dance partners (nsfw fic ) - wolstinien week day one (food/travel)
11.5k words - explicit - mild food kink/mild breeding kink, draconic estinien, cowgirl, improper use of dance partner, improper use of standard step, more tags on ao3!
The Final Days have come and gone, and with the Scions disbanded, Sumire and Estinien travel to Radz-at-Han at the behest of Vrtra, and in search of their next adventure. And while Estinien awaits whatever request Vrtra plans on asking of him, Sumire rediscovers her passion for dancing, and solidifies that for her, Estinien is her one true Dance Partner.
“Mmm,” she pecked a kiss on his nose, then reached over, and grabbed one of the sweet, flaky pastries from a golden platter. “Ranaa has improved much,” she said as she took a bite. Small bits of dough and honey clung to her lips, and he wanted to lick them off of her lips and her tits. “I must train more if I am to stay ahead of her!”
Estinien felt woozy, suddenly. Like the world was spinning ‘neath him, yet he remained still. Perhaps that last sip of liquor was one sip too many, he mused, but Sumire kept him grounded. She always had. It was easy to focus on her, it came as natural as breathing, and even easier to allow himself to fall back into base, natural instincts.
“Perhaps that can be arranged,” Varshahn said, and when both he and Sumire turned to him, Estinien noticed the small, warm smile on his face, and felt a strange, yet not unwelcome, feeling. ’Twas akin to how he felt when gazing upon the boy, Alphinaud. ’Twas a feeling of pride, and of contentment. “If that is what you desire?”
Hello again tumblr! 2026 is shaping up to be a busy year, with us not only hosting Wolstinien Week in June but also a meetup for fans of Estinien at FanFest NA!
Interested in attending our meet up? Feel free to fill out our interest check! While not required, it will give us a general idea of how many people to expect, which will help us with planning how many stickers we need to order, as well as where we might want to meet up.
The meet up is also not just for Wolstinien shippers, but any and all fans of Estinien! Come share your love for our Azure Dragoon with us at FanFest!
Thank you all for your support, have a happy holidays, and we look forward to an exciting 2026!
Author's note: 100% a crack fic (that blends WoL and player, plus game mechanics) inspired by a Discord exchange between friends from earlier today (included under the cut). Enjoy. And yes, I'm so omnicrafter-pilled that I can distinguish all the different sound effects of everything crafting- and gathering-related - including Rapid Synthesis failing - when someone else is doing it. My friends live in fear of my judgment.
Word count: 530
It was a clear, sunny day on Oizys (not that there was much variation in the weather up there, anyway) and Fang was happily hammering away under the watchful eyes of the Loporrits, peaceful in his personal reassurance that a certain Viera was still suffering from intense space burnout and would not be going anywhere near a teleporter for at least another week or two. Plenty of time for him to catch up on datasets without any judgmental eyes burning into the back of his head as the sound of his materials cracking from the strain of his efforts filled the air, or a cry of “did I just hear you fail that?!” ringing out from across the base as he hastily swept the ruined contents of yet another cosmic crate under a nearby tarp, breaking his concentration and his will to live. Yes, there was no risk whatsoever of being observed by someone who would most definitely disown him as an apprentice (seriously, he’d been at this long enough, why hadn’t he been promoted to journeyman yet?!) if he saw the way the Hrothgar went about crafting.
However, as he zoned out half-watching his tool shift through a whole array of pretty colors, humming to the beat of his hammer, he failed to notice that the usual sensation of feeling a bit lighter on his feet on this planet was growing stronger and stronger until strobing red lights cut across his vision and a nearby Hyur started yelling about gravitational fluctations and weightlessness. He cursed to himself as he hastened to slap the finishing touches on the powersuit component in his hands, his hammer slipping in his rush and breaking the hydraulics line. As he stared down in consternation at the clear amber fluid now staining his shoes, a massive shadow fell across him, accompanied by the slow tapping of a gloved finger on a metal chassis.
“Fang.”
Sullen silence.
“Did I just watch you break a five-gold streak by using Rapid Synthesis in a macro?”
