#ship names remain my mortal enemy when it comes to tagging

[sesamestreep]

there's something fiction about the way that reality's going

(read on AO3)

SUMMARY: It's bad enough that Foggy has to spend his Saturday morning giving bad news to some overly-ambitious campaign manager. It's unforgivable that he turns out to be hot, of all things. [AKA - The West Wing AU] A/N: here's part 1 of that west wing au i've been talking about writing for months. I put copious notes (including a mild content warning for the 90s as a time period in general) on AO3, so I'd recommend reading there if you want more info. big thanks to @firstelevens for talking me off several ledges during the writing, editing, and posting processes for this fic!

“You know what’s sick, Karen?” Foggy asks, as he rounds the corner of her desk.

“Sick like bad, like the flu?” she asks, not looking away from her computer. “Or sick like good, like a skateboard trick?”

“Sick like disgusting and perverted.”

“Ooh, I am not sure I want to know.”

“Too bad,” he says, as he tosses his duffel bag into his office. It collides with a filing cabinet, but doesn’t knock anything over, which is pretty good from this distance. “I have reached a new level of depravity.”

“Congratulations?”

“Thank you. Ask me how.”

“Must I?”

“Yes.”

Karen sighs. “How did you reach a new level of depravity?”

“I found myself thinking, while flying with the President on Air Force One, ‘god, this sucks!’”

“That’s your new level of depravity?” she asks, unimpressed.

“Karen, I’m telling you I’m bored of flying on Air Force One! The President’s private plane is boring to me. The novelty—of Air Force One—is gone!”

“And that’s all?”

“‘That’s all’?! Karen, I—”

“I heard you the first twelve times," she says. "You’re a real sicko, Foggy, I get it.”

“This revelation means less to you than I anticipated,” Foggy says, idly fiddling with the things on her desk. 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she says, filing something. “I kind of thought you picked up a new, exciting fetish while in Pakistan.”

“Unfortunately, no. At least, not that I’m aware of.”

“There’s always next time,” she replies. “Did you bring me back anything?”

“Also no. In my defense, you didn’t tell me you wanted a new, exciting fetish while I was there.”

“A good boss would know without having to be told.”

“Oh, no. They’ll take away my ‘world’s greatest boss’ mug for this!”

“You don’t have one of those,” she says, frowning.

“And whose fault is that?”

“Looks like we’ve both got some work to do,” she says, turning her attention back to her computer.

“Speaking of that, what are you doing here on a Saturday?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Almost always, but in this case…”

Karen looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Foggy, you have a meeting.”

“I don’t schedule meetings for Saturday mornings,” he says. “And certainly not after I’ve been away in Islamabad with the President for three days and on a plane for 15 hours.”

“Yes, but this is Marci’s meeting,” Karen says. “The one you promised to cover for her, since her cousin had to move her bachelorette weekend up two weeks to—”

“This weekend. Fuck!” Foggy closes his eyes. “Oh, I should not have agreed to this! This was so stupid. I’m so jet lagged right now and I’ve been wearing the same suit for like two days.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, why?”

“I packed in a hurry and I miscounted—you know what, forget it! I would still smell like airplane, regardless.”

She steps around her desk to put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s not even that—Good god! That is not what airplanes are supposed to smell like!”

Foggy sniffs his shirt and winces. He was kind of hoping he was just being dramatic. “Pakistan is a very populous country,” he says, weakly. “And we were in the capitol, so lots of people, in close quarters…”

“So, unless this guy has a sinus infection, he’s going to be able to smell you from down the hall.”

“Karen, please! I am begging you…”

“Do you have another suit?”

“Not one that smells better !” Foggy exclaims. “Do I have time to go out and buy a new suit?”

“Your meeting is in 30 minutes, and I’m guessing you still need to read the briefing packet Marci left you, so you know what this guy wants to talk about.”

“This is the guy from the Bryant campaign? Mitchell…something?”

“ Matthew Murdock, yes.”

“I know what he wants to talk about,” Foggy says, waving a hand at her.

“Oh, just read the damn packet!”

“I need to find something to wear that doesn’t smell like I walked here from Islamabad, okay?”

“I’ll ask around,” Karen replies. “You prep for the meeting.”

“You’re going to ask around ?”

“Yes."

“To see if someone in the building has a suit I can borrow? 

“Foggy!”

“I feel like you’re vastly underestimating how weird of a request that is!” 

“Not all men are as suspicious as you.”

“Most men are more suspicious than me, firstly,” he says. “And secondly, even if you found someone in this office to accept this absurd request—on a Saturday, no less!—suits are supposed to be tailored. I’m going to look weird in someone else’s suit!”

“What’s worse: looking weird in an ill-fitting suit or smelling weird in this one?”

“Maybe he will have a sinus infection,” Foggy muses.

“Yes, because praying for that is less weird than my plan,” Karen says, with an eye roll. “Wait, you have a gym bag!”

“In my office? Yeah…”

“And last week, that budget meeting got rescheduled and you couldn’t go to the gym after work because it was already closed when the meeting wrapped up!”

“Yes! Why are we excited about this?”

Karen’s practically bouncing on her feet. “Because if the bag is still here but you didn’t go to the gym, that means the clothes are clean!”

“You want me to meet with the manager for a congressional campaign in my gym clothes?” Foggy asks.

“Your clean gym clothes!”

“I can’t meet him in my gym clothes!”

“Why not?”

“It’s unprofessional!”

“It’s Saturday! You’re…laid back! You’re chillin’!”

Foggy shakes his head at her, because it’s extremely clear to him that she’s never said that word in another context before in her life. “Just chillin’ at the White House! Now there’s a TV show I’d watch!”

“ Foggy !”

“It could be like this President’s version of FDR’s fireside chats! You’re a genius, Karen!”

“I’m being helpful and you’re being such a dick about it,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You’re right,” he says, putting his hands on her shoulders in a conciliatory gesture. “And I appreciate it. But I can’t wear gym clothes to this meeting.”

“It wouldn’t be that weird! You could come up with an excuse—”

“No, I understand. It’s just—I barely look good in a suit. I can trick people into taking me seriously in a suit. If this guy sees me in basketball shorts, he’ll never take me seriously.”

“You look good in a suit, no qualifiers,” Karen says, firmly. “And honestly, it would probably be charming to him if you were in gym clothes. And lastly, you are the deputy chief of staff at the White House, Foggy. People take you seriously. You are serious.”

“That was wall-to-wall bald faced lies, but I do love you for it,” he says, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “And if I’m being honest with you, I’m nervous about the optics of dressing casually for a meeting where I know I have to give someone bad news.”

Karen frowns. “What’s going on?”

“The campaign this guy is running, it’s Bryant’s campaign in the 21st district in New York State. It’s a district that, historically, a Republican always wins. From what I know, and what Marci’s told me, this guy wants more help from us, and more funding from the DNC, to get Bryant elected instead.”

“But we’re not going to do that?” Karen asks.

“No, we’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because Bryant sucks,” Foggy admits, with a small, mirthless laugh. 

“Worse than the Republican who’s running?”

“He’s the incumbent and we know what to do with him, at least.”

“Still,” she interjects, frowning deeper, “it’s not…great…”

“It’s political maneuvering to be sure,” Foggy says, “but that’s the business we’re in, like it or not.”

“Yeah, so…”

“So, showing up to this meeting looking ready for an aerobics class and then telling this guy he’s up a creek and the DNC isn’t going to throw him a paddle might be a bad look. At least if my suit’s wrinkled and I smell bad, he can write it off as me being an overworked staffer.”

“Which, you are.”

“Exactly!”

“Yeah, okay. I get it,” Karen says, moving back to her desk. 

“I have a few minutes?”

“Yeah, read the thing on your desk.”

“I don’t need to—”

“Marci wrote it so you could—”

“Marci’s secretary wrote it, and you know that.”

“And Marci’s secretary’s work has less value than Marci’s because…?”

“Ah, okay,” Foggy says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll read the thing.”

“Do you need coffee?” 

“Desperately.”

She nods. “Okay, I’ll get you some, so you can read.”

“Thank you. And while you’re at it, see if Jeri’s secretary is in and ask—”

“Excuse me,” a voice behind them says, and they both startle.

“Hi, can I help you?” Karen asks, automatically and politely, as she turns to face the man.

“I hope so,” he says. “I’m looking for Karen Page.”

“Then I can definitely help you,” she replies, cheerfully. “That’s me.”

“Oh, excellent,” the man says, offering her his hand. “I’m Matt Murdock, from the Bryant campaign. I have a meeting with Mr. Nelson at 10.”

“You’re…from the Bryant campaign?” Karen asks, hesitantly. 

Foggy knows how she feels. Absolutely nothing about this guy says ‘campaign manager’ except for the quality of his suit. He’s so glaringly handsome in a professional-athlete-who-also-gets-modeling-gigs kind of way that it takes Foggy a full minute to clock that he’s wearing sunglasses indoors (something a professional athlete/part-time model would do) and carrying a white cane. Bryant’s campaign manager is blind. That’s almost as unexpected as him being hot.

“Yes, I know. I’m a little bit early,” he says, either willfully or obliviously attributing Karen’s surprise to the wrong thing. 

Karen recovers quickly, though. “Not to worry,” she says, finally taking his hand and giving it a polite shake. “We appreciate your punctuality.”

“Well, I appreciate that handshake,” Matt offers, charmingly. “Very commanding, very firm!”

Much to Foggy’s amusement and vague annoyance, Karen lets out a hopelessly charmed laugh at that. “Thank you, I—uh, I do my best.”

Foggy gives her a wide-eyed look, and she gives him a helpless and slightly embarrassed one back. He shakes his head before inclining it towards Matt, who either hasn’t noticed him or is avoiding acknowledging him, for whatever reason.

“Would you be so kind as to let your boss know I’m here?”

“That, uh, won’t be necessary,” she says. Karen never stammers. This is so funny. “He’s, um—well, he’s right here! Foggy, are you ready for Mr. Murdock?”

Foggy does his best to hide his smile. “Am I ever!” he says, gamely, and steps forward to shake his hand. “Franklin Nelson, at your service. Everyone calls me Foggy, so you should too!”

This, somehow, catches Matt off-guard, which given his otherwise smooth and unflappable exterior, is kind of impressive. He very clearly expected to wait to be seen, and possibly hoped to have more time to flirt with Foggy’s assistant, judging by the looks of things. 

“Hello,” Matt says, stiff with awkwardness. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Foggy replies. “Delighted to make your acquaintance! I am holding out my hand for you to shake, for the record.”

“Oh, right. I’m so sorry,” he says, as he hurries to take it. 

