Io chokes awake.
Her vision swims with the pitch-black memory of Ultima Thule, where her every emotion was heightened. Where the people she loves most sacrificed themselves, one after the other, so that she could inch toward victory. Where she fought Zenos for the last time and… She did not expect to wake from that place. Now, it seems she cannot leave it.
Quickly, before panic can truly set in, she lists the things she knows:
It was only a dream. Her eyes adapt to the cool blue darkness of her room—and there's another thing, she's in Megadhuta, in her bed. The silk sheets are cool between her fingers, the quilt comfortably heavy around her waist. The sharpness in her chest subsides.
The night is quiet, except for the heartbeat pounding in her ears and the gentle sound of breathing next to her. Estinien is here tonight.
It's not so dark that she can't map the scarred expanse of his back. The parallel valleys nearly running from one shoulder blade to the other, dug in deep and angry by the claws of something that didn't want to die. Neater, smoother lines cut by heretic blades. Raised burns—from magic, from dragon fire, from the eyes—tangle in thick, shiny knots on his shoulder and side.
For all his talk and all the planning, here is the evidence that he didn't want to die either.
Io shuffles closer until her chest is flush with his back, and he doesn't stir when she wraps an arm around him. She noses his hair away from his neck, creating just enough space for her lips to meet this delicate, unmarked part of his skin, and lets this moment wash over her.
He is solid in her arms. Safe from anything that has ever sought to harm him. Io closes her eyes against the dark, inhales his familiar scent, and times her breathing to the steady rise and fall of his chest. Focuses on the pleasant contrast of his skin bleeding warmth into hers and the open window’s whispered breeze.
When she exhales, the unease that woke her is distant, no match for the certainty she can touch.
Estinien's hand covers hers, another point of soothing warmth. His voice comes out thick and leaden as he attempts a whisper, "You should wake me."
"There is no need to disturb both our sleep."
"Another about—?"
"Same as the last. I'm alright," she says, nuzzling into a more comfortable position. "Better now."
"Mm," he is nearly asleep already, and Io presses another smiling kiss to his shoulder. "Wake me next time. Please."
She is sure he doesn't hear her "Yes, love", but the knowledge that he recognizes her struggles even while he rests makes sleep easy to find once more.
@apostatetabris tagged me and it's been forever since i've shared writing but i can't resist their wily charms.
She wondered if he received “visitors” often. Io thought it strange to receive an invitation from the Commander after her business in the area was concluded but his offer had sparked a bit of intrigue. (“Yes, I hear Lord Haurchefant can be,” Y’shtola had teased, “quite intriguing.”) Io didn't think he seemed particularly adept at promiscuity while trying to hide his growing blush from her and his subordinates. He donned a cloak over his chainmail and met her when she stood by the hearth.
“What did you have in mind for this…” date?, she mused. “Outing?”
tagging: @ma-suranas @avaquet and @therifaerie >:3 (but seriously, no pressure!)
pairing: alma greene (twc m)/agent mason
word count: 640
a soft book 3 moment, after sin's first attempt to take the mc. this is a rewrite of something a few years old. double the length, and featuring my ideal UB setup (adam, nat, mason, farah).
The dark SUV jerks out of the clearing, ignoring the piled leaves and gnarled roots that blanket the forest trail until the tires find asphalt, then they're off to the facility. In the second row, Alma takes the middle seat—a habit, one she's barely taken time to consider. This time is different. She slumps into the leather seat, exhausted, yes, but heavy with the awareness of the almost instinctive circle of protection the vampires form around her.
They balance on a razor's edge.
Adam drives in silence, one hand on the wheel and the other cupped over his mouth and chin, elbow resting on the partially open window. He shakes his head at irregular intervals, listening intently to Farah and Nat discussing the Annunaki.
Farah races through a long list of half-details of lore from the Echo world, bouncing from one to the next so quickly it's a wonder Nat keeps up, but she does. She begins mentally cataloguing the vague information, asking questions that connect the pieces or open new avenues of thought.
Alma's eyes fall to her lap, weakly appraising her jeans mottled with dirt and grass stains. The dried mud under her nails. She releases a long breath through her nose.
A familiar dread presses in uncomfortably. Unable to focus on the conversation around her (on anything besides the fear of being hunted and the nauseating scene of Mason looking back at her before his broken body crashed into solid ground), Alma's concentration turns to biting back the panic, literally—her teeth catch the inside of her cheek, not quite hard enough to bleed. It’s one way to distract from the madness of the last few hours.