More silence, this time tinged with evasiveness, indignation, and a bit (okay, maybe a lot) of fear.
He heard a long-suffering sigh somewhere above his head. “We’ll discuss this later.” The gleaming black mech started to stomp away towards the east.
“Why are you even here?” was all he could muster up to mutter under his breath; trust the Viera to hear him perfectly fine all the same from twenty yalms away.
“Oh, I still have 25 drones out of my last stack of 75 left to send out,” came his blithe reply. “Won’t be able to use them on Auxesia, but I got tired of running around after 50 of them and figured I’d finish the rest later when I got bored.” He paused, and Fang could hear the smirk in his voice. “You should go to that red alert, you can at least make up the datasets you Rapid Synthi-failed yourself out of… apprentice. Ciao!”
Fang was going to need to seek out the most obscure, out-of-the-way hole on the planet to craft in from now on, and even then… that psychopath helped build this place, he’d still find him anyway.
Astraex/I can be quite insufferable about crafting, (un)fortunately. XD
Discord conversation that sparked this crack featuring the hubby, @n3rd-qu33n-ffxiv:
Summary: The Chief Overseer of Elpis is overworked and it has fallen into your hands to make sure he rests.
Notes: this was written for Love of the Light: A FFXIV Dating Sim Fanzine, but I would also like to share this as a small contribution for @applesyrcusweek 2025 Day 4: Free Day. As this was written for an otome game-like zine, the fic was written in 2nd-person.
Read on AO3.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The sweet scent of freshly baked apple pie slowly wafts from the oven. You bend down and peek at the glass frontage. Judging from the browning crusts, you predict that it won’t be long until the pie is done. You take a step back and smile to yourself in contentment.
It has been a long journey. It wasn’t your intention to leave Amaurot, but when you presented the idea to Azem, the Traveler readily offered the use of his personal abode. “Feast your eyes upon the most expansive view in all of Etheirys with sprawling meadow, vast open sky, and of course, my own personal orchard.” Azem made exaggerated gestures with his hands before he looked at you and offered a knowing smile. “Apples. I’m sure it’ll provide Hermes the rest he needs.”
You thought Azem had overstated the beauty of the place, but upon your arrival, you realized how wrong you had been. Green spread as far as the eye could see, undulating like the waves of some terrestrial ocean and broken only by darker patches that marked copses of trees. Clouds glided lazily by, beneath which groups of herbivores grazed and snored upon blades of grass. Somewhere ahead, some sort of avian creature cried as it dove then climbed back up with a mole in its claws. Hermes watched it fly into the distance, where the hills melted into the sweeping heavens. A stolen glance at the man beside you was enough confirmation that this was the perfect decision. Hermes couldn’t take his eyes off his surroundings. Who could, though? Even you were briefly rendered speechless.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” you said in his silence.
“Simply,” he replied.
Now you peek through the kitchen windows at the orchard behind the cottage. You spot Hermes still picking apples there, reaching for the lower branches and then inspecting every specimen as though his life depends on it. He’s looking for the best of the best. Azem has given you the go-ahead to harvest the entire orchard—which you would rather avoid, to be perfectly honest. Prior to your departure, you had clearly articulated to Hermes that he needed more nourishment than a mere apple can provide, despite how easy it is to obtain and consume or how his own orchard yields plentiful harvest every moon. Yes, you know about his secret picnic spot behind the Cthonic Horns. Whatever he says, it is not a replacement for a proper meal and rest. Weariness lines his face and his shoulders have begun to stoop. If he only lets you, you would take half his burden into your own hands, but you know as well as anyone else that your partner has a tendency to drive himself to exhaustion. That he cannot see it himself frustrates you sometimes, but is that not why you are here?
The enamel clock rings on the counter. You shake out of your reverie, return to the oven, then open the lid. Sweetness pours out in waves of enticing scents. Wearing your mitts, you take the tray out and set it next to the stove. The surface has hardened to a charming golden brown. You’re tempted to taste it but decide against it, instead placing it on a shelf to cool.