There’s an awkward moment as he sort of guesstimates where Foggy’s hand is before making contact and Foggy’s left to wonder if he could have made that less weird somehow and feel slightly embarrassed that he doesn’t know the protocol for this situation. And he’s already feeling pretty embarrassed that he smells like a 15 hour flight in front of this very handsome stranger, who can probably smell him even more than the average person. Unless that stuff about depriving one sense making the others stronger is bullshit, which it might be. Foggy’s tempted to ask but that seems likely to make the situation more awkward still.

Matt’s palm is a little rough in places, which is kind of nice. Foggy’s is, he knows, not even a little bit rough. He’s got the smooth baby soft hands of someone who has always been an indoor kid and then grew up to be a lawyer. No calluses to speak of whatsoever. It makes him wonder where Matt, likely a lawyer himself, got his from. And now he’s been holding this hot guy’s hand for too long. Perfect.

“Well, why don’t you step into my office?” he asks, dropping it quickly.

“You’re sure? I know I got here before our appointment.”

“No trouble at all,” Foggy says, with more enthusiasm than he feels. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, yes,” Karen pipes up. “We have coffee, tea, soda, water—”

“I’m good,” Matt says, with another charming smile in her direction. Foggy’s still waiting for his. “Thank you, Karen.”

“Yes, thank you, Karen,” Foggy says brightly, and she sticks her tongue out at him.

“Actually, Foggy, could I borrow you for a second?”

“Absolutely.” To Matt, he says, “You can go right in and I’ll be with you shortly. There’s a chair in front of the desk, where…chairs normally are in an office.”

This, for whatever reason, makes Matt snort in amusement, which is somehow better than getting a smile out of him. “Yes, I think I can manage,” he replies, and moves towards Foggy’s office.

“Great. Be right there!” Once he’s gone, Foggy leans in close to Karen. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to point out that you should have listened to me and worn your gym clothes after all,” she says, flipping through a file on her desk disinterestedly.

“Yes, yes, I know. Karen Page the Wise, let her instincts never be doubted again,” Foggy says, miming genuflection.

“Do you still want a coffee?”

“I’ll grab it when I’m done. Hopefully, this won’t take long,” he says. He leans in even closer and drops his voice to a whisper. “By the way, is this guy a real campaign manager or is he just auditioning to play one on TV?”

“ Foggy ,” Karen exclaims, with an eye roll. 

“I’m sorry, but he’s, like, stupid handsome!”

“I hadn’t noticed,” she sniffs, feigning disinterest.

“Uh huh,” Foggy says, unimpressed. “Well, he noticed your firm handshake, that’s for sure.”

“You really are more perverted than when you left, aren’t you?” Karen says, amused. “Now, get in there and disappoint that beautiful man.”

“Lucky for him, that is something I’m very good at.”

Karen snorts at that, and returns to her work. Foggy goes back to his office and is pleased to see that Matt has managed to find a seat.

“Sorry about that,” he announces, as he settles into the chair behind his desk. “We’re a little bit scattered this morning. I just got back from Islamabad about twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, I appreciate your time.”

“Don’t mention it. Listen, Michael…”

“Matthew,” he says, surely seeing through the power play but not pointing it out. “Matt, if it’s all the same.”

“Right, sorry. Hey, at least, I knew it was one of the gospels from the Bible, right?”

The unbothered, generically pleasant expression on his face doesn't falter as he says, evenly, “There is no gospel according to Michael in the Bible.”

“Maybe not in yours,” Foggy replies, hoping he covers his nerves well enough that Matt can’t hear anything in his voice. “There’s a Saint Michael, though, right?”

“Yes,” Matt says, cracking a barely-there smile. “He’s an archangel, too.”

“An angel and a saint? Sounds like a lot of work. What’s his deal?”

“His ‘deal’?”

“Yeah, like what’s he the saint of?”

“Oh, like his patronage?”

“Yes,” Foggy says, snapping his fingers. “Like is he the guy to pray to when I’ve got a hangnail or a flat tire?”

“No,” Matt laughs, shaking his head. “He’s considered the patron saint of police officers, the military, paramedics, the protector of the Jewish people and the Vatican, as well as Germany, the Ukraine, and Brussels.”

“Wow, can you do that for all the saints?”

“A good amount of them,” Matt replies. He shrugs before adding, “I went to Catholic school.”

“That must come in handy.”

“You’d really be surprised how little it comes up,” he says, drolly. 

“Really?" Foggy asks. "Not even when you have a flat tire?”

“I would probably call AAA first, in that scenario. The saints tend to take their time.”

“Solid point.”

“Listen, Mr. Nelson—”

“God, please, like I said: call me ‘Foggy’. I’d do the classic ‘Mr. Nelson is my father’ bit but I’m pretty sure no one calls him that either.”

“‘Foggy?’ Really?” Matt repeats, incredulously. 

“Yes, it’s—not important why. It’s just—it’s what everyone calls me.”

“Fine,” he says, leaning forward in his seat. “Foggy, then. As much as I appreciate the opportunity to show off the benefits of my Catholic upbringing and education, I didn’t come here to talk to you about the patronages of various saints.”

“Yes, I knew that, actually. I’m sorry. I was stalling.”

Matt slumps back in his seat at that. “You’re going to tell me you can’t help me.”

“Listen, if this had been my meeting from the start, I would have told you not to bother coming down.”

“In your colleague’s defense, she did tell me that.”

“Well, then, I’m surprised you did it anyway.”

“You wouldn’t be, if you knew me better,” Matt replies, with so much confidence it borders on cocky. He gets five percent hotter in Foggy’s mental estimation from that alone. 

He clears his throat. “Your candidate is running for a seat in New York’s 21st district. Democrats never win in the 21st. It’s simple math.”

“Yes, historically, this district goes red in elections, but that doesn’t mean, with the right democrat and proper funding from the DNC—”

“That’s true,” Foggy allows.

“So, what’s the issue?”

“You don’t have the right democrat.”

“I…what?”

“I’m saying, Bryant isn’t the democrat to flip the 21st.”

“According to whom?”

“According to me.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to, then?” Matt asks, clearly keeping his patience on a very tight leash if the state of his jaw is any indication. Not that Foggy is admiring his jawline at a time like this.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Foggy, I came down here—”

“A waste of time, as promised, but hey, at least you made a new friend!”

“You and I are not friends.”

“I meant you and Karen," Foggy says, blithely, "but ouch.”

Matt's jaw somehow clenches even tighter. “I want to talk to someone who’s going to take me seriously!”

“You are talking to someone who’s taking you seriously,” he says, earnestly. “Trust me, Matt. It’s not you, it’s your candidate.”

“Well, that’s a new one,” he says, deflating.

“Bryant is a centrist—”

“It’s a Republican stronghold!” Matt exclaims. “Who else has a chance to flip the seat? Do you want to put a diehard socialist on the ballot instead and see how they do?”

“More than anything in the world, yes,” Foggy replies. “But this isn’t about what I want.”

“The incumbent is a right wing clown and he lends legitimacy to their rhetoric. I think the country would be better off with him out of a job. I’m sorry that the White House and the DNC disagree, but—” 

“You’re right.”

“I’m right?!”

“You’re right,” Foggy says. “With an asterisk.”

“Oh, boy.”

“Just a tiny footnote, really. He is a right wing clown, and he should be voted out of office, but he’s also a boon to the DNC.”

“How exactly does that make sense?”

“Every time he opens his mouth, the DNC pulls a quote, puts it on a direct mail campaign, and raises tens of thousands of dollars off of their members’ outrage. As long as we keep him in front of a microphone, we can basically print money for ourselves.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “What a reassuring thing to hear from a representative of my government.”

Foggy laughs, unexpectedly, which just makes Matt glare in his general direction. “Technically, we are the only ones who should be printing money, but that’s beside the point.”

“Are we at least approaching the point sometime soon?”

“You’re familiar with the phrase ‘better the devil you know…’”

Matt sighs. “‘Than the devil you don’t’. Yes.”

“Bryant’s the devil we don’t know. Dashwood’s the one we do.”

“Bryant is a democrat, Foggy.”

“Barely, and I don’t want it to be my job for the next six and a half years to make sure he’s not going to be the swing vote on every measure we want to get passed through the House. And it will be my job, Matt.”

“Well, if you keep selling out viable democrats like this, I don’t think you can count on re-election as a matter of course like you just did, so let’s call it two and a half years to be safe.”

Foggy leans forward onto his forearms. “Sweetheart, you don’t have a viable democrat on your hands, and that’s the nicest way anyone in this building is going to put it, so let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

“Easy for you to say,” Matt replies, standing. Foggy mirrors him. “I appreciate the condescension, by the way. No one’s called me ‘sweetheart’ in a long time.”

“No trouble at all,” Foggy says. “Feel free to stop by anytime you need your ego stroked.”

Matt laughs, or really huffs, putting his hands on his hips. He’s either getting a second wind on this argument or they’re about to get into a fistfight. He might have made that last retort too flirty. Some guys, by which he does mean most straight guys, will really take any opportunity. Luckily, a knock at the door cuts their standoff short.

“Foggy, the President wants anybody who’s available in the Oval Office in five,” Marci says as she barrels in without waiting, before her eyes land on Matt. “Oh, sorry to interrupt.”

“Marci, this is Matt Murdock, from the Bryant campaign,” Foggy says, begrudgingly. “Matt, this is Marci Stahl, deputy communications director. I believe your original meeting was supposed to be with her.”

“Yes. Hi,” Matt says, cheerfully enough, but the set of his shoulders remains tense.

“Matt, so nice to meet you,” she trills, giving Foggy a wide-eyed look over his shoulder as they shake hands. Of course she immediately clocked how attractive he is. Sometimes he thinks that an unfortunate side effect of them dating and then staying friends for so long is that they basically have the same brain. “I’m so sorry for sticking you with Foggy here. There were some scheduling issues with my calendar.”

“Not to worry,” Matt says, tightly. “Foggy’s taken excellent care of me.”

Marci purses her lips in amusement. “Isn’t he just the best?” she says, grinning at Foggy sadistically. “If I had my way, I’d foist all my downer meetings on him, because he always handles people so gently. Not my strong suit, I’m afraid.”

Foggy rolls his eyes, but Matt beats him to the punch. “‘Downer meetings’?” he asks, deceptively pleasant.

“Yes, well, it’s a pity about Bryant, but you’re young, as I can now see. You’ll have other campaigns, ones you can actually win.”

“We haven’t technically lost this one yet.”

Marci gives Foggy a look, before shaking her head. “So true,” she says, giving Matt’s arm a squeeze. “Anyway! Safe travels! Foggy, like I said, five minutes.”

“I’m in the middle of a meeting,” he replies, annoyed.

“It’s the Cruz case.”

