The thoughts the people have are always racing. Always changing. Most cannot understand why a little girl would be so mean. But I am not mean! I am getting what I need. Just as an animal gets food from trees and grass and other animals. I like to watch them scurry under the moonlight. Always having places to go, other animals to meet. They are funny when they fight. My meals try to fight me but Lestat has taught me how to keep them down even though I am little. Maybe when I am taller it will be easier. 

Tonight Louis wants to come with me. He has more patience than Lestat, but I only learned that word yesterday, so I am not sure that is right. I was playing with a doll and we were having ‘tea’ and Lestat said I needed to be patient because the water had to boil before we could have ‘tea’. But it was all imaginary, it was only pretend. Why would I need to be patient while playing pretend?

But Louis is soft and warm and he finds me someone easy to put to sleep. They were already sick, like Mama. I ask Louis if I will catch this sickness, but he tucks one of my curls behind my ears. No, I will not. Good. 

The human can barely walk, so lost in his head that the clicks of my heels on the cobblestones do not alert him to danger. But I am not dangerous. I will merely ask him for help. You see, sir, I need food. Food to live. I am alone in this world and I must have food. He groans at me, nearly lunges, but does not come close. I jump on his back, my legs wrapped around his shoulders, and bend my head down so that my lips brush against his cheek. He cries out, but Louis is there to stuff a rag in his mouth. I nod my thanks to him as I bite into the neck, like a good girl.

I never had very many sweet drinks before I started living with my Papas. Milk, sometimes, but not very often. The liquid inside of people is the sweetest thing I’ve ever had. Delicious, the most tasty treat, and all mine. Connected through our hearts beating as one, we fall to the ground. I do not stop. In this elixir of life I hear the man’s thoughts. He wonders if he will go to heaven, if he has prayed enough. His heart slows so quickly, as I try to get the last drops, unwilling to let go without Louis tapping my shoulder, a reminder not to join this now sleeping man.

I ask Louis about heaven. My Mama never took me to church. He says we will go there many many years from now, so long that the world may seem different. I don’t think I understand, but I agree with him as he moves the man into the gutter. Only asleep. I wonder how many more I will kill before I go to heaven.

[methoughtsphantom]

plot bunnies about an idea i don’t have enough motivation juice to write. red hood identity reveal variety

smol jason

So, Red Hood reclutantly working alongside the Bat to take down a child trafficking ring when he is hit with a de-aging spell. It even isn’t the first time Batman encountered the end of this particular spell so he already knows the victim would have no recollection of their memories, so he protects the now child (he guessing 11 estimate age) and guides him through the panic of not being able to take off the Red Hood helmet. the one that canonically has a bomb in it (cause older Jason is a dramatic bitchTM) so like, Batman catches the child’s prying fingers and takes them away from the latches because Hood has implied the existence of a bomb and that’s enough for dread to set in his gut. Bruce gently coaxes the child to let him confirm this with a device he takes out of his belt and raises it eye level to the kid’s head. It beeps. And B feels the ground sweep out under him. Because indeed this child has a bomb to his head. (and he’s suddenly hearing another bomb go off in the distance and a warehouse and —)

anyways, B ends up taking (read kidnapping) this twelve year old to the Batcave so they can pry off the helmet and I can only picture the ANGST because this is Jason and Bruce each unaware of who the other is. Jason still lives in the streets in his mind according to him and well, according to B, he’s dead. So they start bonding, kinda awkwardly at first cuz of the helmet’s voice modulator, but Jay at that age (at any rlly) was a spitfire and like he genuinely makes B forget this is a crime lord for a second (kinda difficult to that when the kid is stuck in the helmet) but whatever. I can only see Jason being his cautious self but kinda being at ends here because he kinda does need Batman’s help to get this thing off him, so he can only, just like narrow his eyes when the Bat approaches him for a blood sample. (“Need to check for magic residue, lad.”)

(Jason’s only allows this because he has a knife he found in the clothes he’d was drowning in earlier)

As u can guess, Bruce was obviously lying and wanted to run the blood sample to see if it matched any from his database (as the Red Hood has also implied that they have met before)

Anyways Bruce just gets the alert that the blood reading was finished almost at the same time they can pry the helmet off, and because he got a little attached, he just wants to see the face of this lively if wary teenager that has the same name as his (dead) son. (he managed to pry it from him earlier, how, i dunno) It’s literally Bruce’s martyr and huge guilt-complex that goes like ‘ah yes let me see the face of a child that was failed so throughly by the people who should’ve taken care of him’. So they pry off the helmet and then Bruce feels like he’s been doused by cold water. it’s like he’s staring at the ghost of his dead son again, the image completed with ruffled hair, slightly upturned lips and blue guarded eyes that look up to him with recognition but not recognition.

Bruce immediately hardens, shuts down any hope he can feel rushing in and desperately tries to close the dam and let his confusion and rage turn into anguish. “Who are you?”

The boy—the imposter quickly tracks the 180 demeanor change and immediately goes defensive. A painfully familiar scowl appears in his face.

“I’m Jason, I already told you that, what, your old age catching up to you?”

Batman stalks closer and then the boy’s taking two steps back for every one the Bat takes. He tracks the loose outline of a hand closing in tightly around the hilt of a knife in the boy wearing his son’s face and he can only think how dare he.

“Lies! You’re not my son! Who are you?”

Heart in throat, Jason struggles to keep distance between him and the towering black shadow that’s so angry he can sense it in his very bones. He doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t.

“I-I my name’s Jason. Jason Todd. My father is Willis Todd, not—not, Batman.”

And there’s that for the little snippet. Sorry this is so disjointed😭. After that’s just the mental image of Dick cutting in with Zatanna trailing closely behind him and being all “Hey I got your message about a de-aging spell and—“ and just stopping at the scene.

Because that’s Batman towering over a clearly scared kid. Said kid using the distraction to try and stab Batman. The action clearly enraging Batman—that doesn’t make any sense?! B would never— Dick immediately sprints into action and steps in between the two.

like Dick just giving his back to the kid and not seeing. Batman clearly shaking his head in denial and snarling, treating the kid like his crime lord self and Dick not understanding. Having to receive help from Zatanna to get the kid the hell out of here (but like where would they even take him? The manor??)

Zatanna just takes them to the other side of the cave and takes note of the teenager. How he has a dead grip on a red helmet and his gaze is stuck upon it.

Meanwhile Dick has to physically restrain Batman from going after the kid and he raises his voice just enough to demand what the hell is happening?? Why is there a kid in the Batcave? …Batman??? Report. As he is demanding answers Dick had slowly loosen his grip on his dad only to now found him staring at his gauntlet’s data hologram.