Mason’s hand on her knee is another distraction.
He stares out the window, silent except for the quiet breaths he doesn't need to take, and he is shaking. It's almost unnoticeable, and Alma wonders just who this touch is for. Something in it reminds her of how he struggled to light a cigarette after seeing himself chained and bloody in the maa-alused mirror.
He reached for her then, for one dazed, instinctual moment before the walls he's built around himself slammed back into place. He reaches for her now. Alma realizes this is—this will always be—his reaction to fear: pleading, angry, and stubbornly defensive of those he cares for, then seeking a soft place to land.
Alma places her hand over his and is barely surprised when he lets their fingers slot together. She feels warmer for it, and the knife-sharp edge of her anxiety dulls. Mason’s gaze drags over the small touch to meet her eyes, and his tired half-smile is an invitation she will never be able to resist.
Alma slides as close as the seatbelt will allow, ignoring the flick of Adam's attention on them in the rearview mirror, until their sides are tightly pressed. His hand falls to her inner thigh, with her own still linked. He doesn’t move beyond the simple comfort of keeping her close. She wraps her free arm around his, and leans her head against his shoulder as her fingertips soothe the exposed skin of his forearm.
I’m right here. We’re okay. We’re together and we’re okay.
Things she can’t say in the car with everyone else. Things she hopes he knows anyway.
His head rolls to rest on top of hers, and she feels the start of it.
The golden cicada shell of his skin cracks and bursts, and out crawls something bigger, voracious, but painfully soft. Underneath this… this newness, space is made for her to grow into. And maybe if she is patient, and they keep very still, something as lovely as stained-glass wings will unfurl.
Mason doesn’t know what to call it.
On the edge of her awareness, Alma has already given it a name.
characters: io laithe, haurchefant greystone, mentions of estinien varlineau
word count: 924
rating: explicit - minors do not interact
note: set in affair AU, where io is married to haurchefant out of obligation post-HW. something i wrote for a prompt on discord. not a fun time for them, but the awkwardness is fun for me :>
The fire is low in the Commander’s chamber of Camp Dragonhead. Even in the dim light, the room is unchanged since Io was here last; cluttered shelves and a desk overflowing with missives and reports show Haurchefant’s procrastination. It was charming once. Now, like so many little things, Io only finds it tedious.
Still, they fumble through the motions. Clumsy, misaligned touches and kisses they don’t allow to linger. Io’s hand in his trousers, stroking him until he's hard enough. Haurchefant’s fingers rub at some arbitrary place very near the place, but he is careless to try harder. He dips lower, an investigation. Has their half-assed effort to arouse made a crack in today's annoyances?
“Have you missed me, darling?” His voice darkens, affected lust barely concealing their shared frustration. They've had a bad day. A series of bad days, really, where their best parts erode with every hour they share.
No, the words stick behind her teeth, I relish the quiet when you are gone. I only needed to get out.
“Fuck me,” she whispers into his mouth. Kisses him hard, sloppy, then pulls him into bed.
Haurchefant falls over her. “Ill-advised as your trip has been, I sometimes forget just how dauntless you can be. Do you remember the first time I had you, here in this room?” Io makes a noise of affirmation as she reaches between them, guiding him where she needs him most. This is the only thing she needs from him right now. He continues, “Let us make tonight an ode to that beginning.”
He fills her with a rough grunt, and his dick suffices for her purpose—a good distraction, the easy way to scratch an itch. They haven’t been together like this in weeks. She should want to see him, to witness his eyes unfocus and his mouth loll open as he thrusts.
Io adjusts so his face is buried between her shoulder and neck.
Her mind wanders elsewhere—to the hinterlands at sunset in the company of another, and the friendly rivalry tingling along her skin during a hunt. Hope swelling in her chest each time Estinien smiled. She leaned into him, head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her waist. It was enough to leave her questioning if the shelter she felt in his company was her invention or something more.
Then there was the ball… Io thought she might ask him to dance, or invite him to step away from the party for a moment of peace, but Estinien made things spectacularly clear that night. She’s made herself a puppet, and he is right to want nothing to do with her. Knowing that doesn’t patch the wound.
Haurchefant sucks her neck. It's almost pleasant if she tunes out his voice. Perhaps her cooling embers can still be stoked into a blaze. There is some pleasure in the act itself, after all, even if her affection for the partner has dwindled.