“That’s going to—”

“It came back 5-3 against,” she says, cutting him off with a significant look at Matt. “That’s why I canceled my trip. We’re all hands on deck.”

Foggy sighs, but only because it would be inappropriate to swear. “Okay.”

“Five minutes.”

“I said, ‘okay’.”

Marci nods and departs in her usual cloud of Chanel perfume and hyper competence, her heels clicking down the hallway until the sound fades completely. Foggy rubs his face, thinking miserably about how this is just the beginning of what will most likely be a very long, bad day. He’s going to need to send Karen to his apartment to get him some clothes. He’s going to need twelve coffees, ideally right now, but he’s got to deal with Matt first. When he looks over at him, he’s standing there, shell shocked.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, because he honestly is. “She’s—it’s not always like this.”

Matt seems to spring back into action like a spell has been lifted. “It’s fine,” he says, picking up his briefcase and his stick. “You have to get going.”

“It’s not—”

“Don’t say it’s not important, for my benefit. It sounds important.”

“I can walk you out,” Foggy says, coming around the desk towards him.

“I can manage on my own,” Matt says, not unkindly but not meekly either. The implication that he wants to end this interaction sooner rather than later is barely implied. 

“Of course. It was, uh, lovely to meet you.”

“Sure,” he replies, not reciprocating the sentiment but extending his hand as they pause in front of Karen’s desk. Foggy takes it and gives him a firm handshake. 

“Karen, could you—?"

“I’m fine,” Matt interrupts. “Thank you, though. Karen, a pleasure.”

“You too,” Karen offers. “The hallway behind you leads right to the exit. You’ll need to sign out with security.”

“Thank you,” he says, and departs without further fanfare.

“How’d he take it?” Karen asks Foggy, once he’s gone.

“Super well,” Foggy chirps. “In fact, we’re thinking this summer for the wedding.”

“That’s fast,” Karen says, barely hiding her smile.

“What can I say? When you know you know.” He sighs deeply. “Marci told you about the Supreme Court thing?”

“Yeah. You want me to go grab you a change of clothes from your place?”

“Yes, please. You need my keys?”

“I have your spare still,” Karen says, as she gets up and puts on her coat. “Need anything else while I’m out?”

“The world’s largest coffee, with as many espresso shots as the law allows.”

“Got it,” she replies with a nod. She’s already on her way out when he grabs her by the elbow to stop her.

“Am I, like, the world’s biggest asshole?” he asks, earnestly. “And be honest, because I feel like the world’s biggest asshole right now.”

“You’re not,” Karen says, immediately, squeezing his arm. “You’re the best person I know, but you’re jet lagged and overtired and stinky and now you have to spend the rest of your day talking about the death penalty. That would put anyone in a bad mood.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “Thanks.”

He lets her go, then, because they’ve all got work to do, but her words don’t reassure him like they usually would.

Foggy waits on the sidewalk out in front of St. Patrick’s the next morning with ten minutes to spare before the 10 AM mass gets out. He finds himself wishing he had cigarettes, which he only ever wants when he’s nervous and needs something to do with his hands. He’s complained about this before, unwisely, with his mother in earshot, which had led to her snapping at him to take up knitting if he needs something productive to do with his hands. The worst fight he can ever remember having with her was when she found cigarettes in his room when he was home from college once. What is it about being within spitting distance of a Catholic church that brings up all his repressed guilt like that?

He probably could have brought coffee, but he’s not sure if Matt declined yesterday to be polite or if he genuinely doesn’t drink it. Either way, Foggy couldn’t begin to guess how he’d take it, so it’s probably better to just skip it entirely. He doesn’t need to bribe him, and he doesn’t need anything to occupy his hands. He’s senior staff at the goddamn White House. He doesn’t need to be nervous.

Over his shoulder, he hears the sound of voices starting to drift over from the doors and of footsteps on the stairs. When he glances over, he sees crowds starting to form at the entrance. He remembers, suddenly, from a few christenings he was forced to attend for various cousins, how much people like to stand around and gab after mass and hopes that, by virtue of not being at his own church, Matt won’t be stuck talking to a bunch of old ladies for too long.

Thankfully, it’s only a few minutes later when he emerges from the crowd, easy to spot with his glasses and his stick, head down and separate. Foggy hesitates for a second, worried this will be an intolerable intrusion on something, well, sacred, but he did go out of his way to talk to him. It will be even less excusable if he doesn’t go through with it.

Matt’s head swivels in the correct direction when he hears his name called and Foggy would guess he’s good at identifying voices, both in general and in his line of work, where schmoozing and networking are so essential. Matt’s already at a disadvantage, not knowing people by sight, so he can only imagine he’s found a way to compensate for it. He’s guessing he knows who it is before Foggy even says, “on your right,” and approaches him.

“Foggy?” Matt asks, and he’s not sure if he’s guessing or just expressing surprise.

“Hi,” he says, and it comes out weirdly shy, because of course it does. Matt’s still dressed nicely, like he was yesterday, though he’s ditched the tie and thrown a sweater over his dress shirt instead. It’s like he knows about Foggy’s childhood crush on Mr. Rogers. 

“Hi,” Matt says, with a laugh. “Did we—don’t tell me this is your church.”

“Yes, I moonlight as an organist at St. Patrick’s. Just for the tips, though.”

“I—what?”

“Sorry, I’m kidding. I don’t go to church here. I went to see you at your hotel, I was hoping to catch you before you checked out, and the receptionist said I’d just missed you and that you’d gone to church.”

“She told you where to find me?”

“No, I guessed. I mean, St. Patrick’s is the closest Catholic church—you mentioned Catholic school yesterday, so I figured it was the best bet—and of course, it’s, you know, historic and beautiful, with all that stained glass and the, um…”

Matt tips his head to the side, considering him as he fumbles for words. He looks amused, at least, and not deeply offended, which is probably a good sign. He also looks like he’s waiting for Foggy to admit defeat, which is never going to happen.

“The acoustics are probably also good,” he finishes, pathetically, and Matt laughs, not like he did yesterday, all guarded and cynical with disappointment. He laughs big and unrestrained and maybe even delighted. Foggy gets the sense that he’s a little surprised by it himself.

“Yes, the acoustics were wonderful,” he says, and his eyes are crinkling attractively at the corners.

“I’m an idiot,” Foggy says, in the direction of his shoes. He doesn’t need to hide a blush from Matt, he figures, but he does it anyway.

“No, that was…” Matt takes his time searching for the word, and Foggy’s heart races. He shakes his head, helplessly. “‘Acoustics.’ You're cute.”

“I…” Foggy has fully lost his train of thought. He tries to remember a single time he has said something coherent in his entire life and fails. His brain has shut down, possibly permanently and forever.

“Sorry, that came out wrong," Matt clarifies, after a moment's pause. "What I meant was, that was a cute thing to say.”

The part of Foggy that was wondering if it would be weird to ask a guy who just got out of church if he was, perhaps, a friend of Dorothy immediately withers and dies on the spot. That was the straightest point of clarification he’s ever witnessed in his life.

“Well,” Foggy says, remarkably normally after the emotional journey he just went on, “you don’t know this, since you can’t see, but you were right the first time. I am adorable.”

Matt, thankfully, laughs at that too. “I’ll defer to your expertise on the matter.”

“I appreciate that.”

“So, you were looking for me at my hotel?”

“Yes!”

“Can I ask why?”

“I—right. That is the sort of thing that requires explanation.”

“Yes, it is,” Matt says, patiently.

“I wanted to…apologize for yesterday,” Foggy says, letting the words flow out on an exhale. “You didn’t catch any of us on our best day, and while nothing I said to you was factually incorrect or inaccurate to our position, I feel like you weren’t treated with the respect you deserve and I really regret that. None of that is how we do things, and it’s not who we are. I hope, at my best, it’s not who I am, either.”

Matt doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. After a moment, he says, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t worry about it. I fully acknowledge that I ambushed you—at a church, of all places—so I’ll just…”

“I appreciate it,” Matt says, suddenly. “The apology, not the ambush. Although, I guess they’re sort of intertwined at this point…”

“Sure,” Foggy laughs.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I felt bad. It was badly done, and I wanted to try to make it right.”

“Still, I’ve been in professional politics for almost a decade now, and I can count the number of heartfelt apologies I’ve received on one hand. It’s not the sort of thing everyone does.”

“Well, it’s a thing I do, when I’m wrong. And I was. I’m genuinely sorry.”

Matt acknowledges this with another tilt of his head. “You weren’t wrong about everything, unfortunately.”

Foggy frowns, trying to parse what this means. “I’m not sure I—oh my god! Matt!”

He winces. “Do not gloat!”

“I’m not!” Foggy practically shouts. “I won’t. I promise! But, if I’m understanding you correctly, you know?”

“About Bryant? Of course I do! I work for him!”

“That begs the question of why?”

“Why do I work for him?”

“Yes!”

“I’m not in politics just for the love of it, Foggy. I’m a professional political operative, I need the work!”

“Yeah, but Bryant?”

Matt makes a face at him. “Do you imagine there’s a seller’s market out there for blind campaign managers?”

“No, but—” Foggy pauses and really considers this. Matt keeps things upbeat, from what he can tell, brushing off references to his disability easily enough by all appearances, but it must actually be brutal out there for him. “No, you’re right. It’s got to be tough. Even for someone as good as you.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to flatter you. Considering you’re working in a district that virtually always votes red, and you’ve got a dud for a candidate, your numbers are very impressive. I mean, unless you’re handing out headshots at campaign stops, I don’t understand how you’re doing it at all.”

“Headshots?” Matt asks. “Of me?”

“Okay, don’t you dare try some sort of aw, shucks routine with me. I know you know you’re handsome.”

Matt laughs, tucking his chin in a remarkably shy gesture from such a confident asshole. “That’s a good one, though. Headshots. I’ll have to write that down.” 

“Maybe the 21st district will flip after all.”

“Okay, I know I’m not that handsome.”

Foggy wants to argue the point, but he’s also done enough embarrassing himself for one day and it’s not even noon yet. He’s got to stick to the matter at hand. “Listen, what I said yesterday—”

“Consider it forgotten. Really.”

“No, uh, what I said reflects the opinion and the decision of the White House, even if the delivery left something to be desired. But the administration, specifically the President, wanted me to be clear with you that, Bryant aside, if you ever found a viable candidate, we’d get interested in a hurry. We remain very impressed by your work, if not your candidate.”

Matt appears intrigued by this. “Did anyone happen to specify a better candidate by name?”

“Well, the suggestion was raised that you might fit the bill.”

“Raised by whom?”

“That I couldn’t say,” Foggy demurs, and Matt does that little head tilt again, so he mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key before he realizes Matt can’t see or appreciate it. It’s also a very dorky thing to do, so that might be for the best. 