The information displayed? 99.98% Match confirmed to Jason Peter Todd.

So as this is clearly pure angst, I want Jason to lash out, sticking only to Zatanna only to realize she’s the magic user that’ll quote on quote will return him back to normal.

Jason is just like on really uneven ground here, even though he doesn’t think he’s ready to retur. But then Batman is just like “Jaylad” … “Jay…” and taking off his cowl and reaching up to him and looking at him like he knows him, like he’s something fragile and precious. Which is sooo fucking jarring you can understand. Jason internally is all what the fuck

Jason just wants them to back off. Jason is an overwhelmed bean. He looks up to Nightwing for help but the man is also mirroring the Bat, domino off and eyes suspiciously bright.

Zatanna is literally the only person in the room not emotionally compromised. She’s with Jay in the ??? train.

Suddenly she looks down and there’s the little boy whose eyes are pleading in helpless confusion. Eyes practically conveying the question you can return me back to normal right?? he pointedly doesn’t rip his eyes from hers as Zatanna puts a hand on his shoulder, pretending she doesn’t notice how he trembles and wordlessly asks if he’s sure.

cut scene

Bruce interrupts because information overload and he can’t compartmentalize this is too important and he and Dick stop Zatanna to which she too is ?? because that was literally what she was called for here. Dick is no help.

Dick is torn.

[saviourkingslut]

not to be about opera again but to be about opera again. as an art form it has the reputation of being super stuffy and something for snobs who don't know how to have fun only but honestly this was one of, perhaps even THE main theatrical entertainment for centuries. i wish people knew how hard these things can go and how engaging they can be. like characters kill and die and fight wars and (almost) commit human sacrifice left and right. characters fall in love they mourn they're ecstatic they cry they're furious it's an extremely dramatic and emotional art form! and i understand that opera does not appear approachable bc of the general conventions of the art form but i promise old works can be fun and engaging if you go watch them with some preparation beforehand (reading the libretto helps) - not to mention not all operas are old bc there are so many modern operas which engage with topical events! also the music slaps.

[rainbowcarousels]

Sleeping Arrangements

This is just a quick thing I wrote in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. Happy Valentines! (Lestat/Armand/Louis/Daniel)

It’s an adjustment to add another person into their routine, such as it is. 

They’re not always under the same roof – sometimes one of them is off attending business or at court, sometimes they just need breathing space and a chance to collect their own thoughts. Sometimes they just don’t feel like sharing a bed at all, needing some space to themselves and coming back when they’re ready to. Sometimes two people want to fuck in an involved or vigorous way and the others want to read or watch a movie. 

When it had just been Daniel moving back in, it hadn’t been uncommon for all three to spend most of their days together in the same bed. That became the routine; Armand adjusted his bedtime to earlier so he could lay with both lovers after they fell asleep. Daniel remained sluggish early and sometimes Armand would pick him up to put him into bed to find Louis already in it, reading or listening to something. Then he’d just pull Daniel into his bedtime clothing, brush his hair and tuck him in with them both. If Armand had to go and get Louis to put him to bed as he’d slumped reading at the desk, he happily put him to bed too. 

More than once, it had been mortal sleep and Louis had startled upon being picked up and caused them both to wobble and laugh.

At first, Armand lingered in bed before they awoke as well. There was something reassuring about it, to feel Daniel’s chest rise and fall against him, to feel Louis’ fuzzy consciousness slip back into being from his rest. As time went on, if he had other things to do, he’d get up and come back to find them chatting in bed together or just getting changed. It started to happen at night too, that they’d still curl up together even if Armand hadn’t made it back. A layer of familiarity settled between them. When he’d find them like that, Armand would squeeze himself between them, gathering them too close to him but also not close enough. Sometimes, he’d just like to look at them until sleep came. His little lovers, happy together.

As soon as they’d begun to settle into having Daniel there, Lestat had barged his way into their home and their bed. Sometimes he stayed only for a few hours, other times he’d stay for a few weeks. There was no rhyme or reason to it, as if Lestat had ever had a rhyme or reason for anything. 

“This is a home, is it not?” Lestat had just settled himself in and Armand climbed onto him so he could use him as an oversized pillow, but still pull Daniel or Louis close if he wanted. 

“Don’t you have a home to go to?” Daniel had grumbled, getting a faceful of Lestat’s hair when he decided he wanted to be in the middle.

It wouldn’t be as much of a disturbance if Lestat’s bedtime routine wasn’t so damned involved. There were very specific pyjamas, he liked to brush his hair out and put it up and out of the way, he liked to do his nails so he didn’t have to when he woke up and he used scented sprays on the pillows much to Louis’ eye-rolling. 

“It’s good for insomnia,” Lestat insisted, as if he hadn’t seen the way Louis hoarded Bath & Body Works candles like an obsession.

“You’re a vampire,” Louis replied. “You don’t get insomnia! The sun puts you to sleep.”

“Smells like the lotion we used at that place with the giant tub in the Philippines,” Daniel decided, pulling Armand up until his head was under his chin. Possessive tonight, in his own way.

“There’s a place a giant bath in the Philippines?” Lestat had asked, sinking into the other side with more pillows added. His face changed suddenly, his skin flushing as he shot Armand a sharp look. “I didn’t ask for you to drop that into my mind like a erotic stereoscope! Why is your mind always preoccupied with fleshly pleasures?”

“Why do you go into my mind seeking it out?” Armand had replied, utterly unrepentant. 

It was no different at the court. 

While Armand had dedicated himself to designing his own living space, he rarely seemed to stay in it. It was more common for him to stay in either Daniel’s rooms which remained or in with Louis and Lestat, eventually getting annoyed by the separation and pulling Daniel in with them. It led to Marius giving Lestat the most bizarre look when Daniel slipped out of his rooms for a cigarette in the early hours of the morning with tell tale bites fading on his skin.

“This is going to get confusing if you’re going to start taking multiple consorts,” Marius had whispered to him the following night, once the ‘official’ business had been seen to.

“I only have one consort,” Lestat told him plainly. “Armand isn’t a consort, he’s really more of a mistress.”

“And Daniel?” Marius asked.

“Mistresses’ consort,” Lestat smiled. “Or whatever it is Armand wants to call him. I’m not saying I’m opposed to the idea of trying him, I have often wondered if he’d taste like Armand – or if indeed Louis tastes like me! I should ask Armand, he would know, he’d make a note of something like that.”

Marius had wisely just left it there.

It took about a year for Lestat to settle himself into just climbing into bed. He still didn’t enjoy going to bed early, but when the sun rose, he’d spend an hour with Armand to himself while their fledglings slept on. Sometimes they’d excuse themselves to the bathtub and leave it stained red, scratched to hell and on more than one occasion, with several tiles cracked. Other times, they just talked quietly to one another.