Io runs her hands down her husband’s back, avoiding the thick, knotted scar along his spine—he has asked her to stay clear, so she will. She imagines a different landscape, vividly etched in her mind from the few times Estinien let her help with his bandages. He’d watched her cautiously, the way a mistreated dog warily eyes an open hand. Vulnerable and ready to bite. He trembled through it, held in place, she assumed, by trust and a need to learn if he could be handled gently, after everything.
Haurchefant moving inside her does not compare to that kind of intimacy.
How is she meant to think of anything besides what Estinien’s weight might feel like if he were the one pressing her into his bed, or his reaction after brushing strands of silver from his eyes? Would he watch her in his quiet, knowing way, sharp eyes softened by another kind of vulnerability?
These thoughts are only hypothetical. They are no longer friends. And there are things on this star she was never meant to have, much less keep.
Haurchefant rolls them so she sits high on his lap. “You seem far away, my lady. I trust all is well?”
Everything is wrong.
“Forgive me. I lost myself in a memory, the same as you.”
Can’t you see it? How wrong this is?
He looks tired, lips pursed in a disappointed line. “The lead is yours, find your pleasure as you like.”
Io closes her eyes and rocks her hips. Haurchefant gives her thighs a cursory squeeze as she takes over, but there is no fire in his stationary touch. The thin thread of Io’s longing unravels, and she is not surprised: it was not for him anyway. If sex is to be a marital utility instead of a shared joy, she will await his monthly visits to Fortemps Manor. She will be a dutiful wife and only half a lover.
Haurchefant comes, his teeth gritted in concentration. A strange comfort, seeing him claw his way to orgasm. The one she lost is less of a pity. For better or worse, they endure this together.
They clean up. He adds a few logs to the hearth. They tangle together under a thick quilt, but it feels like a performance—another thing they force. The silence thickens around them. Neither asks about recent activities or interests, nor recounts previously unheard tales. For the first time, Io is eager to return to Ishgard.
It must be the small hours of the morning before Io drifts toward sleep. She prays gray eyes visit her dreams.
characters: estinien varlineau, hamignant varlineau, and featuring my wol, io laithe
word count: 1921
rating: mature for mentions of bullying & death.
summary: three short, heavily headcanoned scenes from estinien's life, at ages 12, 21, and 33. [middle section heavily inspired by this art]
posted 9/5/24 | updated 10/11/24
“I challenge you, Ser, to a trial by combat! Take up your arms and fight me!”
“And what is my crime this time?”
Hamignant, small as he is, brandishes his stick threateningly, but all that swagger is betrayed by an answer that comes out slower than usual. Shaky, even. “You don’t play with me anymore.”
Estinien shifts his weight, leaning a bit more heavily on the tall crook. A stone of guilt sinks in his stomach, so he distracts himself by watching the shallow valley just below the hill they stand on and the sheep grazing there. It is late spring and their coats are full and fluffy, ready for shearing. His twelfth nameday was less than a moon ago and he is expected to help with the task this year. His parents rely on him more now, sending him on errands usually tended by his father, giving him additional fieldwork. It isn’t easy, but it feels good to be trusted.
In truth, he would very much like to continue playing with Hamignant. His little brother has a knack for making games of their chores, and should they be caught goofing off, his wit is quick enough to make even the most stern adult smile.
Estinien does not share his talent for conversation, but Hamignant never seems to mind. He is content to babble so long as Estinien is close by to listen.
The stick—his foraged sword—wriggles closer. Closer. Until it pokes into Estinien’s cheek.
His gaze slides sideways, to Hamignant’s dramatic stance. It would be funny if not for the serious set of his brow, the tight purse of his lips, and the sheen welling in his eyes. Halone bless him, he truly is upset…
Estinien shifts again, batting the stick away with his crook, and smiles at Hamignant. “Then fight me, little knight, but take care to hide your bruises from Mother and Father.”
With a cheer of delight and an expression that makes Estinien proud he put it there, Hamignant begins their spar. Their wooden weapons echo across the meadow, sharp cracks followed by the occasional shriek or grunt when their limbs take a hit.
“Ow!” Estinien pauses to nurse a sore knuckle in his mouth. Hamignant celebrates, jumping on the spot before reenacting the flashy maneuver in the air between them. His victory doesn’t last—Estinien topples him and sends them both rolling down the hill in a fit of laughter.