“You want me to run for office?” Matt asks, instead.

“It’s just a suggestion,” Foggy says, putting his hands up defensively. “Something to think about for the future.”

“The distant, distant future, maybe…”

Foggy shrugs. “Sure. Either way, you’ve made some friends in D.C. this time around. Your next campaign will be easier, I promise.”

“Well, I have to make it through this one first,” Matt says, grimly, running a hand over his jaw in distress. God, even distressed, he’s still ridiculously handsome.

“Hey, if all else fails, you can always pray to Saint Thomas More.”

Matt gives him a baffled look. “What?”

“You know,” Foggy says, putting his hands in his pockets, casually, “the patron saint of statesmen and politicians.”

Matt’s smile of delight and comprehension is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, which is a sentiment Foggy would have dismissed as overly and unnecessarily poetic and saccharine probably twenty minutes ago. His words to Karen yesterday— when you know, you know— come back to haunt him and it is so unfair and yet completely expected that this would happen to him, of all people. He’s known this guy for probably thirty minutes total and still, he knows Matt is special. That this is the beginning of something, even though it probably isn’t going to be what he wishes it could be. This is, bizarrely, a talent of his. He knows when someone is going to be important to him, usually right from the start. He knew it with Marci. He knew it with Karen. He knows it now too. 

Son of a bitch, he thinks. This might hurt.

“Where did you learn that?” Matt asks, his voice gone kind of breathless around his smile.

“Not to brag, but I have access to many things in my line of work,” he replies, trying to stay casual, despite the revelations, “including several volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”

“Fancy,” Matt says, with a laugh. “I appreciate the tip.”

“I couldn’t find the saint to pray to specifically for car trouble, but Saint Christopher or Saint Frances of Rome are the patron saints of drivers and Saint Catherine of Alexandria is the patron saint of mechanics, so any of them would do in a pinch. In case you were wondering.”

“Saint Christopher,” Matt replies, “is the patron saint of all travelers, actually.”

“Show-off!" Foggy exclaims. "You didn’t even have to look that up!”

“Every Catholic household has a medal or something for Saint Christopher kicking around,” he says, with a smile. “You didn’t stand a chance, I’m afraid to say.”

“What gave me away?”

“Oh, everything. I can spot a Protestant at fifty paces, especially the Christmas-and-Easter variety. It’s like the first thing they teach you in Catholic school.”

“Sure. I mean, what else are they going to do with all that time they’re not teaching you how to put condoms on bananas?”

Matt laughs another one of those big, unexpected laughs, almost staggering back with the force of it. “Yeah, abstinence only makes for very short lesson plans.”

“I’m guessing you all managed to figure out the basics anyway, just from the CDC data I’ve seen,” Foggy says, fully blushing all over with the pride of making Matt laugh and his own stupidity at bringing up Sex Ed in a moment like this. Sometimes he just truly cannot stop himself. 

Before Matt can confirm or deny that he knows how to use a condom (seriously, what’s the matter with his brain?) Foggy rushes to add, “Also, thank you for giving me the credit of going to church on Easter. My mother will be pleased to know I’m fooling people into thinking I’m a nice young man, rather than being obvious with my true heathen nature.”

“You are a nice young man,” Matt says, softly, with the appearance of having sobered slightly. Maybe Foggy shouldn’t have called himself a heathen. Maybe he was being too obvious, the coded aspect of the code word too unfortunately crackable. Oh, well. “At least, I assume you’re young? I’m guessing, from the sound of your voice.”

“I am. I mean, I guess I am. Is 34 young?”

“For the deputy chief of staff for the White House?” Matt asks, eyebrows raised. “Yes! Are you serious?”

“Well, then.”

“You’re my age.”

“And?”

“You’re very successful.”

“I got lucky," Foggy says, with a shrug. "I was in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

“Yes, because being in the right place at the right time is something to scoff at in our line of work,” Matt says, looking unimpressed. “And definitely completely negates the fact of you being good at your job.”

“I don’t know if I’d call that a fact, per se…”

“I’ll settle for it being my professional opinion, then, and people generally pay me good money for that kind of thing.”

“Well, I left my checkbook at home, unfortunately,” Foggy quips, and is rewarded with a sharp, almost shark-like smile from Matt. “All I can offer you is my gratitude. I mean, unless—?”

“Yes?” Matt asks, when he doesn’t immediately finish his thought.

“Well, you probably have to catch a flight or a train or something soon, right?”

He nods, brow furrowed. “Yeah, my train is out of Union Station at 1:30. Why?”

“Nothing, I—I’m sure you’ve got to—and I should, probably—”

“You should probably just say whatever it was you were initially going to ask me,” Matt says, head tipped, once again, with interest.

“Right,” Foggy laughs. This is so, so stupid. “I was going to say, if you had time, I could buy you a cup of coffee, to complete my apology for yesterday and to chip away at your consulting fee.”

Matt visibly hesitates, which, of course he does. Foggy made the world’s worst first impression and insulted him yesterday. He apologized for that, sure, but Matt’s still probably not pleased about the DNC’s decision and this wasted trip to D.C. to talk about it. One pleasant conversation doesn’t make them friends or anything. 

“That's not necessary," he eventually replies, though not with a great deal of conviction, which is strange. With anyone else, Foggy would assume they wanted him to insist, but somehow he has trouble imagining that's the case here. "I'm sure you'd like to get back to your Sunday plans."

"My Sunday plans are this conversation and going into the office to debate the finer points of the death penalty. You have a pretty low opinion of yourself if you think your company ranks lower than that."

Matt seems to relax at that, oddly enough. “So," he says, with a self-deprecating smile, "this is probably the part where I should admit to an unhealthy amount of curiosity about where you’re at with the Cruz case.”

Of all the things he expected Matt to say, that certainly had not occurred to him, which means he blinks in surprise for what turns out to be a little too long.

“Sorry,” Matt says, mistaking Foggy’s pause for something it isn’t and wincing in apparent embarrassment, “I heard about it on the news. The Supreme Court’s decision, I mean, and I’ve been following the case for a while. When Marci mentioned it yesterday—I shouldn’t have said anything, but—”

“No, not at all,” Foggy says, hurriedly. “I’d honestly love to get your opinion.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I mean, you just admitted to following the case, and you’re a lawyer by training, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Right, so that, and you know the political landscape we’re situated in at the moment as well as anyone, running this campaign, dealing with the DNC. Even if you want to give me your opinion as a Catholic, I’ll take it. It’s…we’re basically taking all bets, at the moment, if that’s not insulting to admit.”

Matt laughs lightly. “Not insulting. I think on average there was a majority of flattering sentiments in there.”

“Good,” Foggy says, sighing in relief. “That’s how it was intended.”

“I take it the President hasn’t made a decision on whether to stay the execution or not?”

“No, that’s why I’m heading into the office on a Sunday. We’re all trying to figure out our options.”

“Well, I have thoughts.”

Foggy laughs this time. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I will, however, defer to you on the subject of where to get coffee in this neighborhood,” Matt says.

“Oh, right. Well, actually, if we cross up here—”

Foggy steps forward to gesture in the direction he means before he remembers that it won’t do much good. At the same moment, Matt steps forward too, towards Foggy, and holds out a hand in what looks like a conciliatory gesture. Foggy pauses, waiting to hear his objection or question, and not thinking too hard about how close they are now.

“Could I—that is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, as we walk, could I hold onto your arm?” Matt asks, and he doesn’t sound embarrassed so much as tired. Foggy gets the sense that he doesn’t like asking for help or relying on people very much. “It makes navigating the sidewalks and everything easier. If not—”

“That’s fine,” Foggy interrupts, feeling only slightly bad that he’s this eager to comply. He’s mostly doing it to be nice, but there is a small part of him that’s excited because a cute guy will be touching him, which feels sort of bad. “I mean, I’m happy to—”

“Thanks,” Matt replies with just a small quirk of his mouth. If he’s noticed Foggy’s eagerness, he’s not calling it out, which is kind of him.

“Do you…know where my arm is?” Foggy asks, like a moron, making Matt laugh.

“It’s, well, it’s in this general vicinity, right?” Matt’s middle finger ends up jabbing into Foggy’s stomach, which is ideal, of course. Now Matt knows he doesn’t have abs of steel, a thing he was definitely going to pretend to have until directly contradicted. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Foggy says, and just grabs Matt’s hand to get it over with. It’s not important or monumental in any way—they shook hands yesterday, so it’s not even the first time they’ve touched—but his pulse starts to race nonetheless. He places Matt’s hand on the crook of his elbow as quickly as he can without making it weird. Except that now he’s trying to remember the last time he held hands with someone and upon consideration, he thinks it’s been a while, which makes him sad to think about. 

“That’s my elbow,” he says, stupidly, because anything else he could say at this moment would somehow be more embarrassing, which is impressive.

Matt laughs, just a little huff of amusement, but his eyes crinkle adorably again and that’s good enough. “I figured that out,” he says. “Thank you, though.”

“Right. Um, so as I was saying, if we cross the street here, I know a place only a few blocks away. Hopefully, it won’t be too busy on a Sunday morning for us to get a table.”

“Okay,” Matt says, nodding. “I’ll follow your lead.”

“Great,” Foggy says, but doesn’t move. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, not sure where this temporary immobility is coming from. “I, uh, I’ve never done this before.

“Gotten coffee?”

“No, uh, that I’ve done, actually, if you can believe it," Foggy says, with a laugh. "I’ve never led someone before? I just don’t want to make you trip or anything.”

“It’s just an extra precaution,” Matt explains, calmly. This is probably something he explains a lot, Foggy realizes with some amount of shame. “I can get around fine on my own, but especially someplace new, this helps.”

“Should I point out obstacles or something? Does that help at all?”

“You’re taking this very seriously,” Matt says with a smile that might be at his expense. In which case, Foggy thinks, it is fully worth it. It’s a good smile.

“Yeah, sorry, I just—”

“You can point things out, that’s fine, but I trust you won’t lead me into any open manholes or anything like that.”

“That’s a lot of trust, man,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs. “I mean, you’re talking to someone who loves some Looney Tunes shenanigans.”

“Well, then I guess if someone paints a wall to look like a train tunnel, we’re both in a lot of trouble.”

“I’ll try to be strong,” Foggy says, “and vigilant.”

“That’s all I ask.”

Foggy realizes this is probably the moment they need to actually start walking, otherwise they’re just two guys who have linked arms outside of a church. He moves hesitantly in the direction of the crosswalk, tugging Matt gently along with him, and it doesn’t feel anywhere near as awkward as he was expecting. It just feels nice.