“Do you like it,” Armand had asked him, his eyes cast low with a sweet submission, “Our arrangement?”

“Is that what it is?” Lestat murmured, sliding his fingers down Armand’s face and pushing his chin up so he could look at those eyes. “An arrangement?”

“What would you call it?” Armand’s eyes seemed to dart around unsure of where to look, struck naked by being forced into confronting what he was asking.

There was really only one answer for that. “My darling, I think it might be love.”

[myreia]

Divergence of the Heart

CHAPTER SIX: PROMISES KEPT, PROMISES MADE

Chapter Rating: Mature (full story rating is Explicit) Characters: Aureia Malathar (WoL), Aymeric de Borel, Thancred Waters, Hilda Ware Pairings: Aureia/Aymeric, Aureia/Thancred, Thancred/Hilda Chapter Words: 7,625 Notes: Set during the Heavensward patches. Summary: Aureia Malathar may have made a name for herself in Ishgard, but her deeds come with a hefty personal toll. Despite her victories at the Grand Melee she has never felt more unsure of herself. Her relationship with Thancred—the person she thought knew her the best—is strained, yet she cannot abandon him. Aymeric is falling for her harder with each passing day, yet she cannot bring herself to accept it. All may be fair in love and war, but at least war is predictable. Love on the other hand… Chapters: 1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5 • 6 • 7 • 8 • 9 • 10 • 11 Read on AO3

Aureia sips at her wine, barely cognizant of the smooth, rich flavour flooding her mouth, distracted as she is by Aymeric. Friendship, he proposed, but it is more than that and they both know it. Something better left unnamed for now. She doubts either of them know where this evening will end, but to be frank, she would rather not think on it. She wants nothing more than to enjoy her time here in his company, without distraction or worry.

The food is as good as it smells, featuring dishes she knows and more that she doesn’t. The last time she had a meal this fine Raubahn lost an arm, but she has a feeling the limbs of all attendees to this dinner are safe tonight. She bites her tongue, refraining from making the joke. Even with a glass and a half in her system, she’s not a fool enough to overshadow the evening with memories of the bloody banquet.

Aymeric is more talkative than she has ever seen him. Of course he is habitually loquacious, rivalling only Urianger for the amount of words he can squeeze into a sentence before running out of breath, but the way he relaxes over the course of dinner brings a smile to her face. The politician is always simmering underneath, but the more their conversation wanders, the less present he becomes. So rarely have they had the chance to talk about topics unrelating to war or politics, she knows she is seeing a side of him he rarely shares with others, if at all.

She knows the feeling all too well. Idle chatter about unimportant things isn’t something she’s used to even among friends. Outside of Tataru’s company, that is. Then again, Tataru makes it a point for her to talk about non-world-ending events on pain of death, so maybe that doesn’t count.

This is good. For both of you.

“…would that I could have seen such a momentous event,” he says, his eyes sparkling with interest. “Thank you, truly—”

“Wouldn’t have been a problem if it wasn’t so bloody cold,” she replies with mock sarcasm. “Why is it so cold here? Is it always so cold?”

“Ah.” He pauses, lowering his fork. “It has been this way for some seven years now. Ever since the Calamity overrode the land with frost and fury.”

“Oh.” She flushes, pressing her lips together. She should have known that; or, at the very least, put two and two together. This side of the world was ravaged by horrors she could only imagine from the safety of her post in Ilsabard when Dalamud fell from the sky. “What was it like before?”

A strange expression falls over his face, lost in thought. Whatever memory he is retreading resonates with fondness and loss. “Green valleys and rolling hills, so vibrant in their colours no painting could capture them,” he says quietly. “Lakes clear as glass reflecting skies of pure azure. I remember there were small periwinkle flowers that bloomed in abundance near Whitebrim Font. My mother… the viscountess… She was very fond of them. Now that I come to think of it, I cannot remember their name.”

He pauses and glances across the table at her, the memory subsiding. “I am certain any botanist could tell you the extent of what was lost far more keenly than I,” he continues conversationally. “A whole land irrevocably changed. We cannot return to what we have lost, but perhaps we can look to what we have gained. A new land sprung up beneath our very feet. In time, who knows what will come to call these snowbound highlands home? As destructive as the Calamity was, I would consider it rebirth rather than destruction. For Coerthas was not destroyed. We remain.”

She smiles. “I like that.”

He returns the smile and reaches for the decanter, refilling his glass. “I suspect you will admonish me for this, yet I must admit I have the desire to apologize for our inclement weather, as far outside my control as it is.”

Aureia snorts, unable to hide her laughter. “Don’t,” she says and pushes her glass across the table. Not necessary, perhaps, but why shouldn’t she be indulgent when in the company of friends? “There’s comfort in it. Familiarity. Predictable, if you know what you’re getting into, what to expect, and come prepared. Too many Eorzeans balk at a little snow.”

“Speaking from personal experience, I presume?”

“It’s not exactly a climate the city-states are used to, no. Three years on this continent and I’ve yet to see genuine snowfall outside of Gridania. It’s funny to think I would have had an easier time adjusting had I found my way to Ishgard rather than Ul’dah. Thanalan was unbearable after Ilsabard. I’m used to snow, not heat. The desert was suffocating enough outside the city, but inside? Like being trapped in a hothouse.”

He pauses, gripping the decanter, and a strange look crosses his face. Too late she realizes the implications of what she has said, the conclusion he must have come to. She flinches, mind whirling as she grasps at any explanation that will do, truth be damned. It’s not that she wants to lie to him—of course she doesn’t, she never has, the thought of it makes her sick to her stomach—but that she can’t bring him into her past. It is not a place she is willing to go with him. He doesn’t deserve to suffer in those trenches with her.

“I take it you spent time in northern Ilsabard, then,” he says carefully and tips the decanter, the deep red liquid pouring out in a rush.  

She swallows the lump in her throat, her eyes drawn to his hands. He fills the glass near to the brim and pulls back. A bead of wine bubbles at the lip, clinging to the edge. It falls, the spot splotching the tablecloth. A single crimson spot on a sea of white. Like blood in the snow, Coerthan, Garlean, or otherwise.

Trust him. You have to trust him. If you can’t trust him, you can’t trust anyone.

“I did,” she says finally. “I was there for many years.”

Aymeric sets the decanter down. “The Imperial capital?” he asks.

“Close to it.” Her throat is raw. A lie, of a sorts. Stationed there for a time, but on the outskirts. She never stepped foot in the Imperial palace or the districts that composed the true capital. She may have been born within Garlemald’s borders, but people like her were never considered as such. They would never let a non-native like her, with dangerous magic coursing in her veins, closer than that. “Long enough to adapt. Eorzeans think Garlemald is bitter and unforgiving, but they do not know the half of it. It is far more than the cold and the ice. There is no survival if you are unprepared.”