That is the last of it. You’ve laid out the rest of your lunch on the table: stir fried vegetables, grilled salmon, lamb skewers, green salad with sliced apples and smoked chicken, and a pot of light potato and mushroom soup. A crystal decanter of fresh apple juice sits neatly at the center of the table between two identical mugs adorned with gold-painted leaves. Now all you need to do is collect Hermes.
You exit the cottage through the back door, then climb the slope up to the orchard at the top of the hill. He’s already set a mat on the slope, where a basket is sitting, already filled to the brim. Upon your approach, he pauses mid-apple picking, a natural smile blooming across his handsome features.
“Ah, you’re here.” He breaks the apple stem from its branch. “Good timing. Here, try this. I think this is the best one yet.” Wiping the apple on his robe, Hermes then pivots it right to your lips, and you unbiddenly take a bite. Cool sweetness fills your mouth with each crunch of the apple flesh between your teeth. You blink in surprise. It is much sweeter than any you’ve tasted at the Horns. The best of the best, as he says and Azem claims. “Delicious, isn’t it?” His smile is too bright for a piece of apple now in your hand.
As he walks back to the orchard seeking more of the prime specimens, your gaze inadvertently follows him. Dappled sunlight dances along his dark countenance, his black robe stark against the warm colors of the trees. He has taken off his mask, his face a picture of quiet jubilance as he moves from one tree to the next—checking, inspecting, examining, all with that scrutiny that marks every researcher of Amaurot. And when he finds another sample he’s taken with, his jade-colored eyes will crinkle, and he’ll pick the apple off at the stem and offer it to you again.
Part of you wonders if this has all been Azem’s ruse as no one in their right mind would have any need for such an extensive orchard, let alone one exclusively for apples. But then again, Azem is quite the eccentric amongst Amaurotians. You cannot guess his mind. And does it truly matter? This was the reason why you helped Hermes harvest his first batch and made a pie and juice from it. Now he has a second batch and on the way to filling his third. A wry smile tugs your lips. You finish the apple in your hand and then join him at his side.
“Look at this,” he says, “have you ever feasted your eyes upon a specimen so perfect, so marvelous in every aspect? The rich red color, the plumpness of its flesh, the way it glints gold under the sun.” Hermes swivels and brings the fruit to the dappled light. Indeed, however he turns it, the apple seems to be layered in gilt. “I must ask Azem how he achieves such magnificent results.”
There it is: the beam that always pulls at your heartstrings—a soft quirk of his lips that instantly erases any signs of fatigue from his face. The way his features contorted into pure rapture the moment the two of you arrived, how the jade of his eyes gleamed as he took in the grazing animals and bountiful trees; extracting him from duty is worth it if it allows you to see his unbridled joy.
A gentle breeze ruffles Hermes’s hair. You reach up and tuck a stray strand behind his ear. He glances at you and you meet his gaze with a smile. “Lunch is ready. I’ve got lamb skewers, grilled salmon, potato soup. The apple juice from the apples you picked tastes divine, and of course, your apple pie is waiting too—cooling, still, but ready.” That piques his interest and you can’t help but laugh at his childish excitement.
You mean to let go of his face, but in one swift movement, he has tossed the last apple into his basket and captured your hand.
“Hermes—?”
His name dies in your throat when a soft sensation presses against the center of your palm.
Time stops.
You blink once, then twice. Heat rushes to your neck when Hermes looks at you with half-lidded eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispers. He holds your hand against his cheek and leans against it.
“What for?”
“For this.” His gaze sweeps over the trees and the firmament and the little cottage with the puffing chimney where his lunch awaits. “For everything. If not for your adamance, I might not have agreed to come on this vacation, averse as I am to leave my work unfinished. But I see you are right. The trip has been worthwhile to replenish the soul.”
One would think the chief overseer of Elpis was a workaholic, and he is, but his ethics come from an earnest love for his creations and the desire to see them thrive. You cannot blame him for his passion, though it would be a tremendous boost if he could only see the pallor of his face or the dark circles under his eyes. For now, it is the only thing you can do to prevent his body from utterly crumbling. The perfect reward: bringing him to the most beautiful place known in Etheirys, recommended by the Traveler himself, where creatures of all shapes and sizes can be seen frolicking in the sea of grass and the high heavens above.