They land fulms away from the sheep. Some come over to sniff them, like curious friends checking for injuries. Hamignant reaches up to pet snouts, red cheeks stretched in an open smile.
Estinien lies back to catch his breath. Clouds drift overhead in lazy wisps, and the grass tickles his neck and ankles as a warm breeze passes through the meadow. He closes his eyes, listening to the soft bleating of his charges, and even though his knuckle still throbs, he is happy.
“We should make a pact, Es,” Hamignant says, and his excited voice does not negate the sense of peace. “When we grow up, let’s both be knights. We can live in Ishgard and wear armor, protect beautiful maidens from harm, and fight dragons!”
“Best not to wish for dragons, Hami, like Mother says.” He chews his bottom lip. “Besides, I don’t want to be a knight. I like living here. Someone must stay and care for the farm.”
Hamignant’s smile sags. “Fine,” he pouts, though he looks less defeated than before. “You can stay in Ferndale all your days, and I’ll be a great knight of Ishgard. I will come home every Starlight and tell you about my adventures. That could still be fun, right?”
Estinien grins and rights himself, then offers a hand to help his brother up as well. “The finest plan you’ve ever had.”
At age twenty-one, Estinien is still getting used to his height.
Hitting striking dummies with Alberic is one thing—they don’t dodge, and they don’t hit back. And sparring with his unit is pitiable right now, as many of them adjust to growing bodies. It is something else entirely to swing the unfamiliar length of his arm at a sneering face, or struggle to take an unwieldy step backward before the very real fist meets his cheek. To fight and defend himself seriously.
He hits the training yard dirt with a weak groan that is all but drowned out by a roar of laughter. His ears ring from the impact. Four soldiers, all fledglings like himself, still in a training unit, stand over him.
“And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay down, Varlineau.” The one that threw the punch. Taller than he is, and stronger, and probably some noble’s son or nephew. It’s been a few moons since his official enlistment, but Estinien has not learned their names. He is here for one reason, and he cannot make room for useless information. And why should he, when another puts a foot on his chest as he tries to stand?
They erupt again over such a hard-won victory.
“We heard you last night, whimpering in your bunk like a freshly-weened babe. That the Azure Dragoon should waste his time with you,” one scoffs.
“No better than an orphaned Brume brat. We should drag you back to Ferndale and let Nidhogg know he missed one—”
The ankle holding him down makes a sickening snap when he twists it. Striking dummies certainly don’t do that. The boy goes down with a pained scream.
Estinien stands. He says nothing, only wipes his bloody nose with the back of his hand, then swings.
He spends three days in the gaol, and they do not bother him again.
He’s been in this room too long. His body is stiff from disuse, even with the daily practice of simple stretches. By chirurgeon’s orders, he has been forbidden from any activities that might reopen his wounds.
By fucking Halone and all the rest, he is bored.
At least he doesn’t want for company—that is not to say company has ever been a strong craving for him, of course. But Estinien could do worse than the Warrior of Light making her near-daily visit, even if it’s simply because this is the single place in Ishgard where she might escape the pitying gazes and prying questions about her… entanglement with Greystone. He enjoys a few hours of quiet, tolerable companionship, and she has a moment of privacy; an even exchange, in his mind.
Io sits in a ratty armchair, legs curled under her, by a sunny window so thickly lined with sympathy flowers, the room resembles the Holy Gardens of the Vault. Or, more kindly, the meadows ringing Ferndale in late spring. She wears the evidence of mourning around her eyes, red-rimmed and darkened bags from lack of decent sleep. He knows the look well.
Still, the backdrop suits her.
Today, she knits, softly humming to herself in time to the rhythmic click of the needles. She’s lost in it, and her silence is appreciated. They talk during these visits, yes, but it isn’t like before. He thought her a friend before Aymeric’s mad plan shook their lives. Now… “friend” seems both too frivolous and too forward. They’re vulnerable in this room, Io grieving her lover, Estinien bandaged and weak—vulnerable, but distant.
He misses how they were before.
So he watches the wool slipping between her fingers with each meticulous loop, the way the half-formed garment hangs heavy from her hands. And all of it—the dappled light on the flowers, the repetitive scratch of Io’s work and wordless song, the weight of wool he used to know well, the herbaceous scent of medicinal salve rising from his wounds—dredges up the memory of another life. If Estinien closes his eyes, it could be twenty-one years ago. He could be there, if only for a moment, if only as a visitor.