“I have heard similar when Lucia has seen fit to speak of it. You have all my respect and more, Aureia—” He cuts himself short, laughing awkwardly as he quickly corrects himself. “Of course you always have—I didn’t mean to say that I did not before—but knowing this, even in the smallest capacity, knowing what trials you must have faced on your journey here…”

You don’t know. You have no idea. The bitterness of the thought takes her by surprise and shame flushes her cheeks. How could he know any different? He must be imagining some grand escape by yet another defector with too much good in their heart to endure living in a tyrannical nation. Not an operative with too much blood on her hands, who fled for selfish reasons.

Avoiding his gaze, Aureia reaches for her glass and disappears behind it, taking a long drink. Aymeric exhales a long breath and runs a hand over his chin, lost in thought. If her behaviour is odd to him, he either has not noticed or thinks nothing of it.

“Aureia, may I confess something?” he says after a moment.

She lowers the glass and nods.

“For countless decades Garlemald has been an enemy to all nations upon this star. But oft I have wondered where we would stand had history shown us a gentler hand, one of collaboration and cooperation rather than one of ruthless war. What could we have learned from Garlean expertise had the few not corrupted the many with tyrannical ideals and gluttonous expansionism? What could they have learned from us?”

He leans against the table and holds his gaze to hers, his eyes blazing with passion. How long has he been withholding these thoughts, waiting for the right person to tell? Someone he trusts irrevocably? “Ishgard has its own bloody history, a fanatical fabrication upheld by the very souls charged with her protection while they bled her people dry. As Ishgard recovers, I am left to wonder whether the cycles we have suffered here are not also in play in a land like Garlemald. As our nation has been isolated from the brutality of their war by virtue of being preoccupied by another, I would dare utter this before the Alliance when our coalition is so young and untested. But I believe there is a mirror in our greatest enemy, one that reflects a terrible truth we see in ourselves.”

“I don’t know if many would agree with you,” Aureia replies grimly. “It’s an empire. It’s not a place you can forgive.”

“I do not speak of forgiveness. They have harmed and will continue to harm the world greatly. But to paint every citizen who lives beneath their banners with the same broad stroke does not sit well with me. It would be the height of hypocrisy after what Ishgard herself has partaken in.”

“Perhaps.”

“I am not a faultless man, Aureia, I know this to be true more than anyone. I still have much to learn. But if there is one lesson that has remained with me throughout my time in command, it is that leadership does always speak for the people. Those with power will always have an agenda at play, for good or for ill. I will not condemn civilians for the place of their birth. When they have been shown no other path than one that has led to dogmatic beliefs and unquestioned chauvinism, perhaps they are as much victims of their government’s regime as those who have fallen to Garlemald’s might.”

“And those who are not civilians?” The question is out of her mouth before she can stop herself. “In a future where the Alliance wars with Garlemald and the Empire is brought to its knees, what grace would you extend to those you fought on the battlefield? Would you see them as victims worthy of help or perpetrators deserving of punishment?”

“That is a difficult question. One that has no easy answer.”

What would do you, Aymeric, if you knew? That I was one of those very people.

“I would like to hear it.”

“Then I would say I have none. For war only muddies the waters, never cleanses it. We know all too well how the annals of history are written in the hand of the victor. There are casualties on both sides of any war. If we are to judge our enemies by the harshest laws, then we must look to our own leadership and judge them by the same standards.”

She blinks, uncertain what to say, and looks down, chasing the remnants of her meal across her plate. The evening’s conversation has led them in a direction she didn’t predict. And all from a discussion about the weather…

The again, Aymeric’s sincerity has struck her deeply. She has never known anyone like him, really. His unshaking resolve paired with his unflinching acknowledgement of his own flaws… He has a capacity to see the good in people without excusing terrible actions. What he has told her tonight will stay with her for a long time.

“I apologize.”

His voice interrupts her thoughts. She blinks again, clearing her vision, and finds him staring at her from across the table, concern in his eyes.

“I did not mean to ask you to revisit painful memories,” he continues. “Whatever is in your past you have no obligation to tell me unless you wish to.”

She raises her head and picks up her glass, swirling her wine and fixing him with an arch look. “Did you know you say sorry too much, Aymeric?” she says.

His eyes widen, an embarrassed pink flushing his cheeks. “I—well—perhaps I do, but it is out of respect, is it not? I apologize, I had not realized—” He stops, cutting himself off as he hears the words he has just spoken. Chuckling, he shakes his head at himself and takes his wine in hand. “I am a fool, aren’t I?”

She smiles. “No,” she says, taking a drink. The wine warms her, flushing across her chest. Despite the gravity of their conversation, she feels content. Safe. Happy. “At least, no more than the rest of us.”

“I should strive to do better.”

“You should strive to be no more than yourself.”

Aymeric pauses, once again surprised by her words, and raises his glass to his lips. He drinks deeply, savouring the wine as he regards her from across the table. There’s that look in his face again… The one she can’t place. He seems enchanted and she hasn’t even done anything. Who is she to hold his attention? His friendship? His love? Though she wants to believe differently, she can’t ignore the deep sense of wrong within her. That this is some horrible mistake. That someone like her doesn’t deserve someone like him.  

She drums her fingers against the tabletop, desperately searching for a way out. She thinks back, winding the conversation back to before it slipped into uncomfortable territory. The weather. The snow.

An idea forms.

“You know I don’t mind the cold,” she says, raising her glass to her lips. She nurses her wine, her fingers dancing across the table. She waits, noting how he watches her as she turns her palm upwards. With a breath, she commands the smallest threads of aether, her fingers crackling with frost as ice manifests in her hand. It dances above her palm, reflecting the warm glow of the candlelight in its crystalline heart. “I have a few tricks.”

He smiles and watches enraptured, the remains of his meal forgotten. “Ah, of course,” he replies. “The talents of a black mage are never to be underestimated.”

“Useful in Ul’dah.” She relaxes her fingers as the ice splits into three small shards and rotate in a circle above her palm. Show off. “On scorching days when I could barely think.”

Adrenaline is already coursing through her. Creating ice is a shock to the system, jolting her mana regeneration into overdrive. The font is infinite, regenerative, powerful. To have so much mana flood through her at once makes her head spin, her heart beat faster, every fibre of her being pulsing with untouched power. So simple, yet so addictive.