“You see?” Matt asks, leaning against his arm. “It’s just like walking with a person!”

Foggy digs his elbow into Matt’s side in retaliation, which just makes him ping-pong away from him before bouncing back, already laughing. “Have all the fun you want,” Foggy says. “Just remember, your life is in my hands.”

“And how very capable they are,” Matt says, mildly, still grinning. 

Foggy feels himself blush and he’s very thankful at this moment that Matt probably can’t tell. It’s the only advantage he has in this situation. Naturally, of course, he decides to cancel out that advantage immediately by saying something stupid.

“By the way, this is what I normally smell like,” he says, as they wait for the walk signal.

Matt raises his eyebrows at him. “Oh?” he says, while giving nothing away, like a total bastard.

“There’s a lot of good reasons not to take a meeting straight off of a fifteen hour flight, it turns out,” Foggy says, trying not to die of embarrassment. Maybe Matt hadn’t noticed. He thought he’d just been too polite to say anything. “I want it on the record that I, you know, shower regularly and wear deodorant and everything.”

“Noted,” Matt says with another cryptic smile. He might even inhale a little bit deeper, though Foggy might be imagining that. 

“Fine, I might even smell a little better than normal. But that’s all you’ll get out of me!”

So what if he had put on cologne that he usually forgets to wear? It was a drop if it was anything. And he only did it because of what a clusterfuck yesterday had been. He’d felt he had something to prove to Matt after that conversation went so poorly. 

Matt, of course, seems to be enjoying himself immensely. “I’m impressed,” he says, as they cross the street. “If you’re willing to go to these lengths for the likes of me, I can only imagine what you’d do for someone important.”

He doesn’t mean it like that, Foggy reasons. It wasn’t intended to make him sound like, well, a bit of a whore, but it lands like that, for whatever reason. Like he’d been strategically deployed by his superiors to smooth things over, to butter Matt up to avoid burning a bridge they might want to cross someday. But, as much as he’d love to slather him in butter right now, that is not the case and, unfortunately, it’s also not a way that Foggy’s allowed to think about this person.

“You’re important,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “We’re fucking democrats, Matt. Our whole thing is that we think everyone is important, right? And, even if you somehow weren’t, I’d still be here. Even if no one asked me to be.”

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Of course not,” Foggy says, more breezily than he feels. “But my point still stands. I know all this stuff with the DNC is discouraging, but don’t let it sour you on all this. You could very well be the future of the party.”

Matt laughs, nervously. “I don’t know about that.”

Foggy shrugs, which he trusts Matt can feel. “I’ve been told I have good instincts for this kind of thing.”

“Now that I can believe,” Matt says.

When Foggy turns to look at him, he finds Matt already regarding him with interest. He thinks again of his conviction from earlier that this is no irrelevant run-of-the-mill meeting—one of dozens he'll take this week, and hundreds he'll take this year—but rather the beginning of something important. He feels certain that this won't be the last he sees of Matt Murdock and wonders if the same thing is going through Matt's mind too as they walk together. If he's willing to be honest with himself, he can admit that's not just something he suspects will be true; it's something he hopes will be true too.

🏳️‍🌈 💖

#i don't enjoy formatting fic for tumblr but it's part of the posting process for me #in case some people prefer to read here #anyway please enjoy and happy pride to whatever these two got going on #daredevil #foggy nelson #matt murdock #karen page #matt x foggy #mattfoggy #ship names remain my mortal enemy when it comes to tagging #whatever yall call it...it's them....the BOYS #the west wing au #this is my first non-prompt fill fic in literally so long i've forgotten how i format this stuff normally #homelywenchsociety #that’s my writing tag! don’t worry about it! #series: a more perfect union

[allycryz]

Incandesce

Explicit Fic

Thancred x Nerys (WoL) x Emet-Selch / Thancred x Nerys / Emet-Selch x Nerys / Some Thancred x Emet-Selch

When Nerys made the mistake of telling Emet-Selch to surprise her, this is not what she had in mind.

Even more astonishing: that Thancred is interested.

(A lot of other ships mentioned/discussed, primarily Nerys x Haurchefant and Nerys x Estinien x Aymeric)

Shadowbringers Spoilers

[From This Prompt List]

Prompts Used: Hot Springs in Winter / Restraints / Double Penetration Other Tags: Minor Breathplay in the water, Shaping Aether into Extra Hands, Brief Food Mention

Meta Notes:

This is currently not-canon in the general, overarching sense, but everything that happens prior to Nerys entering the hot springs is canon. 

Prelude

Beneath the thickest canopy of trees, Nerys can ignore the great and terrible light above. Pretend she is in the Shroud again. There are Duskwight waiting among the Night’s Blessed for her to return with supplies and reports. Never mind that it’s a name they don’t recognize. The elves of the First separate themselves by region and family, not clan.

Many of Night’s Blessed look like the faces she grew up with. It has...been a long time since she was with such a group. Visiting her parents and Uncle Vaquelin had been lovely, but brief. And that was so long ago now. Before Doma, before Gyr Abania, before Minfilia came here with Ardbert and his companions.

The memory of that long-ago visit conjures Haurchefant, who she had brought with her. Her family loved him–how could they not? It makes her miss him all the more. Their too-brief, too-scarce meetings since her arrival are not enough.

She leaves the nostalgia and safety of the trees behind along with her brooding. People are expecting her. A truth no matter what world she lives on, whether they call her Warrior of Darkness or Light. Nerys is thankful this place doesn’t also remind her of Ishgard. Then the homesickness might turn her brooding into outright tears.

Now. Collecting reeds for the girl’s basket. They should be due south from here.

“Far be it from me to meddle…” Emet-Selch materializes beside her, as if picking up a prior conversation. “But my curiosity outweighs my desire to see where ‘the chips do fall’.”

Nerys turns her gaze toward him without breaking her stride. Last time he did this, she was picking berries and near fell over into the dirt. “Saying ‘far be it from me to meddle’ does not cancel out any subsequent meddling, you know.”

One corner of his mouth tilts up. “I expected my company to be polite enough not to mention it. More fool me.”

“What do I know about manners?” She cannot help herself. Maybe it is the pleased, attractive smirk whenever she says something diverting. Maybe she is tired of all the misfortune around them and needs levity. “I am but a simple warrior, a weapon of brute strength raised in the woods.”

“Self-deprecation does you no favors, my dear. Even when it is clear you know it’s all rubbish.” He waves a hand. “You are among the politest of my enemies.”

“Thank you?”

“Mm. I can be generous.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Now, about my query. Tell me...which suitor do you think will win out?”

That almost makes her stumble. And she can tell from his expression, he is reliving when she almost fell upon her basket of berries. A rare mishap from her that he will never, ever let her forget. “I...beg your pardon?”

“No need to beg for it, this one is free,” says Emet. His tone is insinuating as ever on that point. “You clearly carry torches for both Masters Waters and Matoya. I get the impression he was your lover at one time? The outline I have of your activities before the Exarch summoned you does not include the gritty details. As for her, only the Hrothgar moons after her more than you do.”

Nerys opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “You truly have been watching, haven’t you?”

“Oh not everything. Mortals are not so difficult to read, once you have practice. And your eyes…” He catches her chin, directing his gaze into hers. “They are terribly expressive, once you know what to look for.”

Emet-Selch wants a reaction. She puts her hands on her hips, lifting an eyebrow. Waiting for him to continue. As if his thumb isn’t stroking over her jaw, gentle as a lover. The touch as stirring as when he graces her with a particularly enticing smile.

“Now...” He does not need her permission to continue so she doesn’t give it. Clearly, this is a soliloquy he wants to perform. “I am not sure you know how many carry a torch for you, and I shan’t spoil it by telling you. But it does make things interesting. Not to mention, this Lord Haurchefant your group often mentions. Shall you abandon your noble suitor for a rogue posing as a knight? Or for a scholar of great and terrible power? Will one of the yet undeclared reveal themselves and win the hero’s heart?”

That heart thuds painfully against her chest. The way he shapes his syllables charges each provoking word. And the directness of those wine-gold eyes, a shade paler than her own but no less piercing for it.

He has gotten so much of it wrong. That does not negate how easily he has gotten so much of it right.

Nerys curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs his hand down. Emet-Selch does not resist, though when their hands are navel-level he twists just so, clasping her wrist in return, They remain locked thus, neither one letting go.

“Surely one as ancient as you, as easily bored as you,” she says. “Must know there are other options.”

“I don’t think a vow of chastity would suit you. Your eyes run too hot upon your comrades-”

“Lord Haurchefant,” she continues. “He is my lover and my beloved. Were I the marrying kind, his ring would be on my finger. That would not stop either of us from sharing physical and emotional intimacy with others.”

Emet-Selch says not a word, betrays no emotion. He does not veer into patronizing congratulations or arrogant dismissal. That same thumb begins to stroke again, over her gauntlet.

“There are others in the Source with such arrangements. I’m delighted to know it’s fairly common in the First.” Nerys cannot resist her smirk. Is this how he feels when he lectures her? “For some, it is about a variety of sexual partners. Sometimes it’s like that for us. More often...we are the kind to fall madly for someone or someones, in addition to wanting the physical parts. So whatever may happen...it is not a matter of winning.”

“Well,” he says, looking at her as if for the first time. Considering.

“Well,” he says again, with a slow smile. “You are full of surprises, my dear. I thank you for not being as boring as I expected.”

“Accuse me of many things, but never that.” Nerys takes a step back, breaking the link of their hands. “But I don’t think my expansive heart is my most unique quality.”

“On that, at least, we agree.” His enigmatic smile inflames just the right amount of curiosity in her. She resists best as she can. “Well, that puts to rest one of my little games. No reason to stay and help you...what is it again? Collecting reeds so a girl may make a basket?”

“Yes, that,” she says. “Would you like to join?”

“Oh, I am not so starved for stimulation to partake.” Purple and black aether swirls around his ankles. “Whistle for me, when you’re doing something actually worthy of a hero.”

“No need,” she says. “Somehow, I think you’ll know.”

He smirks as he disappears.

Weeks Later

"Alone at last."

In one motion: she slams the book shut, jumps up, has the knife pointed and ready. The sharp edge gleams in the lamplight, as bright as his gaze as he sighs at her.

"Really," says Emet-Selch. "I thought we were past this stage."

They were. They are. It doesn’t change that Eulmore is an ever looming spectre at their heels. That this pressure on her chest and shoulders is building. For their last few talks, Ardbert has made sure to catch her attention well before speaking.

She keeps thinking Ran’jit is about to appear and cut her down.

Nerys exhales a breath, blade staying poised for the moment. “Do you always startle trained warriors?"

“Only you, hero.” He touches the pad of his gloved finger against the dagger point. “This is not so beautiful a weapon as your lance."