You tug at his hand. “Come, let us get some color back into those cheeks.”
His blissful, contented smile will be enough to soothe your concern. For now.
Title: he just can't help himself
Rating: M
Tags/Warnings: Violence, Violence as a Metaphor For Lust, Catholic Guilt, First Kiss
Pairing: Zephirin/WoL
Word Count: 1879
gen | 2.6k words | warrior of light & hermes and warrior of light/amon
applesyrcus day 3 - ripe
Read on AO3
Or below the read more
Hermes trailed behind as the trio stepped out from the halls of the central building and into the open of Anagnorisis once more. Discussions had ended with a desperate plea for more time, time to forestall this choice of stepping into his predecessor's shoes as he left the Star, of continuing this endless cycle. There was a whirlwind sweeping through both his heart and mind alike, one he was all too afraid to lose himself within.
Breathing in the fresh afternoon air, he lingered in silence as the gnawing gale in his chest began to subside. This moment of respite— however brief, was one sorely needed, as for a time at least he could find solace in what was familiar to him. For his sake, for her sake, he must keep his composure.
As if summoned by mere thought, a flurry of blue feathers fluttered towards him, chirping in delight.
"Hermes!"
With a smile, Hermes kneeled down to greet the girl with open arms; arms she happily flew into, "Meteion! I'm glad to see you are feeling better." He wished to thank the familiar for keeping her company as well, but as he turned to do so, he found the air beside her eerily empty, "…Though you appear to be alone now, M'ilque was with you wasn't she?"
"Yes! She wanted to learn more about you and Elpis. So I taught her! About this place. About my power. About your favorite food!" Meteion could hardly contain her excitement, "She's making us apples! Right now. The candied ones!"
Taken aback, Hermes let go as he stood up, "Is that so?" With aether so thin conjuring them wouldn't be possible, which could only mean she'd be making them from scratch.
"I knew letting her wander around unsupervised was a bad idea." Hades sighed as the duo walked over, his arms crossed as they always were, "No matter, with Meteion returned we should continue your evaluation before we lose any more sunlight." He simpered, "Lest you forget, that familiar is in no way associated with us, and what she chooses to do with her time holds no bearing on ours."
Meteion's wings couldn't help but lower, her voice small and quiet, "Is… Is she in trouble?"
Shaking his head, Hermes gently reassured her, "She's alright, my dear. How about you go wait for me by the aetheryte? I'll be with you in just a moment."
In higher spirits, Meteion nodded eagerly before racing down to the plaza, leaving the three of them alone.
"My apologies, but I should attend to this matter." Hermes stated, straightening his mask, "She is a guest of Elpis and was tending to Meteion at my behest, so if something were to happen to her, the fault would be mine alone." A burden I can't bear…
Hades furrowed his brow at the man's insistence, "Surely one of your colleagues could fetch her? She is just preparing a meal, is she not?"
"Come now," Hythlodaeus interposed, "who better to assess the situation than the Chief Overseer of Elpis himself? We'll have plenty of opportunity to observe Hermes' work once he returns," He soothed with a few light pats on the shoulder before leaning close to Hades, a hushness to his voice, "And with her being Azem's creation and all, just when was the last time we've seen Achlys use a stove exactly? If at all?"
Hythlodaeus must've struck a chord as Hades grasped for words before finally conceding, his shoulders sagging in defeat, "Fine, retrieve the familiar yourself if you must— but do be quick."
-
It wasn't long before they arrived, the sweet scent of caramel wafting through the cracked door. There were few facilities in Elpis that housed the proper kitchenware to prepare food — rare that it was for someone to take the time to, rather than expend the feeble aether necessary to create it; it made this all the more curious. Whether Azem's familiar was designed this way or perhaps learned this of her own free will, he wasn't certain, but if given the opportunity he wished to find out.
With no noticeable peril in sight, Hermes slowly pushed open the door and peeked inside. It was a small, quaint chamber, one meant for small gatherings of people, though judging by the dust beginning to gather in the corners, it had not seen use for some time. Nevertheless, Meteion rushed in to cheerfully greet M'ilque whose focus had been fixated on the pot she was stirring— oblivious to their arrival.