Aureia exhales and dismisses the ice. It dissipates in a puff of air, snuffing out the nearby candles. “This is more helpful here,” she says, summon a small ball of flame. She splits it into three and lets it play across her fingers. The orb burn brightly and happily, the light warming her skin. Fire-aspected aether is so often deemed the crux of destructive magic, but she knows better. As devastating as its power can be, fire can also soothe. Warm the hearth. Light the way. A spark in the darkness. “I don’t need much when travelling the Coerthan wilds.”

Aymeric watches in rapt silence as she twists her hand and sends the orbs flying, each alighting on a candle’s wick and setting it aflame. “Estinien thought I was quite the idiot last year. Running off into the snows by myself.”

He chuckles. “Estinien has a low opinion of all adventurers. Himself included.”

The pained look on his face does not go unnoticed. “He will return someday, Aymeric,” she says.

“I would like to believe it. But some days I am not so certain.”

“I think he was right to leave—”

“Without informing a soul? Vanishing without a trace? That is true to form. He is gone, and for those who remain, those to whom he extended a rare hand of friendship, are left to only speculate where time and tide will take him. Or how many moons will pass before he sees fit to return.”

She pauses, meeting his eyes. She has never heard him speak in anger about those he holds dear, at least not like this. Estinien was a friend to them both, but Aymeric knows him in a way she never will. Their bond runs deep, one of comradeship and brothers-in-arms. That he gave her no notice before departing doesn’t phase her, nor can she blame him for it. She may have very well done the same thing had she been in his place. But for Aymeric… Forget Ishgard, to walk out on him without a word has stung him.

And of course he is too polite to show much anger.

Without thinking much of it, Aureia reaches across the table and slips her hand into his. “I miss him, too,” she says softly. “Give him the time he needs, he deserves that much. As I said, I think he was right to leave. There can be no recovery in a place that reminds him of everything that was done to him.”

He exhales a long breath and closes his eyes. “You are right, of course. I spoke in haste and ill of a very dear friend who deserves compassion and understanding, not grievance and blame. Forgive me.”

“Aymeric. What did I say about you apologizing too much?”

He chuckles, shaking his head, and opens his eyes. She catches a flash of a smile in the flickering candlelight and he squeezes her hand once before retreating. “What say you to another round, my friend?” he says, raising his cup.

Aureia glances downwards. When did she finish her glass? She can’t remember. “Why not?” she replies and grabs the decanter. Normally she would avoid a third glass except on nights when she’s intent on drinking herself into oblivion, but with Aymeric she feels… Well. It’s not like she has anything to do tomorrow. And he offered.

He rises from his chair as she refills their wine, reaching for the platter of pastries and shifting it down the table. They have yet to taste any of them, distracted by their conversation as they are. He returns to his seat and clears his throat, hovering awkwardly as if he is waiting for her to make the first move.

“You must know we Ishgardians enjoy indulging ourselves,” he says, taking his glass from her. “It would be very poor manners indeed for me to deny you the first taste of dessert. Please, go ahead.”

She pauses, arching an eyebrow. There must be a reason for his hesitance. Why does she have the feeling he is planning something? “All right,” she says suspiciously, reaching outwards. She doesn’t know half the names of the desserts on the plate, but a familiar red pastry catches her eye at once. “Oh gods, tell me you didn’t.”

He chuckles with laughter and takes a long drink of his wine, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I heard whispers that you were fond of such little treats.”

“I was! I am! I—”

“Are you blushing, Aureia?”

“No, I—” She shoots him a dirty look. “It’s just that these are made with snurbleberries. What kind of a name is snurbleberry? The Warrior of Light can’t go around announcing she likes snurbleberry tarts, it would ruin the image—oh don’t look at me like that, you know what I mean.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, I… Fine. Perhaps I should consider this vengeance for all the times I’ve teased you.”

“Perhaps. Though, in the spirit of honest conversation, I would be bereft if you stopped. Your spirited remarks are a reminder that I am not confined to the stoic and stately countenance required to be upheld by the Lord Speaker.”

Warmth floods through her. Or is that the wine? “I used to love these,” she says, plucking a tart from the plate. The red berries stain her fingers. “I haven’t had one since I was exiled from Ul’dah. How did you know?”

“As I said, I heard whispers.”

“Mhm.” She takes a bite. “Whispers. I’m sure.”

“And by that I mean to say that I spoke with Tataru. She was quite keen to spill your most closely guarded secret.”

She laughs, mouth full, and finishes the tart. “She’s a good friend. Knows me better than she lets on. We have been through a lot together. Her, me, and Alphinaud.”

He nods, his smile warm. “You have. It was by terrible circumstances that the three of you sought refuge here, but I am forever gladdened that you did. Our lives would be quite changed had it been different.”

The conversations stills, lulled to comfortable silence by sweets and wine. Aureia sips at her drink, pleasantly full and warm, her gaze passing around the dining room. She can’t remember an evening where she has enjoyed herself so thoroughly and so peacefully. When they are on their own—without the meddling of stuffy butlers—there is something about Aymeric that keeps her grounded. At peace.

She doesn’t want this evening to end. 

“Aureia,” Aymeric’s voice says quietly, interrupting her thoughts.

“Hm?”

She glances across the table to find him risen to his feet, a hand extended. Ever the gentleman.

“Would you join me in the parlour?” he asks with a half-bow.

She arches an eyebrow. “Am I allowed to bring the wine?”

“I don’t believe I could deny you even if I wanted to.”

Glass gripped in one hand, she follows him through the double-doors at the end and across the threshold into the parlour. The room is smaller to the sitting room they occupied before, though similarly decorated in plush furnishings and soft blues. Cozier. More private. Her gaze wanders, taking in the portraits lining the walls and hung above the hearth. Family portraits, hunting scenes, brave knights and fearsome dragoons… Naegling makes an appearance in more than one. These must be the ancestors of House Borel.

Not his family by blood, but his family by choice.

He settles into a couch by the hearth, resting his wine glass idly on the armrest. She joins him and sinks into the cushions, curling her legs beneath her. He looks different here in the comfort of the parlour. Relaxed. More at ease. His proximity sends an excited shiver down her spine. She has seen him countless times, but now she wonders whether she has ever truly seen him. The deep midnight of his hair, the faint flush on his cheeks, the way the light catches his familiar blue and gold earring. The curve of his lips.  

She presses her glass to her mouth, the rich wine heavy on her tongue. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him. She wants to. She imagines it would be nice. He must be good at it. How many lovers has he had, she wonders? He’s so determined, pragmatic, married to his work. It doesn’t seem like he has had the time for that kind of thing. And yet he is far too much of a romantic not to.  

Her stomach twists into a knot. There it is. The familiar embarrassment rushing up within her, the horrid sense of wrong, wrong, wrong. She’s not normal. She knows this. The things that come so easily to others are not easy for her. She hates the judgement, self-inflicted as it is.