Grief wails inside him. It is the roar he’s felt for years, through the Eye he used as a tool. Strange, to feel it now as part of himself, bottomless and inconsolable and so full of love. Stranger still to realize they were not so different in the end.
When was the last time he’s cried? Estinien is barely aware of where the tears trail down his cheeks, numb to everything but the homesick ache he has fought for half his life. He rubs his face before Io has the chance to see him.
“Io.” Estinien clears his throat. With her head still tilted towards her craft, Io’s eyes shift to meet his. “There is something I would ask.”
She pauses, waiting for his question.
“Why did you save me?”
Her answer comes in the form of a furrowed brow. She continues knitting without a word.
“I was ready. I was. And now? I don’t know how to be, I don’t know how to live without it. I’m unfit for anything else.”
Io’s lips thin a bit, tightening into a frustrated line, as she works. She shakes her head. Maybe she’s angry he asked. For all he lacks as a conversationalist, he is an expert in offending, even when he doesn’t mean to.
He lifts himself off the pillows piled at his back, ignoring the fire in his shoulder.
“You could’ve left me, or killed me. I feel him, Io. The echo of his loss; when it hits me… Io, you could’ve killed me.” The words leave him in a rush, riding the swell of pain that belongs to him and the adamant traces of Nidhogg that are part of him now.
Her sigh shames him. “Kill a man—my friend—when he doesn’t want to die? Let you fall to anguish and pain?" She lays the needles in her lap and her dark gaze all but dares him to argue. He’s never heard her speak with such a firm certainty. “No, Estinien, I could never have done that. Nidhogg’s isn’t the only grief you carry, nor are his memories the only ones worth saving.”
Silence encloses them, balancing on the knife’s edge of comfort and unease. Neither looks away. He counts the agitated rise and fall of Io’s chest until they are breathing in sync, then until both are steady.
With the softer tone he recognizes, she says, “We all need reminding that burdens, even ones as heavy as this, can be shared.”
Her mere presence gives the lie to his words. He would’ve done the same, if it were her. He sags back into his pillows, exhaustion replacing the wyrm’s overwhelming emotion.
And they return to the shred of peace they fought for. Io hums, and the needles click, and that is enough. He listens, occasionally mustering a courageous glance, and thinks about the uncertain future until the rays of sunlight tilt his direction instead of hers.
“I think it’s time to get on.”
“Me?” Io’s lips stretch into a crooked smile over the yarn. “Fine, I’ll kill you next time.”
His laugh is rough and unfamiliar sounding, closer to a cough. It hurts his broken ribs.
Io’s raspy chuckle is a far more pleasant sound. “Where will you go?”
Estinien sighs. He knows where he wants to go. The question is whether he will be welcome. “If it’s all the same, that is my business alone.”
Io nods and does not push the matter. Hm. There is always another question… In the absence of one, something settles in him… A sense of solace he didn’t know he was allowed.
characters: mikoto jinba x io laithe (wol)
word count: 1412
rating: mature; sensual/sexual content
summary: in their downtime between unearthing ivalician myth, io and mikoto spend an evening at kugane's hot spring.
“Is this the way it’s done?” Io looks up from the middle of the Hot Spring, large eyes seeking Mikoto’s reassurance that she is preparing their rice wine bath correctly.
Kugane’s crimson sunset catches on the rivulet of sake flowing from the bottle Io holds. The light is in her hair too, and on her skin, kissing her edges orange and red as she kneels in the water. As etiquette decrees, Io’s thin gauze wrap hangs from a pillar at the water’s edge—clothing is not allowed in the baths.
Mikoto hangs her wrap with Io’s and wades into the comfortably warm water, carrying two porcelain cups and her own bottle of sake. Hells if she knows the right way to pour it, she’s never been here either.
“It seems an appropriate technique. At least, I can think of no better way.”
Io’s laugh is light as she empties the bottle into the shallow, private pool. The steam takes on a soft aroma, honeysuckle and pear, and perhaps the proprietor was onto something when he raved about how relaxing these baths could be. Io tugs at her wrist. “Come on, sit. It’s been a long day in an even longer week. We deserve a break, and I want to hear everything you know about my friends before their accolades. And learn more about you too?”