"Meteion," She turned towards her with a smile before gazing up towards him, her tail sagging a little, "Hermes, I hope I'm not keeping you from your duties, I would have finished sooner but it took some time to find someone willing to conjure the ingredients I required…"
Hermes dismissed the concern with a shake of his head, walking over to help Meteion with her chair, "When I was told you'd taken to cooking, I wasn't sure what to expect given my fellow colleagues and I's… lack of apparent skill for it." He confessed, his voice lighter, "You however seem rather acquainted with it, so I see my worries were misplaced."
"Is that so?" She questioned quietly, "I've… had much time to practice." Setting the pot to the side to simmer, she slid over to the fresh apples sitting on the cutting board. "Meteion wished to share your favorite treat with me, but no one was willing to make it for her. Whether she was created for that purpose or not matters little to me…"
Arcane entity or living being— the classifications that determined whether a creation was worthy of a purpose in life beyond what they could serve for the further betterment of the Star. Rare, nay, atypical was it that someone thought of them as comparable, let alone equals. Perhaps a viewpoint brought on by the very gray-area she herself seemed to exist within, or perhaps something else— even so the compassion was palatable, refreshing for a change. How strange you are…
"I'm inclined to agree." Hermes spoke carefully, bringing a chair close to sit near Meteion. There was more he wished to say, to explore what thoughts she may have, but not here, not in Meteion's presence. She loved his colleagues dearly; oh how much it would hurt her to learn most did not feel the same. "Thank you for taking the time to make these for her."
"Of course." She answered, a small sway in her tail.
With the blade in hand, she carved into the apple swiftly, effortlessly. Hers was a practiced cut, as if she'd done this many times before.
Once they were all in even slices and moved onto a plate, she slowly drizzled the warm syrup over them with a spoon, "Normally I'd leave these to caramelize for a few minutes before serving, but I wouldn't wish to take up any more of your time…" Pouring the rest of the caramel into a bowl, she joined the two of them at the table, setting the dishes down between her and Hermes.
"Oh, oh!" Meteion's wings fluttered at the sight, much to M'ilque's delight, "They're p-perfect! You'll try one too. Yes?" She asked, looking up to Hermes with pleading eyes.
Hermes was uncertain at first, as though there were plenty on the plate, this seemed to be something intended for the two of them— but those worries were soon washed away when M'ilque offered a slice to him, her hand cupped beneath, "I wouldn't mind, I hope they'll be to your liking…"
"Ah," Hermes relaxed, accepting the treat with a smile, "Thank you, M'ilque."
Taking one for herself, she asked Meteion, "Are you ready?" before sinking her teeth into it with Hermes following soon behind. Ripe as the apples were, the juices dripped out and seeped out and into the caramel, leaving the taste overly—
"Sweet! Sweeter than Euanthe's!"
M'ilque licked the remaining syrup from her lips, "Is that so? I thought you may like them that way." She chuckled a little, turning to the ancient, "What of you, Hermes..?"
"It was rather delicious," He beamed, preparing to reach for another, "far better than the ones I've—" Before he could finish with his praise, she'd swiped a napkin from the table and leaned close to wipe the edge of his mouth.
A simple gesture of goodwill, he thought, though the longer her hand lingered on his warming cheek the more he began to wonder. Soft was the gaze that pierced through his mask, one he was more than happy to be confined to for he wasn't sure what expression he was reflecting under it.
"M'ilque?" He spoke after a while.
It was enough to shake her from the trance she'd seemingly fallen under and back away, "…Forgive me," Her ears lowered apologetically, "You just remind me of someone…"
"It's alright,"
Hermes gently reassured her, his heartbeat still drumming ceaselessly within his ears,
"I'll…
…
be more…
…
careful next time…"
…
..
.
.
.
Again.
Amon groaned, his head buried deep into his arms.
Again was he plagued with these dreams—these memories, vivid and real in the moment and slipping through his fingers the next. For as intangible as they were in the waking world they seemed to have been growing clearer in recent days; to his utter disappointment.