Would he think differently of her, if he knew? How incongruent it is—a warrior and a saviour on one hand, capable of striking down primals and stemming the tides of chaos, and a shamefully inexperienced woman on the other, who at over thirty would be considered an unsalvageable old maid by Ishgardian standards. There are girls half her age who are married.  

Not that Aymeric thinks much of Ishgardian standards.

You have got to get over this.  

She hides from the thought by gulping down a mouthful. When she resurfaces, her head feels light and buoyant, buzzing from the drink.

“I think it’s my turn,” Aureia says finally, sinking deeper into the cushions.

Aymeric raises an eyebrow. “For…?”

She nudges him playfully with a foot. “You asked me a personal question. It’s time for me to ask you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s only fair.”

“I won’t argue that. What would like to know?”

She pauses, wetting her lips as she thinks. “Your parents. What were they like?”

He doesn’t answer. The longer they sit in silence, the more her panic grows—perhaps she misspoke, perhaps it was a mistake to go down this path. She told herself she wouldn’t pry into his family history, but her curiosity won out in the end. She wants to know, if only to know him better.  

“My foster parents…” Aymeric speaks quietly, lost in thought. He rests his hands against his knees, his wine glass held loosely in his hands, his eyes lingering on the portraits on the wall, the generations who came before him. “Were I to describe them in a single word, I believe I could choose no other word than resolute. They were elderly when I was born. No heirs. The Borel line would have died with them had they not taken me in.”

She curls up, leaning her head against the back of the couch, and listens with rapt attention. There is as much love in his voice as there is pain.

“They knew there would be talk. That their House’s reputation would be tarnished by adopting a bastard boy. But when it came down to a choice between sacrificing their reputation in the eyes of the nobility or surrendering their house entirely, they chose the former. Too many depended on them. Loyal knights whose fathers served their fathers, and their fathers before them. Servants who had been with the family for generations. They had a right to call this house home as much as my parents did. Had they died without an heir, they would find themself in need of different employment. The knights would be absorbed into the personal guard of rival houses, the servants scattered among the staff of the nobility if they were fortunate or to the Brume if they were not. Benoit and Violette did not wish to condemn those sworn to them and under their care to such instability.”

Aymeric clears his throat and lowers his head. She can barely make out his face in this light. His profile his dark, the lines of his sharp, proud features backlit by the crackling hearth.

“And so they were steadfast in their decision to raise me as their own. The scandal of it haunted them for the rest of their lives, but they cared not. They were upstanding members of high society, the most noble of nobles. For every cruel word spoken about them, they simply smiled and carried on, secure in their decision. And they were happy in their final days. Content to see me grown. Benoit, proud of how I had proven myself in battle and honoured to pass me Naegling, the symbol of his lineage. Violette, proud of the caring and determined soul she believed me to be.”

“How old were you when they passed?”

“Fifteen.”

A lump forms in her throat. Fifteen. So young. Too young. Still a child, though he may not have been considered as such at the time. Ishgard is far from the only nation to send their children off to war, but the unquestioned nature of the status quo does nothing to relieve the pit in her stomach. She was a child once, too. Garlemald crushed it out of her.

Aureia sips slowly, nursing her wine. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.  

He catches her eye. “They loved each other deeply. Trusted each other beyond measure. Their faith in one another saw them through the course of life, both the good and the hard. Some would say they were blessed by the Fury, to live the full lives that they did, for as long as they did. It is not often that Ishgardians reach their old age, even among the Elezen. War, grief, and illness all take many before their time.”

A pause. There is no discomfort in his voice; she knows without a doubt that he is telling her this because he wants to share it with her. Her fears of prying too far into his history dissipate. “A love like theirs was precious. Perhaps it is idealistic of me, but one day I hope to find the same, unlikely as it is given my position.”

“Aymeric…”

He raises his glass to his lips and drinks. “It is the way of the aristocracy. Family is of the highest importance, second only to our war and our faith. The relationship between noble bloodlines is ancient and complex. Marriage is a joint endeavour, a commitment struck between two households with an heir as the prize. I may be the Lord Commander, but I am also a viscount. I know the expectations set before me.”

“That’s hardly fair.”  

“And yet I understand the truth quite plainly. No, Aureia, as long as I hold Ishgard in my heart of hearts, my duty is to her and her people above all else. Personal sacrifices will be demanded, and they are ones I am content to make for the sake of this fledgling republic.”

“It shouldn’t be that way. Can’t you… I don’t know, change their minds? You are the Lord Speaker, aren’t you?”

He throws his head back and laughs, fixing her with a warm smile. “I can certain rouse discussion between the Lords and Commons and guide them as best I can,” he replies. “But no. Enacting reform within a system of governance is a far cry from changing a culture itself. I cannot expect the high and minor houses to change their views overnight. It will be a slow progress, one that I can only hope will benefit our children’s children and their children after them.”

She nods, rubbing her thumb absently against the side of her glass. This talk of love has brought a flush to her cheeks and she is once again thinking what it would be like to kiss him.

Damn it. Maybe he wouldn’t even want to. As he has said himself, there are expectations placed upon him. He will eventually need to marry. Have children. Where in that is there room for someone like her?

“And this is what your parents wanted for you?” she asks.

He glances at her. “Benoit and Violette wished only for my happiness,” he replies. “That I pursue a life worth living, whatever I believed that entailed. But there was a time when my foster mother did confess to me that she wished for me to leave Ishgard and see the world beyond our borders. And I will freely admit there was a time I yearned for that too, only to set it aside when practicality won out. However…” He trails off and he sets down his glass, shifting on the couch to face her. His fingers brush hers, tentatively taking her hand in his. “Truth be told, visiting those sweeping vistas of the Churning Mists with you at my side has reminded me of those days. I do feel the slight pangs of wanderlust, and I think… Someday, perhaps.”

Aureia meets his gaze. A part of her wants nothing more than to keep staring at him, to listen to his steady voice and fall deeper into his eyes. Another, smaller part is screaming at her to excuse herself and flee, escaping back to her miserable existence in the Forgotten Knight and forget all about him. She knows this will never work, this thing between them. Why set herself up for failure and risk hurting them both?

She swallows the panic and shoves it down. “Someday, yes,” she echoes tentatively. “Aymeric, do you think perhaps—”

A warm rumble resounds in her ears. A cat—large, orange with grey streaks, his fur fluffier than any she has ever seen—steals out from under the couch. He rises up and places his paws on the cushions by her legs, his tail swishing back and forth.

She stares at him. He stares back with large, yellow eyes.

“Sylvaine,” Aymeric chides, his tone somehow both fond and irritated. “What are you doing here?”