Mikoto’s thighs break the water with a little splash. She doesn’t look at the droplets sprayed on Io’s arms. That would be inappropriate, since their acquaintanceship was founded on a professional, academic basis. And she certainly doesn’t notice the ones on her chest, collecting into tiny streams that run south until they drop from her—
“Shall I fill the cups?!” Mikoto quickly arranges the small cups on the stone lining the pool's edge, pouring each to the brim. “I can assure you, on the subject of your friends, I was little more than a hanger-on. My time at the Studium was less than exciting, which is why I am venturing farther afield for research that sparks my interest.”
Io takes up a cup. “While I’ve no formal education, I understand the desire to expand one’s horizons. Quite intimately, in fact. To venturing farther afield?”
Mikoto mirrors her, unable to stop the pull of an embarrassingly obvious smile. It must be the joyful click of their toast, that’s all. She pays no mind to the point their knees meet beneath the water. “To venturing farther afield.”
Warmed by the steam, the sake is full, sweet, and easy to sip. The flavor leaves her tongue quickly after each pull, and it is not long before they are each pouring a second cup as their conversation leaves Sharlayan, and a third as they land on relatives. They take that one as an ill-advised shot, agreeing that Kugane is a terrible place to discuss sisterhood.
It’s true these last few weeks have been tiresome. Traveling to Dalmasca, close calls in Rabanastre, and all the documentation in between. That is to say nothing of the familial melodrama of their hosts. Alma suggested they take the weekend to explore Kugane like the average tourist, even going so far as to book their lodging at the Bokaisen Inn. Mikoto thought Io’s quick acceptance was out of politeness, but she’d been in decent spirits as they took in a local theater show and toured the castle gardens yesterday. They spent today combing the markets for obscure trinkets, with Io occasionally dragging her to the next stall by the hand, an adorable rush of intrigue lighting up her face. On their way back to their rooms, Amaji, the proprietor of the Bokaisen Hot Springs, convinced them to have a bath.
When in Kugane…
Io readjusts her legs with another splash. She leans against the low stone, so close to Mikoto that Io’s leg almost overlaps her own. Ripples dampen new bits of their skin, fresh places for the last sliver of sunlight to hang on. Maybe she is imagining Io studying the molten shine on her scales, her expression filling with a soft kind of awe.
Mikoto inhales, taking this opportunity to let her gaze linger on Io’s freckled form as well. There is so much of her; lean arms and long legs, shoulders set in an effortless elegance, and (Mikoto sucks in her bottom lip) the darkened peaks of her exposed chest, stiffened by the evening air. The image flashes in her mind—her tongue on Io’s skin. Would she taste of soft, ripe fruit, like the sake they drink, or the warm water in which they soak?
Best not to let her mind wander to what is under the water…
Their eyes lock through the thin steam. Mikoto’s mouth goes dry when Io’s lips lift on one side.
“Apologies. The wine has made me rude enough to stare.”
“Well…” Mikoto joins Io in leaning on the stone. Would moving closer be unwelcome? “If you are rude then my sense of decorum is truly lost. It’s difficult to keep up formalities in the state we currently find ourselves.”
Io reaches for the bottle between them and pours the next round. “Then we should simply forget the formalities, no? I would prefer to think of us as friends after our adventure, and surely there are more to come.”
She pauses, and there is something strained in it. Despite her playful delivery, the words are not as light as they sound. “If I may be frank, after Ala Mhigo, I could use a friend’s distraction right now.”
She presses the porcelain cup into Mikoto’s hand. There is no room for guessing when Io’s fingers linger on hers longer than necessary. She traces a winding path over Mikoto’s wrist, delicately gliding along the sensitive edge of her scales.
Mikoto takes a long, final sip, savoring the flavor as she looks over Io again. Io watches her drink, lips parting slightly at the sight, and Mikoto cannot believe her luck. She feels certain about her next action.
The cup falls against stone and she shifts onto her knees. Like this, she is a few ilms taller than Io. She can easily cradle her cheek, or push the curtain of half-wet hair over her shoulder, or tilt her chin up, firmly, with her palm. She can do all these things from this angle, and Io melts at the touch. Mikoto replies, “A quick evaluation tells me you are already distracted, Io.”
“Perhaps,” Io whispers. She moves forward, one hand on Mikoto’s waist. They are slightly misaligned with Mikoto kneeling over a still-seated Io, but their bodies are pressed close now, skin to wet skin, and she learns Io’s hands roam easily.