Dull, ignore, excise, none of these methods seemed to rid him of them, so what of a different approach? If avoidance availed him not then perhaps indulgence was the answer he sought?
Or perhaps it wasn't as he soon remembered the reason —beyond his busy schedules— that he rarely partook in this act. Dawning his usual colorful attire, he'd been swift in the markets, purchasing what was needed and avoiding any and all potential conversation. He wasn't in the mood for small talk especially if it pertained to this strange project of his.
And there he stood now, hunched over a burner in his lab with a pot he'd found tucked away in some corner, sanitized for this very occasion. This was tedious, boring, his time would be better spent with his studies or reviewing the countless telegrams he'd yet to tend to that day. But instead he was there, maskless and alone stirring a batch of syrup he was uncertain he'd enjoy.
Though not as alone as he'd like, as he'd felt a pair of eyes resting on him for some time. "I know you're here." He raised his head and called out seemingly to no one, "There's no use hiding, you know. Have you come to make light of my misfortunes?"
After a few long beats of silence the air stirred around him, and there coalesced a being from the darkness,
"I would never do such a thing, I thought this was rather sweet of you…"
An Ascian, she called herself; Azem for a title and M'ilque for a name. It hadn't be long since he'd first found her lurking around in his labs— thanks to Noah informing him of a strange new admirer keeping to the shadows, yet nothing seemed to dissuade her from returning. Not a threat of violence, nor a promise of turning her into a subject of his (if anything, she seemed rather flustered by the proposal) and so she remained— coming and going as she pleases; nary without a word sometimes.
Deep-down, despite these misgivings he tells himself he harbors towards the miqo'te, he found himself enjoying her company more often than not.
"Sweet of me?" He scoffed in disbelief, I must be losing my edge. Turning down the heat of the burner, he tapped the spatula a few times against the rim of the pot before setting it aside, "This is merely an experiment like all the rest, I wouldn't think too differently of it."
Her head tilted curiously, "Is that so?" She questioned, disappearing from his side to re-coalesce on the empty counter, "These are candied apples, are they not? I've heard you muse of them in the past…"
Wonderful. "Of course you have." He set the cutting board beside her, beginning to carve slices out of the apples. Years of practice on subjects of the more lively variety had given him a precise hand; a hand that helped glide through this with ease. It wasn't long before he was pouring the caramel sauce over the slices with a spoon— an awfully inefficient process he thought, but if he'd hoped to recreate what haunted him so thoroughly then it was best to follow those steps to a tee.
M'ilque was quiet, her discolored eyes following his hands every movement. Was such a thing so fascinating to her? Or was she simply a bit peckish? He supposed it mattered not, as regardless of reasoning all experiments needed a willing test subject, and whom better than the one who insisted on being there?
"Here." He offered the plate to her, the slices placed neatly around the surface to form the perfect spiral, "Even if I wanted to, I could not finish all of these alone."
M'ilque was taken aback, her gaze slowly falling from him and onto the dish, "I have no need to eat, I do so very rarely these days…"
Amon's sigh was a weary one. Of all things to protest. "That corpse of yours you cling onto must still retain a sense of taste, albeit dull." Plucking an apple from the plate he held it up to her lips; inviting her to bite. "So why not indulge your cravings every once and a while?"
When worded in such a way she appeared more welcoming of the idea, her ears fluttering low as she drew closer, "If that's what you wish..." She bared her fangs as she sunk them into the treat in his hand. How strangely intimate...
After a few moments she pulled away from him, a delighted flicker in her ears, "These are rather good, would you mind if I had another?"
Amon raised a brow, they didn't seem poisonous at least, "Fond of sweets are you?" He teased, setting the platter down, "Be my guest, as I've said, I cannot finish these alone." And no sooner had the words left his mouth did she pierce one of the poor slices with one of the talons of her glove; something he couldn't help but chuckle at.