“Sylvaine?” Aureia asks.

The cat mews and stretches, his claws digging into the cushions and pulling at the fabric.

“My parents’ cat.” He leans forward and scratches the back of the cat’s head. “An old gentleman by any standard now, though Marcel complains he is far too lively for his age. One could say he is as much a symbol of House Borel as I am.”

The cat yawns, showing sharp teeth.

“Be careful. Majestic though he is, do not underestimate him. He has a mean streak the size of Coerthas for anyone he deems troublesome or dangerous. Or—quite frankly—anyone he thinks has looked at him wrong. Once he has judged you unworthy there is no asking for forgiveness.”

She holds back a smile. “Oh? And what counts as troublesome in his little lordship’s mind?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. It changes day to day, week to week, you see. I would never dare to assume what is happening in my dearest feline friend’s mind. Though I do recall quite vividly the day he cornered the fair Lady Hermine de Gervaise in the corner of the second floor library. As the staff could not catch the dastardly creature, a dragoon was called to assist the good lady in climbing out the window and escaping to the safety of the garden below. So great was her fear of Sylvaine that it far outstripped her fear of heights, you see.”

Aureia snorts with laughter. “Poor Hermine.”

“Indeed. Poor Hermine. She never called on me again, despite her family’s insistence.”

Sylvaine mews and leaps into her lap, curling his tail around him. His weight is warm and pleasant. Friendly. Cautiously, she reaches out a hand and runs it down his back. He offers a content purr in return and snuggles deeper into her lap.

“…and the dragoon?” she asks, petting the cat. She’s not used to being around such creatures, especially household pets. The closest thing she has is Filo and her chocobo is such a notorious biter that the Holy Stables refuse to stable him. “What happened to him?”

“Hm? Oh. The lady thanked him for his service, as I recall. And he made every excuse never to see her again.”

Her eyes narrow. “Please don’t tell me that was Estinien.”

“I have indicated nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, you liar. That absolutely was Estinien, wasn’t it.”

He grins. “Old stories aside, Sylvaine is very dear to me and the staff. His temperament may be ferocious at times, but we could not want for a better guardian.” He scratches the cat fondly, watching the way he curls in her lap with amusement. “I am glad he has taken a shine to you.”

She returns his smile. Finishing off her wine, she reaches over and places the glass on the floor. She has no desire to get up and find a table when there is a cat in her lap. “Aymeric,” she begins softly. Her head is buzzing slightly. It is so comfortable here, sitting on this couch with him. Between the warmth of the hearth, the contentedness of the cat, and his company, she has never felt more at ease. “When you said someday earlier…”

“Yes?”

“You spoke of wanderlust.”

“I did. I have no shared this with many, but I have a fervent wish to see more of this world. The lands beyond Ishgard. Beyond Eorzea. It is a yearning I cannot fully explain. My mother once said I had an insatiable curiosity; perhaps it stems from that. We have turned a blind eye to the world beyond our gates for too many years. I once considered myself well-versed in the ways of the world, but your arrival here has shaken that. Indeed, the vivid accounts of your adventures and our exchanges with both the Alliance and the Scions of the Seventh Dawn have been a firm reminder that there is much I do not know.”

She pauses, careful not to jostle Sylvaine as she moves closer. “Then come with me.”

“To where?”

“Anywhere. Beyond Coerthas. Beyond Ishgard.”

“You have no idea how fervently I wish to accept such an invitation. But I cannot. My duties with the House of Lords demand my undivided attention.”

“They ask too much of you.”

“They ask nothing. It is I who must give it to them freely, for the sake of my nation. I cannot abandon them for my personal desires, no matter how much I wish I could.”

Aureia meets his eyes. “Have you considered that perhaps it is not they who do not have faith in you, but you who do not have faith in them?”

He blinks, so shocked by her statement that he is lost for words. “I… well… I…”

“The situation is perilous, I know. This new republic of yours is young and fragile. There are many in Ishgard—and the world beyond—who believe you are the sole reason why it has not fallen apart. That makes you a target.”

“We both know that all too well.” The gravity of his words is not easily missed.

“But if the Lords and the Commons are indeed so volatile that they will fall apart if you disappear for a day, then it will happen one day with or without you. You speak of trust so often, but I think, perhaps, it is you who do not trust them, rather than the other way around. Show them you have faith in them. They will eventually have to learn to govern without you.”

He sighs and bows his head, a faint flush on his cheeks. “Once again you have seen straight through to the heart of the matter,” he says. “How do you do it?”

“Sometimes you care so much you blind yourself. Or put yourself in your own way. I have a fair bit of experience with that latter one.”

Sylvaine mews and sits up. With a long stretch, he gives a great yawn and leaps down onto the floor, skidding across the rug. He prances away, tail held high, and slinks through the open door into the dining room and out of sight.

Aureia watches him go and shifts closer to Aymeric. A distant part of her mind is startled by her newfound confidence. Perhaps it’s the direction of the conversation or the comfort she feels here—or the wine. Most likely the wine. But she will seize this moment before she loses it. She has to.

“So,” she finishes, slipping her hand into his. It would be too easy to curl up against him, her head on his shoulder. “I’m going to ask again. Would you come with me?”

He squeezes her hand, his eyes unable to leave hers. Thancred would likely say something snide about him looking besotted. Her heart thunders in her chest. Between the wine and the way he’s looking at her, the desire to kiss him is overwhelming. Why shouldn’t she? She may never get another chance.

Aymeric smiles gently. “There is nothing that would make me happier—”

She kisses him.

For the briefest of moments, she feels him freeze in shock and surprise. Then he melts, his mouth warm and gentle as he kisses her in return. She trembles, her mind buzzing, giddy with astonishment at her own boldness. Without giving it much thought, she twines her hands at the back of his neck and pulls herself into his lap, straddling him. His breath catches in his throat and she senses his hesitation, his hands resting gently against the small of her back.

But he does not push her away. For a moment, they are caught in time—seconds passing, indecision mounting, as if they are both too hesitant to make the first move.

And now that she is here in his arms, it terrifies her how scared she is of losing this. Losing him.

Head fuzzy with wine and too lost in the moment to think, she does the only thing that make sense. She presses her mouth to his again and kisses him deeply—

He pulls back. “Aureia, wait,” he says.

“Hm? What for?”

Aymeric exhales a long breath. “I… This… A moment, if you would, please?”

Shame flushes her cheeks. Was she too eager? Did she misunderstand him completely? Did she misread every sign? Maybe his interest in her was simply her imagination. Fuck it, maybe those romance chapbooks really did do a number on her. This is all Tataru’s fault.

Fuck. What the hells do I do now?  