"A lance is a little more difficult to keep close at all times." It is, in fact, leaning against the wall of her room. Just behind him. By the way his eyes flicker to the side and then to her, he knows it.

They are well past when she might run for it, and brandish it at him. The gaze feels so much like a challenge though, she contemplates it. He wouldn’t expect her to start a physical fight after weeks of banter.

Nerys withdraws the blade.

“It is a well-made little knife. A gift?  I don't recall seeing it on you before."

"I always keep a dagger on me, one never knows when an ambush is coming." She slides it back in the sheath, touch lingering on the deep-plum leather of the hilt. "...But yes, this is new."

"I thought so. From Thancred no doubt, as he has been lavishing attention on you as of late." He steps away, spreading his arms. "He was the paramour I expected to win. At least until you explained that you don't limit yourself to just one."

His words conjure visceral memories without much effort. Her tender, still-aching reconciliation with Thancred at the start of this week. What they could have had in Ala Mhigo had the Exarch not spirited him away the day they meant to talk.

But also, the day in the Rak’tika Greatwood with Emet-Selch. His teasing about the choice she would “have” to make. Her defiant lecture. His fingers on her chin and on her wrist.

"Over Y'shtola, you mean?" She leans her back against the desk, arms crossed. "Or the other admirers you claim I have? Which are who, exactly?"

"Ah, ah, ah," he says with a wag of a finger. His pale gold eyes and wicked mouth brim with laughter. "You will have to try much harder than that to get my secrets."

“Does that mean you won’t explain what ‘alone at last’ means?”

"That one should be obvious, my dear." He remains apart from her but his gaze feel like a touch. Like a stroke of hand over her arm or cheek.

Attraction is like that. And she is adult enough to admit he is attractive–painfully so–without it needing to be a problem. It doesn’t change who they are or that one day, she may need to face him on the battlefield.

(Nerys had been able to face Estinien and Thancred both after all. Though unlike them, this man’s mind is his own. She is certain Zodiark’s pull is not the same as Lahabrea’s or Nidhogg’s.)

"I have been busy of late,” she says. “But surely there are others you might visit."

"None of your Scions will play with me the way you will," he pouts. "Even your scholarly Elezen friend will only suffer me so long."

Nerys laughs. "Who says I am willing to play with you? Or that is what we do?"

Emet-Selch’s expression reminds her of Aymeric’s cat, affronted over Nerys taking his spot upon the chaise lounge that one time. Unlike Sainte, he does not stomp away with a disgruntled noise. “I have never lied to you. Do me the favor of not lying to me.”

"Never?" She asks without real conviction. Nerys is certain he has not lied to her or anyone in their group. Omitted, yes. Likely a great deal.

“Never.” Emet-Selch crosses the space, moving close to her. The fur of his jacket brushes against the front of her gray linen gown. He leans in, leans in, his breath tickles her face and she tries not to give him the reaction he seeks.

He gets so close his lips graze her cheek and she breaks, breath hitching. And then he leans past her, reaching behind to take up the book she closed. "Collected Folk Tales of Lakeland. I admit, I expected something related to your quest."

His face is hidden but she feels his smirk as keenly as she feels the heat of his body against her. "I needed a little break and stories always cheer me. I wish the ones I heard as a child were collected somewhere."

"Ah, but they lose magic that way, don't they?" He breathes into her ear. "Some in the telling, but far more when we commit them to the page."

Don't shiver. Don't react. "Why not have the stories both ways?"

His chuckle is low. "Why not indeed. You do not like to make choices, do you?"

"It isn't that." Her arms remain folded against her chest. Still, if someone were to come in they would think something else was happening. And that would not be a full lie.

On impulse, her eyes flicker about to make sure Ardbert isn't there.

"Too many people reduce life to hard, either-or decisions," she says. "And I have found there is almost always a third or fourth or fifth way."

"An optimist. How very…" Emet-Selch pulls back to look at her. Sighs. "Very boring. I expected better, given all the pathos I have seen in your eyes."

"I'm sorry to disappoint." She turns towards the book, straightening her disrupted papers.

His hands come down on either side of her, balancing against the gentle curve of the desk edge. She is caged, with his breath upon her nape and his body a wall of flame grazing her back. Nerys has managed this session to not rise to his bait, but her resolve is weakening and this does not help.

Attraction does not have to mean anything. You have the will, to have it be a simple fact; not a catalyst or excuse.

"Come now,” he murmurs. His nose tickles the back of her neck. The skin there is extra sensitive; hair freshly trimmed to the new, shorter length. “You have a better retort than that."

"You think so? Maybe you're the optimist."

His laugh is a puff of air upon her. "Better, but still sloppy. I expect more from my playmate."

She wants to argue that point but he has already exposed her defense for the lie it is. Call it play or teasing, Nerys does enjoy these times. When she might pretend he is just a handsome man come only for banter; not...whatever they are to each other or will be.

She enjoys him.

Her eyes flicker to the window. Fading sunlight catches the light fall of snow, the first in a long time for Lakeland. It pulls at her heart for another reason: terrible homesickness for Ishgard. And the position of the sun now means-

"I have to cut this ‘play session’ short. I'm expected elsewhere." Nerys turns in the cage of his arms and gives him a gentle push. "And you're not allowed to be in my room when I am gone."

"Spoilsport. Whatever do you expect me to do? Languish in waiting?"

Her way cleared, Nerys moves past him to the bag she packed earlier. Just a small thing with the necessities for this jaunt...and if she doesn’t sleep in her room tonight. "I know you'll think of something. Surprise me."

As soon as she says it, she regrets it. Too late, his smirk is wide, his face lit with enthusiasm. “I can do that.”

He disappears in a swirl of aether. Nerys wonders if she made a fatal error.

---------

Amaros fly them to the Ostall Imperative. From there, she and Thancred walk the forest path. The creatures of the lilac-and-bone-colored forest keep their distance tonight, many hiding from the strange weather. They still need to be alert though, lest they or brigands cross the path.

Even still, she keeps having to look at him. Assure herself he is there, with her. Truly with her. Their hands brush together once, twice, three times before he at last laces their fingers together. Smiles up at her with a look that stills her breath no matter how many times it happens.

She has loved him...a long time. Grieved him in different ways for different reasons for a long time. And now here he is, having asked for another chance and she hopes this week is not a long, wishful dream.

“It’s never snowed while you’ve been here?” Nerys asks, using her free hand to dust the flakes off her shoulders. Five long years here, under the horrible light. She cannot imagine. No wonder he felt like a stranger when first they found each other in Laxan Loft.

"Not that I've seen. You've brought balance back to the place."

"We have, not just I." She squeezes his hand.

Thancred chuckles. "You should take the credit."

"So should you. And-"

He cups her cheek, tugging her down into a kiss. Deep and soft and intoxicating. All week he has caressed her like this, each time overwhelming her with the gentle sensuality of it. She can almost forgive him doing it just to win an argument. Almost, until she pulls back and sees the old familiar gleam, the old familiar smirk.

"You can't...do that every time." Nerys says, a little breathless. Hands still gripping the supple material of his coat like a lifeline.

"I would never. Only some of the time." His smirk grows. Twelve, but she missed that expression on his face. Not that she loves this new, more serious Thancred any less. Every part of him, every facet, she adores. "Though, I think I need to do it once more."

Never mind whoever waits for them. Now that she can touch him like this again, feel him like this again, she never wants to stop. And from the way his hands grip her, run over her sides and hips, he doesn't either. She presses herself close to him, lips tracing the line of his jaw to the shell of his ear.

Thancred pulls himself back, eyes hot. "If we don't start walking again, I'm going to drag you into the bushes."

She doesn't move. "That isn't incentive to walk."

"I should have known better." He holds out a hand and she takes it, surprised when he starts down the path again. “Come along.”

He must want this date to happen as planned. Thinking about it...they have not had many formal engagements like this. They were either comrades or they were lovers. Maybe there would be a trip to the market or a shared drink in Revenant’s Toll between battles and bed.

Nerys wonders if he might be inspired to poetry, like he had once with his other paramours. Not all of his couplets were groanworthy.

Bosta-Bea awaits them at Clearmelt, her smile wide and welcoming. The sign near her declares that the springs closed at sundown. That alone means Thancred put down a lot of coin for this. Bosta-Bea’s excellent humor doubly verifies it.

“I’ll be just inside if anyone tries to bother you,” she says after greetings and pleasantries are exchanged. “I doubt anyone will but just in case…”

“My thanks,” says Thancred. He hasn’t let go of her hand yet and he squeezes it while he speaks. “The changing rooms are just through there?”

“Yes, with towels to use in the bath.” Bosta-Bea ushers them through to the first room. It’s filled with large stalls that each contain shower, changing room, and locker. Everything hums with magic, likely a number of convenience charms throughout to dry hair and keep belongings safe.

In her own stall, Nerys strips away her leathers. The cool air of the new winter prickles over her skin until she can get under the hot water, rinsing the day off. She is still not used to washing shorter hair. Her hands reach for phantom length to lather with shampoo.

Nerys misses her curls. The haircut was necessary. For catharsis: chopping away locks that held memories of the past moons. For symbolism: starting again, refusing to let grief weigh her down.

And she did it in the city she calls home. Jandelaine paid a house call to the Fortemps Manor. Lord Edmont tried not to hover. Artoirel did hover, repeating questions and bringing her cups of tea and plates of orange-cardamom shortbread.

The hole in her heart began to scab over, the patch knit in tandem with her brother and second father; her friend wielding his scissors; and all Aymeric and Estinien did for her and with her the days and nights following her rescue from the Ascian in Zenos’ body.

Nerys is glad she did it.

Even still, she misses the length and the curl. Hasn’t acclimated to the change yet. Everyone has been complimentary. Thancred spent last night and the night before murmuring about her beauty as he took her apart. And Emet-Selch-

She yanks on the knob, turning off the shower and the intrusive thoughts with them.

The charms she expected are present, drawing the moisture from her skin and hair. Most don’t submerge themselves fully in these springs, never mind the new addition of cold wind and snow. Nerys wraps the soft towel around her body, slips her feet into the provided sandals. She takes her pack and lance with her. No offense to the lockers, but trouble never picks a convenient time to find her.

The first thing she sees is his gunblade propped up against one of the walls, just out of range of water but close enough to run for. She laughs and walks over, doing the same with her lance before taking the knife from her bag.

"Knifeplay?" Thancred asks. "I'm not sure I want to introduce that in this setting."

She turns to him with a snappy remark but it dissolves away.

He sprawls against the side of the bath, arms draped over the edge and head tipped back. What she can see of his muscled chest gleams with moisture in the moonlight. The light snow falls on his cheek.