Taking an apple for himself he leaned onto the counter, chewing slowly. It was good, his measurements had been correct and there wasn't a flake of burnt caramel to be found— and yet the taste wasn't the same; it could not compare to the one left lingering on his tongue every night. Even so, as his mind was quick to write this off as another failure of his, his gaze fell onto the person before him. This too was like a dream wasn't it? Enjoying these in the company of another? In her company? It was different but oh so familiar, though if they'd met before wouldn't she remember this too? Would such a thing even be possible?
"…Sorry," M'ilque's remorseful voice shattered his thoughts, leaving Amon befuddled at what the sudden apology was for before noticing the once full plate was left with nothing but crumbs, "I may have indulged too much."
Amon's confusion soon morphed into a thunderous laugh, one hardly covered by his hand, "I suppose this is of my own doing, I did insist you feed yourself as you pleased."
M'ilque met his gaze, her head on her shoulder, "I suppose so…" She smiled sheepishly, "Though I'm not sure if they'll be as good as yours, I'll make some for you as an apology…"
For me? He blinked in surprise before sighing a little, his lips settling into a simper, "Well, well, I'll be here then, awaiting your masterpiece."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Never in my maddest visions did I foresee this," I murmured against your lips.
"Neither did I."
"You and I both know what will happen if we follow down this path."
"I know," you whispered, almost at the verge of tears, "and I am terrified out of my mind. But will you show me courage again, G'raha Tia?"
The first chapter of my heart and soul is finally out in AO3! After agonizing it for more than a month.
read more of their love story on A03
UQuiz found here
If you're seeing this, consider yourself tagged!
The first time she’d kissed him was in a hidden church alcove.
She’d found him before the altar to Halone. Watery winter sunlight filtered blue and indigo around him from the towering stained glass windows. His face was impassive as he faced the Fury, spine straight and eyes steady. His lips spoke no prayers, yet his hand on the hilt of the sword at his waist spoke volumes, muscles undulating against an unspoken strain, twitching against unforgiving steel.
No one else ever seemed to notice his tells. She wasn’t quite sure yet what it meant that she did.
He didn’t look at her when she drew next to him, one hand on her own sword at her side in unconscious mimicry. She crossed herself by rote with her free hand as she regarded the elaborate altar, her fingertips moving lightly from her hip to her opposite shoulder in an ancient pantomime of drawing a weapon.
“You are determined, then?” His voice was low, and meant for her ears alone, but his eyes remained fixed heavensward, unflinching beneath the cold, unseeing eyes of the Fury above.
Before she could respond, the door to the church opened somewhere behind them, the sound echoing tenfold through the cavernous space. Docents moved into the cathedral, lighting candles as they went, fighting against the ever-encroaching darkness of Ishgard’s winter afternoons.
He didn’t flinch at the noise, nor the intrusion, but the distance between them – carefully professional, always professional, perfectly parallel and worlds apart – was immediately charged in the presence of others. There was nothing untoward about the Lord Commander and the Warrior of Light paying their respects to Halone on the eve of potential battle, but it felt like being caught at something nevertheless.
From the corner of her eye, she saw his gaze drift over to look at her. “Estinien says you’re to leave at dawn.”
She didn’t need to confirm what he already knew. Instead, she focused on the way she could nearly feel every breath he drew, resonating against her very bones.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them.
Then without a word, she turned away. Coloured light shifted across her face as she walked, tracing down her exposed features and sliding away again as she moved, unable to hold onto her. She headed with meaningful purpose towards the shadowed passages off to one side of the basilica, cool, and secretive, and away from prying eyes and ears. The intricate iron gates opened soundlessly for her as she passed through, and she found empty corridors and shrouded alcoves beyond, inaccessible by the general public and forgotten by many of the high priests in favour of the more open and well-lit passages.
She didn’t need to turn her head to know he was following behind her.
The warrior fit her hand against the worn stones of one of the pillars as she stepped into one of those myriad alcoves, hidden from view when she drew to a halt, smoothing her palm against the worn surface like it could steady her. When Aymeric drew up against her shoulder, she could measure the coldness of the stone by comparing it to the warmth filling the space between them.
“If you have concerns about our plans, Lord Commander, you should speak them now.” She turned around to face him, meeting his eyes with the sort of bravery she’d always been accused of, but never seemed to truly feel was earned. “As you say, we leave at dawn.”