Mikoto leans down. Io’s lips part again, wider this time, wanting. Mikoto teases them with hers, the lightest brush, and Io's reaction sends her head spinning. The quiet moan, her hands dipping past Mikoto’s hips, trying to pull her closer by her rear.
“A mutual distraction then. Between friends.”
Mikoto meets her open mouth. It might be Mikoto, or perhaps it's only this brand of touch, but Io is hungry for her. The steam around them is no match for how their kiss burns. Desperate, messy, but neither cares. The kiss travels. Mikoto pushes Io back against the stone and works down her neck, kisses across her clavicle and, finally, drags her tongue across the tight point of her nipple. Sweetwater and salt—the answer to her earlier query. Mikoto takes it into her mouth fully, driven by the sounds Io tries not to make, then gives the other side of her chest equal treatment. Her natural inclination is to move further down, but she remembers they are in water and pauses.
A softer kiss now, Io’s full lips demanding hers.
Then Mikoto asks, “Shall we go to your room, or mine?”
...
“‘oto? …you alright, Mikoto?”
She hears her name, though her sense of recognition is hazy. It takes a second or two to blink away the fog and return to the present.
To Io kneeling in the Hot Spring, holding a half-poured bottle of sake.
“Is this the way it’s done?” Dark, wide eyes that she has already witnessed flutter shut at touches she will make tonight.
Sometimes she hates her version of this “gift.” Generally speaking, she would rather her Echo function in the same manner as Io’s: catching glimpses of the past, unburdened by and unafraid of the future.
Tonight, however, Mikoto is grateful for the certainty.
word count: 668
rating: mature for mentions of death/violence.
summary: io fights through the ghimlyt dark.
A questionable habit, keeping an arrow nocked on the slack string. Fighting through imperial hordes with one hand occupied might be a burden for most others, but the longbow is at home in Io’s left hand. The ready arrow is an extension of her arm, her will, and there are only two things she must factor before loosing it: a suitable target and the time it takes to draw the string. But arrows are precious, and this one must wait.
Io relies, instead, on the dagger in her right hand, a vicious thing, and red from her work. It isn’t as comfortable, but it gives her no trouble.
She entered the battlefield with friends. Hien, Yugiri, Pipin, Lyse, Aymeric.
Alisaie.
Through thickets of smoke and swarming bodies, Io only catches glimpses of them now. A familiar cry of determination implies Lyse is not far, and in the aftershock of an explosion, there is a flash of blue–Aymeric’s cloak–but it is swiftly swallowed by red and black. A shimmering thorned tendril punches through a few footsoldiers flanking her left side, leaving bloody mist in its wake, and relief cuts through the adrenaline. She’s alright.
But signs of her comrades' well-being become fewer and less frequent. Wave after wave of Garlean soldiers seem intent on separating her from her allies. Before long, she is alone.
One makes a bold move to rush her, sword clumsily drawn. Half an hour ago, it would've been an easy dodge. Io misses it by an ilm or two (her chest clinches–too close) but she does not miss their neck. The little blade digs through fabric shoddily enhanced by magitek, then flesh. She frees it with a rough pull, readjusting her grip on the wet handle, and the body falls to the ground.
Shittiest part of Garlean armor, the neck.
There is only action and reaction, the haze of adrenaline, her pulse rushing too loud in her ears. Io moves and the battle moves around her, a gruesome storm with her as its eye.
She is getting sluggish, but the motions come naturally. Sidestep the heavy arc of an axe. Twist out of the path of a fiery projectile. Leap to avoid a determined shield to the chest, and leap again to use it as a springboard, launching out of range with an ungraceful backflip. Dip low, suck in air that is less choked by ceruluem, and plant a dagger into the nearest calf (she loses that one, but there is another strapped to her boot).
This is almost like dancing, she thinks, missing the ease of tathlums. Perhaps she’ll revisit them, if she lives through this.
Io recalls the sound of her own snorted laugh, but it is a sorry mental stand-in as she pants from exertion. She tosses the last dagger and it reliably finds a Garlean chest. Spin, spin, fingers drawing the string back, the ache in her arms and shoulder, and yes, it is funny. She hasn’t wanted to live so badly since… since she faced Gaius and Lahabrea.
This deep in Ghimlyt, even that base instinct threatens to slip. In reaching for her future–any future–she is burning out.