“Nerys? It’s cold out.”

“It’s uncharacteristically cold tonight,” he said, standing outside her room at the Pendants. A pile of blankets in his hand. Two nights ago. Three days after they agreed to begin again, starting a slow and sometimes aching courtship.

Her chest tightened. “You had better come in then.”

“Just to deliver the blankets?” His eyes gleamed.

“Hm…” She pulled him inside. “That’s a start.”

His towel is folded, just within reach outside of the pool. Well then. Nerys lets hers fall, watching his eyes rake over her lush curves to the apex between her thighs. She takes her time walking over. A swell of pleasure rises in her gut. At the water’s edge, she bends at the waist to set towel and knife down within easy reach.

"You should come here," he says, a soft growl beneath his words. She fights the shudder wanting to rip through her.

"Just a minute." She slips out of the sandals. Dips a toe into the water, testing it. He starts to move towards her, but stops all at once when she holds up a hand. "Sit. Stay."

Thancred smirks. "You remember right? That I always repay you when you tease me."

A soft warmth incongruous to the moment floods her chest and she is helpless not to smile at him with soft eyes and a softer voice. "I have never forgotten a single moment, Thancred."

He swallows, his eyes telling the jumble of emotions roiling in him. She can see all the Thancreds she has known–the serious, protective Thancred, the closed-off and grieving Thancred. The teasing, playful Thancred who seduced her all over Mor Dhona. The attentive, caring Thancred who always knew when she needed him to take over and give her release, or when to let her hold the reins.

The loving Thancred, though neither of them have said the word yet.

"Nerys," he says, voice raw. "Come here."

She goes to him, sliding into the water and into his arms, into his lap as he embraces her. His tongue slides over her bottom lip and she opens to him, lets him plunder her mouth as his hands slide over her hips and waist. Traces her new scars, every mark she has earned since the Bloody Banquet. She finds the ones he has gained since, and where the First has failed to duplicate them. His soul is a near-perfect copy of the body in the Source, but there are small differences.

He parts from her after an eternity, gasping as he rests his forehead on her shoulder. "My plan was for a long, slow night of seduction. And yet, here we are."

“We always end up here,” she says with a laugh. Just as they had meant to take things slow, at least a few weeks before they became lovers again. Why had they ever thought that was a good idea? "Didn't you have any company, these five years?"

"Very little," he admits. "Almost none, once I took in Min-...Ryne. I couldn't exactly leave her to wait at a campsite while I lurked in a tavern looking for a companion."

"Very little," she repeats, cupping the side of his neck and the tattoo. Rubbing it gently. "You don't have to tell me details but...anyone I know?"

He smiles; a little sad, a little soft. "Despite having all the time to do so...no, I didn't make a move on either of them. By the time they got here, I was once again wrapped in my anger and grief."

Nerys sighs and kisses his forehead. "At our pace, neither of us will confess to Y'shtola before our sixtieth Nameday." As to when he might speak to Urianger, maybe before his fiftieth.

His laugh is gentle. "I forgot you were an optimist."

The word startles her in a way she can’t disguise and Thancred is alert all at once, ready to ease whatever troubles her. She shakes her head to assuage him. “Nothing. Nothing, just reminded me of a conversation I had with...someone, earlier.”

“Sweetheart.” The old endearment enfolds her in its warmth despite the slight reproof. “I can guess who from the evasion. It won’t bother me.”

"The last thing I want is to cause you more pain."

“He is not Lahabrea.” Thancred squeezes her hip. "Not that I am fond of our 'friend.' But it won't injure me to know you talk to him."

"Alright." She wraps her arms about his neck to better balance herself. The cold air and fall of snow prickle at her shoulders and chest, a sharp contrast to the heat of the water and where their skin presses together.

"And what about you?" He asks, shifting his leg just so between her thighs. No pressure against her center, not yet. "Was there anyone since I saw you? I know it wasn’t five years for you but..."

"Ah...yes." More heat rises in her. "...Estinien and Aymeric."

Thancred’s eyebrows shoot up. "Both? At the same time?"

“Mm.” Nerys finds herself ducking her head, vulnerable. Those stolen nights in Ishgard seem a dream now, all the more because she had thought it would never happen. And had made peace with that. "Estinien walked in on us and...well, they are a couple. It wasn't so odd to invite him…"

"And you’ve wanted him as long as you wanted Aymeric," says Thancred. He has that smug expression he gets sometimes. “Perhaps for longer. I wondered when it would happen.”

She huffs, scowling. "Is this what you do? Figure out who I am in love with and wait for me to say something?"

"I can't help it." He dips his head, kissing her shoulder. "I seem to have an extra sense for this sort of thing with you."

“I’m glad we found each other.” She means it teasing but again, her words come out warm with emotion. How long till she can stop feeling so much relief to have him in her arms? Sometimes she thinks she feels more than she is supposed to, with no way to stem the tide.

“So am I.” That leg moves with purpose now, nudging against her folds. He leans forward, catching her cold-stiffened nipple between his lips. She gasps, a low moan following right after. Thancred smirks and looks up at her. “Your exploits make for stirring tales.”

“Well, that answers that.”

In an instant, Nerys is up with the knife while Thancred rises, his fists raised. Their usual weapons are just far enough that blades and hands make sense for the interim.

Emet-Selch lounges on the opposite side of the bath, chest and below submerged in the water. He chuckles. "This is the second time you've aimed a blade at me today. I'm starting to think you don't like me."

Thancred growls. "You're trespassing, Ascian."

"Oh?" He shrugs. Nerys refuses to note how well-sculpted his shoulders are. "I wasn't aware you owned these natural springs, the night air…"

"You know exactly what I mean."

"Mayhaps. But I was practically invited. Isn't that right, my dear?" Emet-Selch turns his gaze to Nerys, making no secret of how his eyes sweep over her nude body, her erect nipples, the drops of water coursing down her blue-gray skin.

She is already bare and it still feels like he is undressing her with his gaze.

“What? No.” She shakes her head at Thancred’s shocked expression. “No. When I said ‘surprise me’, this is not what I meant.”

“Well, this is why being specific is important." Emet sighs, sinking deeper into the water. “Will you put that knife down? Having two things pointing at my way is rather disconcerting...though stimulating."

At that, Thancred seems to remember he is naked and erect, though the cold air is working to amend the second problem. He sinks back into the water.

Nerys stoops to set the knife down, one arm shielded over her breasts and trying keep her thighs together. It wreaks havoc on her balance and makes Emet look even more amused. She gives up–he has already seen her–and sinks back into the water without further attempts at modesty.

The Emperor was a soldier, in his way. If his immortality hadn’t made him immune to being scandalized, being in the barracks surely had. As soon as she sits, Thancred slides an anchoring arm about her waist.

"Better," says Emet. "No wonder you have been neglecting me to spend all your time with him, hero. He is rather spectacular, beneath all the scowls he sends my way."

Thancred rolls his eyes. “You got your surprise and answered your question. Whatever that was.”

“Oh, that?” Emet-Selch’s smirk unfurls, slow as honey without the sweetness. “Our Warrior told me about Lord Haurchefant, how open they are with each other. I wondered if she was so with her other paramours, talking freely about her conquests."

Thancred glances her way again.  There was no reason to volunteer that information, it just...came up. When provoked, to be fair. Every other time she’s spoken about it...no she cannot say it was always to score points against Emet.

The look he gives her isn’t accusatory, she realises. It is...considering.

“And then here I find you two, comparing notes. Well, comparing notes against near celibacy. Either way, it’s very interesting.”

Nerys squeezes Thancred’s knee below the water. Rubs her thumb over the joint. “How long were you there?”

“Oh, long enough to be enjoyable but not so much to have been rude.” He slides a hand through his hair, pushing back locks damp from steam and snow. It...does things for his face, which he likely knows. “I did tell you that I like to watch.”

“Had your fill then?” Thancred asks, squeezing her hip.

"It takes much more to sate me. But it seems you two will be boring and stare at me till I leave." He sighs. "And as you are both submerged, I cannot even have something nice to look at. So, I suppose I'll go…"

No wait- She almost says.

She almost says! Twelve, Fury, whoever was listening, preserve; Nerys had actually thought of asking him to stay. This attraction is more dangerous than she thought. Clearly she is not so cool and objective about his beauty, if she is so on the verge.

Thancred goes very still beside her.

Nerys curses inwardly. Of course he catches on. This is what he does–understand what she wants before she admits it to herself. And that is all fine...until it is this man behind everything they have fought, everything that has hurt them and taken away their loved ones.

Attraction is not harmless and objective if Thancred is beside her, hurting because of it and her.

“Depends,” says Thancred, squeezing her hip again. “Are you going to sit there and make remarks, or are you going to do something useful?"

What?

She turns to Thancred, at a loss. Even at his most reckless, he wouldn’t invite an enemy to...maybe she misunderstands.

Emet-Selch is very still, the self-satisfied expression gone from his face. Thancred has surprised them both.

“Are you…” She swallows and starts again. “Are you saying…”

“You’re attracted to him, and he to you.” Thancred says, pressing lips to her temple. The soft pressure is unlike the rigid way he holds himself, tension all through his body. “And while neither of us trust him, sex doesn't have to require that.”

It doesn’t, but it always has for her. Even one night with a stranger requires someone she feels relatively safe with. More than that–he isn’t telling the whole truth. He isn’t testing her. That isn’t his way. But he has a reason she can’t guess at yet.

She does not trust Emet-Selch. He is not safe.

But. But.

If...when he strikes, it will not be while making love to them. It seems too gauche, too crude for him. There have been other times, more seemly times he might have waited for her to lower her guard. Like hours ago, when she presented her back to him and he had all but molded to it.

And she trusts Thancred.

“Okay,” she says. Not even sure that Emet will agree or if he is about to laugh at their temerity. Two sundered beings, thinking they might bring pleasure to an Ascian. “But if anyone says stop, we stop. No questions asked.”

“Agreed.” Thancred says, keeping her close to him.

Emet begins to rise until Thancred lifts a hand, gesturing for him to stay put. Clearly amused, the other man complies.

Nerys startles when Thancred lifts her into his arms and out of the water, carried like a bride through the chill air. He has always been strong but...he lifts her as if she is nothing. His muscles speak to the strength he has honed these five years but still, she hadn’t grasped the change. Not until now, cradled against his chest with her long legs dangling over his arms.

Thancred crouches, setting her into Emet’s lap with her back against the Ascian’s chest, smoothing his hands over her arms before he lets go. At once, Emet slides his hands around to palm her breasts. She gasps at the electric touch–both too much and not enough.

He is not shy. And he is not going to dismiss them.

His hands feel better than he imagined. And she can admit now: she imagined.