The sound of her own voice seemed foreign in this shrouded space. It felt tinged by something that beat hard against her chest, and set her fingertips tingling.
He seemed softer, somehow, in the darkness. His title and responsibility fell dimmer on him here, like the endless responsibilities set upon him only shone in the light of Halone.
She wondered if the same rule applied to her.
She wondered if he could see it too.
“Forgive me.” His own voice had dropped to match her own. Echoes carried in these walls, and their words were for each other alone. He was too close and too far by half; she’d missed when he’d somehow stepped that much closer.
“I agreed to your strategy, and I am not wont to go back on my word. But…” He paused, and his eyes searched hers with startling clarity. “I would ask you, Warrior of Light, if this is a venture you go on because it is your wish, or because you feel the needs of our city have pressured you so.”
His eyes were a sharper blue in this light. She could attempt to chronicle every shade they caught, and still be unable to describe any of them with enough accuracy to describe how they pierced through to parts of her soul that she hadn’t even realised she still possessed.
“Is there a difference?”
Something fell in his gaze, so quickly that she couldn’t find where the difference lay. There was merely a lingering sense of loss that she couldn’t quite name, but was acutely aware of all the same.
“How can you ask such a thing?” He was closer again, and she matched him in reverse, half a step backwards only to find her back pressed against the cold, unforgiving stone wall behind her. “Your life is not weighed by the duties others ask of you. Your decisions should be for yourself, and your own wellbeing.”
She studied his eyes, searching for what had been lost. Parsing out what she found there instead, with a strange, not altogether unwelcome feeling unfolding in her stomach. Like flower petals unfurling. “And if my wellbeing is tied to that of our quest? What then? This is who I am, Lord Commander.”
“Then I will support you as steadfastly as I always have.” His gaze dropped, and for a long, loaded moment, his eyes held at the slight parting of her lips.
For a heartbeat, she stopped breathing; if he noticed, he didn’t voice it.
“But,” he said, nearly a whisper now as his eyes met her once more, “I would ask that you come back.”
Her heart clenched uncomfortably, but she kept her unwavering gaze on his, forcing down the betrayal of her fluttering heartbeat as she nodded her quiet, resigned acceptance. “For Ishgard.”
Impossibly, she felt his gloved fingertips brush tentatively against the delicate skin of her bare wrist, his gaze unfaltering. She couldn’t breathe. “No. Not for Ishgard.”
Something fell away inside of her with a soft shattering feeling.
Like breaking glass. Like thawing ice.
She kissed him.
Immediately, her lips on his set right every stolen glance, every wordless expression, and all the weighted space between empty fingertips. Wrapped as he was in cold steel to protect him from the heartless cruelties of the world, his lips were still as warm as she’d suspected, and for the space of a single heartbeat, she pressed to him like the starving woman she was.
Just as quickly, she pulled away, breathless. Warm he might have been, but the ice still packed around her heart recognized the feeble flame it thought it found in return, and the shards stabbed painfully at her chest where they’d fractured apart. She resisted the urge to press the back of her hand to her lips, fleeting and foolish. She didn’t want to see the expression in his eyes, nor acknowledge the consequences of her deepest loneliness set bare. Her throat constricted, dry, and tried to find words to set the situation right.
“Aymeric–”
Only the quick movement of his hand to the back of her head kept her from hitting the wall when he surged forwards. Aymeric pressed his lips to hers with an open surety that betrayed countless imaginings of the exact movement, cradling her head with one hand and wrapping his arm firm around her waist with the other. Her hands flew up to catch in his collar, pulling him close and feeling her fingers brush against the warm skin of his neck she found beneath. He tilted his head to slot their mouths together better, and she was lost, scrambling to press every missed opportunity into this singular moment. Trying to convey without words – words, which always failed her when she needed them most – that if he asked, of course, of course she’d come back to him. Come hell or high water, she was coming back to him.
And the longer he pressed against her in the holy shadows, kissing her breathless, the more she was convinced that every press of his lips was asking her to do just that.