There is no time to think about the way her throbbing nerve endings blaze, or the fatigue that beckons her to lie down in the bloody dirt, to rest.
To die.
The bowstring is taut before she finds a mark (there are so very many), but a soldier bearing down on Aymeric earns their prize. He turns to look her way, and hope is bright in his eyes. The familiar expression fades, darkened by worry. She must look like she feels.
Then the storm shifts, imperceptibly at first, then all at once. The violence ebbs, blown off its course and back to the northeast.
Familiar shouts in the distance, and under the high, hollow ring of magitek shells laying cover fire, comes the heavy clod of Zenos’ armor.
Stay awake, Io. But there is so little left to give. Stay alive.
Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️ (hi azia love u)
hi ells!!! love you!!!! sorry this took so long, i was rolling things around and trying to get to a place where i liked my writing again. but i think i'm here now!
these are in no particular order btw. just some recent faves :>
♥ triple play | io/estinien (modern au)
Haurchefant met Io at a Spring Break party in freshman year, where he spent far too much of the night watching her quietly hold up the corners of some upperclassman’s rented condo. He felt like he knew everything there was to know about her right away, a symptom of that bright melancholy distinctly found in art school girls, like she was only waiting on fate to catch up to her. Maybe the reality of her was less interesting than his half-baked conclusion, but god, her smile.
He was so nervous to talk to her.
♥ pang | io/estinien canon (pre-relationship)
His stomach tosses, and he admits something to himself for the first time: he wants to kiss her. Something he hasn’t done often, rare even in his most eager of dalliances. She was looking at him in the way she often does, like he could tell her anything and she would not flinch, and maybe that’s the problem. He can think about more than a kiss without losing his head. It is the straightforwardness of the intimacy he desires that sends him reeling, and already she affords him something close. So he ran.
The urge has been growing for some time. They catch their breath after a battle, and she’s bruised and radiant, and he shoves it down. They carry out some mundane task and Io pulls her hair back from her face, and Estinien endures a calamity. How often has he busied his hands to keep them from the simple act of tugging her to him and embarrassing himself?
Io smiles patiently.
“Your brother?”
His eyes fall to the leaf-covered ground and he nods. “He would walk our sheep into the fold from pasture. He named them all. Even if they already had one, he’d change them to something he liked better–insufferable, really. Anyway… when one went missing, he’d beg me to join him in the search, make me scour the fields and nearby forest with him until we found whichever young, or old, or lame sheep had wandered off alone, staring up at us with that look of relief. And I was a bit bigger than him, so I would carry it home while he doted on Flopsy, or Custard, or whatever the fuck he’d named them–” he feels his smile spreading as he shakes his head, and the vacuum in his heart surrounding Hamignant shrinks, just a little. “I suppose what I mean is, he still holds me accountable.”
♥ tiebreaker | io/estinien (modern au)
The city doesn’t slow around them. Flashes of sound and color leak into the dim room, painting the wall in shifting light that disappears between drowsy blinks. Io wonders how all those passersby in taxis and on the street can go on like before, unaware a faultline has moved under their feet. Don’t they know? Didn’t they feel it?
The quiet breaks abruptly.
“Io, I’m not,"—his rough voice wavers. He pauses. She can almost see him turning over the words in his mind—"very romantic, if I’m honest, but I could be good to you.”
His head on her chest is the only thing keeping her in orbit.
“You’ve always been good to me. If you’re asking me for something…”
“I’m asking.”
♥ flood | io/estinien canon (mature) ↓
His lips return to her neck, and one hand travels the length of her back to twist the strap of the bra. “Tell me, where did you get this?”
Io gulps, eyes falling closed at his touch through the sheer fabric. The pale lavender lace barely covers her chest and leaves her nipples artfully exposed. It is the last remaining piece from the matching set; the bottoms and garter belt have long been removed in a racy attempt to undress. Now he fucks her without obstruction, not that they would stop him in the first place.
“Shtola sent it. A gift to celebrate my finally sleeping with someone after such a long–” Estinien thrusts, hard, chuckling at the timing– “long time. Though it appears to be for you more than me.”
“Then I shall have to thank her when we next meet.”
The next moan comes unbidden as the hand on her back wraps into her hair, tied into a messy tail, and pulls. A short, quick jerk, and she can see half his face now, flushed red and smirking.
Once more, he tests her, waiting for her reaction.
Io smiles at him. “More.”