Cursing inwardly at her own stupidity, Aureia disentangles herself from Aymeric and slides off him, shifting to the far edge of the couch. Her face burns with embarrassment and she tugs awkwardly at her coat, readjusting it. It’s difficult to forget the feel of his hands on her back or his mouth on hers. For a moment, brief though it was, she was in a fantasy.

Brushing her hair out of her eyes, she rests her elbows on her knees and stares determinedly at the opposite wall. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. It was I who—”

“No. It was me—”

“Aureia—”

The door opens.

“Lord Commander, I—”

Aymeric rises to his feet and drops his hands to his sides, standing at attention. “What is it, ser?” he asks, his tone crisp and official. “News from House Fortemps?”

Aureia flushes, doing her best not to fixate on how quickly he has fallen into his professional façade. The messenger is not one she recognizes, but from the shine in his armour and the terseness in his voice, she has a feeling he is one of Artoirel’s men. The Fortemps heir has never liked her much and the distant professional courtesy he extends her has rubbed off on his knights. If he had walked in only a few seconds sooner, he would have caught them in a moment that would no doubt give Artoirel yet more ammunition to disparage her with. Not that he couldn’t put two and two together…

To his credit, the messenger either hasn’t noticed or refuses to acknowledge the empty wine glass on the floor.   

“An urgent message for the Warrior of Light,” he says with a curt bow. “I was instructed to deliver it without delay.”

Well then, spit it out already. She forces a smile on her face and gestures, silently inviting him to continue.

“Master Thancred returned to the manor a short while ago—”

Aureia’s heart drops. Thancred, returned. Thancred, at the manor. She hasn’t given him any thought for a while now. Impressive, considering how difficult it has been to excise him from her mind. So many restless nights of unanswered questions rolling around her head, wondering what went wrong and when, shoving down the hurt of seeing him and Hilda together like that. She was enjoying being free of it.

And now it has coming rushing back.

She would be lying to herself if she said she wasn’t relieved to hear of him. Confirmation that he is safe and sound.

“—bearing an injured maiden.”

Her ears prick up. What’s this?

She exchanges looks with Aymeric. He raises an eyebrow, but she shrugs and spreads her hands. She is as perplexed by the announcement as he is. What maiden? Who could it possibly be? Thancred has a reputation for philandering, but it is, frankly, a farce. This must be something else.

“Master Leveilleur and Mistress Tataru are tending to her wounds, but they do not like her chances. Respectfully, my lord. They have requested the Warrior of Light’s presence immediately.”

Aureia’s eyes widen. If Alphinaud is involved…

It can’t be. Alisaie…?  

His long-lost sister and twin, who diverged from her brother’s path to take matters into her own hands. Aureia doesn’t know her well and has not seen her in years. But if she is back and she is injured, if Thancred saved her… Then she knows where she has to be.

“I will go at once,” Aureia announces and rises from the couch. Blood rushes to her head and she winces, doing her best to keep her expression straight as a headache pulses between her eyes. She is regretting drinking that much wine. She may not be drunk, but from the way she is wobbling she knows she must be tipsy—and it’s going to be a pain to hide it.

Aymeric puts a gentle hand on her elbow, steadying her. Whether it is a gesture of support or to save her from further embarrassment, she doesn’t know. Her stomach twists into a knot. She doesn’t wanted to leave things left open with him like this, but she doesn’t have a choice.  

“And I shall go with you,” he says firmly. “Lead the way, ser. Mistress Malathar and I will follow.”

[polux-aka-hyakunana]

Waiting my friend that was supportive to my writing attempts to read my stupid keimichi fic and give his supportive feedback so I can pretend it's worth sharing or doing something about it — but I don't want to be annoying about it so I just

[desertfangs]

One More Kiss, Dear [AO3]

Lestat/Daniel Explicit but like.. it's vampire smut no one gets fully naked (Daniel gets close) 4,691 words

An interlude between The City Never Sleeps and Leave Your Mark in which Daniel and Lestat return to Trinity Gate and decide to watch a movie. They don't watch very much of it.

Coming to home to Trinity Gate and finding it dark and quiet was still a strange experience to Daniel, but with Lestat there, it didn’t stay dark or quiet for long. He bounded into the house with renewed energy and flipped on the lights. 

“Where should we start?” Lestat asked, doing a half turn in the foyer with his arms spread out. Daniel had hoped he’d been joking about redecorating. Armand wouldn’t mind if a few things got moved—with a revolving door of houseguests, it was inevitable—but he’d lose his shit if he came home and entire rooms were rearranged, particularly if Lestat and Daniel were the culprits. 

He cast about for something else they could do and immediately thought of the blue-eyed robot from one of Armand’s favorite movies. 

“Hey, have you ever seen Blade Runner? ” 

Lestat frowned, thrown by the change in topic. “Is that the movie you and Armand were on about back in the 80s?” 

“Yeah, the one you’d never sit down and watch,” Daniel said. Back on Night Island, Armand and Daniel had attempted to get Lestat to watch Blade Runner —as well as several other films Armand was sure Lestat would appreciate—many times, but somehow Lestat always avoided it. If anything, he was more interested in the tapes Armand had made himself, and the home videos Daniel had made of Night Island as mortal, showing the island in all its glory on sunny afternoons or the sun setting over the water. Louis, too, had enjoyed these far more than any movie. 

 “There’s an actor in it that Armand always said reminded him of you,” Daniel pressed. “Want to check it out?” 

Lestat titled his head to the side, considering his options. Then he met Daniel’s eyes. Smiled. “I suppose there’ll be time to redecorate later.” 

Not once Armand is around, Daniel thought. He could picture Lestat hauling a chair from one room to the next, Armand on his heels to snatch it away and return it to its original spot as they sniped at each other. He stifled a laugh and led Lestat to the living room with the large television. 

It only took three tries for Daniel to get the television input from the Xbox where they’d put it last night to the Blu-Ray player. 

Lestat made himself comfortable on the corner of the giant sectional sofa. He’d removed his boots and jacket in the foyer and now wore only jeans and the dark red t-shirt, almost the color of blood. It reminded Daniel of their kill and how Lestat had kissed him afterward, the way he’d shoved him against the wall and pressed his body against Daniel, sucking on his neck. His hand flew to the place on his throat where he’d left a deep, purple bruise and his pulse quickened.

Lestat glanced over him, grinning. “Well? Are we going to start this film or not?” 

Daniel swallowed and nodded. 

Read on AO3!

[sunshades]

Ambiguous canonicity of fantasy hannibal in the sign of roses pending title universe...

[baeshijima]

ngl after re-binge-watching hq!! with my mum, i have the urge to pick up my hq!! various x reader series again,,, i still have all the notes and plans and rereading that made me realise it would actually make a good fic 😭