"I've no idea what you're trying to prove, Thancred." Emet says, breath against her ear. "But as it gives me something I want, I will examine it later."

Something in her clenches at that. “When you spoke of play...have you been flirting this whole time? Or was that just to rile me?”

“Yes.” Emet presses his lips to the side of her neck, feather light. Almost imperceptible. His hands are the opposite, purposeful as they knead her breasts, roll her dark purple nipples between his fingers until she squirms on his lap. It’s like he knew how sensitive she would be there.

Thancred’s hand reaches behind her, gripping somewhere on Emet. His shoulder? Digging into his hair? He has to lean in close to do it and Nerys takes advantage. She presses her mouth to his brown nipple, chasing a rivulet of water down his chest. Sweet, just like he can be.

"You don't put anything inside her until I say so," says Thancred. His voice is harsh but he shivers beneath her lips.

"Oh," Emet breathes. "Do you always let him boss you like that, my dear?"

He squeezes her left breast and she gasps against Thancred instead of answering. All at once he stills, waiting for her response. “S-sometimes. It depends.”

That earns her more pressure against her needful flesh, the fingers pinching just so. “Tell me.”

Nerys tries to look back at him. He frees one hand to catch her chin, directing her eyes back to Thancred who kneels before her. It almost doesn’t feel real, without seeing Emet and his smile and his pale-gold eyes. It could be anyone behind her, certainly not him of all people.

Except that voice. She would know it in the haunting light of Kholusia or in the darkest cave of the Night’s Blessed. At some point, he slipped under skin as if he was meant to be there.

Thancred watches them, running one hand up and down the outside of her thigh in slow strokes. The other is underwater, mirroring the touches on himself. He nods, giving her permission to tell their secrets.

“We...switch,” she says. “I often prefer someone to hold my reins. But...sometimes I like telling him what to do. Withholding from him until he is good. Making him beg.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Emet purrs, proving just how long he watched them. She frowns and puts her hand on his wrist, giving it a light squeeze.

“That’s his name for me. You need to choose your own.”

He sighs and she can feel his eyes rolling. Dramatically. “Oh, very well. I suppose I could continue calling you my dear.”

At those words, his teeth sink into her earlobe and his hands resume their kneading. His erection presses at her under the water, the thickness apparent just from the feel of him. She resists the urge to grind against it, lest it end things too soon.

"Any other orders, Thancred? Or are you content to watch me tease her until she begs for release?"

Thancred cups her face between his hands and kisses her, unhurried and deep. She grows pliant under the luxurious touch of both men. No reins desired in her hands tonight. And from the glint in his eyes when he parts from her, Thancred can tell.

“Hold her arms behind her,” he says. “And you’ll be nice for us, won’t you sweetheart? He shouldn’t have to worry about holding you back."

"I'll play nice. This time."

“Ha." He nips her jaw. "Say stop, and we stop. And if you can’t speak, go very still and I will too.”

Nerys nods. Strong hands grip her arms, arranging them to cross behind her back before locking tight upon her. Except-

Except, there are still fingers on her breast. Palms anchoring her hips tight against Emet. She looks down and sees black and purple aether in the vague shape of hands, cupping her aching chest.

Emet chuckles, low and dark. His cock twitches against her. "I have my talents."

Twelve. Growing wet is...different in hot water. But there is still a heated, slick pulse between her legs and her hips try to jerk in response to the idea of what he could do with all those hands. The heat filling her has nothing to do with the springs.

Thancred pushes the aether-hands off her chest so he can cup her breasts, drawing them up as he lowers his mouth to suckle at one. Her head tips back and Emet-Selch takes advantage, lips pressing to the side of her neck. The barest hint of teeth whispers with them.

“So sweet, so good,” murmurs Thancred. His large, callused hands slide over her as his tongue traces her nipple. "What do you want tonight?"

Nerys can barely shiver, the hold on her is so tight and strong. Emet’s fingers pulse against her, firm but not harsh on her skin. “I want you. I want you both. However you want me.”

He smiles and she readies to receive another litany of compliments. The words always flow from him when he is amorous, praising every twitch of her muscles, every way she takes him into her. Instead, he rewards her with another dizzying kiss; so intense she forgets herself and tries to throw her arms about him.

Emet tightens his grip, tutting against her neck.  "And she was so well behaved until now."

“Sorry,” she murmurs against Thancred’s mouth. “I just-I need to feel you-”

“Shh, it’s alright.” Thancred hushes her, his fingers against her mouth as he moves into her space. She parts her lips and takes the tip of one, swirling her tongue about it. “Ah, I’ll give you what you need.”

He slides a hand onto the back of her neck, nudging her down while she continues lathing his finger. The many hands clutching her accommodate, till she is suspended and bent over, balanced by the arms held taut behind her, barely on Emet’s lap. Her chin dips into the hot water and she stares up through lowered lashes.

Thancred stands, sliding a hand to grip just beneath the swollen head of his cock.  Not as thick as what she feels against her rump, but it has grown to its full aroused length. Emet hums appreciatively, likely at the outstanding number of ilms on display. She thinks–it is hard to think, held like this, a slip away from all of her sinking into the water, his cock before her-

She thinks there are more hands on her now, thumbs rubbing subtle, light circles into her arms and legs and ankles. Emet follows the orders; nothing is inside her yet. But oh how she wants there to be, an end to the sweet torture of the many teasing touches.

“Well?” Emet asks. “Are you going to give her what she needs? You certainly have enough of it.”

Thancred smirks over her head, slowing the pace of his stroke as he goes from root to tip. Caressing each bit of the shaft before swirling his thumb over the head, worrying at his lip when he does so. Both she and Emet make pleased sounds at the same time, hers much more needy and inelegant.

At last, Thancred slides one hand into her short locks; keeping her in place as he guides himself into her mouth. Slow at first, then pressing deep as she relaxes her mouth and throat. She cannot take him all the way but she tries, savoring the heady taste of him and spring water until her toes curl.

He fucks into her mouth, his hips jerking in quick thrusts. The water splashes up her face and she closes her eyes, the sensations heightening the moment she does. Over the splashing she hears Thancred say something. In response, two fingers plunge into her folds. In and out, pulling back as soon as she tries to grind against them.

She thinks they are Emet’s flesh hands. She cannot be sure.

Nerys squirms to free herself, needing to touch Thancred. Run her hands over his shaft where her mouth cannot possibly go. The grip on her limbs tightens, a third finger slides into her. She can feel Emet’s body move with a chuckle even though she can only hear the water splashing over her nose and closed eyelids. The threat to her breathing goads her pleasure.

Thancred’s grip in her hair tightens, the other hand joining to burrow in the violet and white strands. His fingers in her scalp send a new wave of feeling through her. She moans around him, the pressure in her building but with no outlet in sight.

His thrusts speed up and she knows what is about to happen, groans in encouragement as his release pours into her. He doesn’t let go, not until he is fully spent and the momentum gives way. She can hear him now, the running litany of praise he must have kept up the whole time. “-so good, so good you did so well…”

He drags her off him and kneels, pressing her to sit again with her back against Emet, lips brushing against hers as she swallows and catches her breath. Nerys opens her mouth to him and he follows her, tasting her more fully. Tasting himself more fully.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “I feel like I’m close but also not at all.”

“I can take care of that.” Thancred says, kissing her forehead. He takes a deep breath and submerges beneath the water. She isn’t sure what he’s about until his mouth latches onto her clit, sucking as much as he can below. The fingers inside her curl

“Fuck,” she hisses again. They’re going to eviscerate her like this.

“Look at you.” Emet says, mouthing along her shoulder. "How easily you come apart. How eager you are to obey, and he is not half so dominating as I would be."

She moans–from his fingers, Thancred’s mouth, the implicit promise in Emet’s words. Nerys answers the challenge in them instead. “I-I know he’ll make it good for me. I d-don’t need that much encouragement.”

“Implying what? You aren’t so assured of me?” He catches her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her head back towards him until it almost hurts. The edge of pain thrills down her spine, joining the rest of the heightened feelings in her. “I think you can accurately guess the heights I could drive you to.”

His breath tickles the corner of her mouth. At last she sees his eyes and the roaring fire they contain, the undisguised need and want. She gasps, not just from the increased thrusting of his fingers, the pressure and seal of Thancred’s mouth. If he had ever shown her that look before, she would have dragged him to bed and the consequences be damned.

Thancred emerges, taking a breath at the same time he slides his hand over the one Emet has on her face. Presses his mouth over the other man’s fingers before kissing Nerys like she is the oxygen he couldn’t have underwater.

His other hand slips between her thighs, direct and purposeful on her sensitive bud. His words pour into her ears–”yes, let go, let go, I want you to come like this, just like this”–and Emet’s fingers move faster inside her. With his wonderful, knowledgeable hand at her clit and his ragged words against her cheek, it doesn’t take long for her to come with a cry.

Thancred swallows her yell, her shaking prevented by Emet’s grip. For a moment, all she sees are the brilliant stars above them in the inky sky. The snow falling on her hair. The crescent moon, reminiscent of one of Emet’s toothier smiles.

Emet lets her go all at once and she collapses against Thancred, melting into his soothing touch. Her breath is loud in her ears, near as much as her heart slamming against her ribs and his against her ear.

“Good girl.” Thancred kisses the tip of her pointed ear. “Do you know what I would do for you, if we were in a different setting?”

She shivers, feeling the cold air for the first time since he put her in Emet’s lap. “Tell me. Please.”

“I would let you take us both, together, at the same time. Get you so stretched and wet for us, so slick...” The soft growl is back in his voice and she might climax again, just from that. As maple-sugar-sweet and poetic he can be, as worshipful as he may choose to be, this is a part of him too. Hungry and demanding.

“True, we cannot prepare her easily in this setting.” Emet says. “Very well, you’ve convinced me.”

There is a soft snap.

Nerys lies in a bed–her bed, in her room at the Pendants. She is warm and dry, not a drop of water on her. Warmer still from Emet, stretched out and pressed along her side, tracing patterns into her abdomen. (Also, the bed is made. The coverlet is far too expensive to come from the inn. She touches the red material in wonder.)

“Hilarious,” Thancred says from the center of the room. Naked and sopping wet, with all their belongings beside him in a careful pile. Emet would not harm their weapons, even if he might be unkind to Thancred’s person. “You might have dried me off too.”

“Hm…” Emet pushes himself on one elbow, the other hand tapping a finger to his lips. “If you fetch the oil from her bathroom cabinet, I shall dry you off.”

For a long moment, Thancred stares him down. Eyes narrowed. But there is no real ire and with a sigh, he makes for the bathroom. The aether lights flicker on as soon as he steps inside.

“How did you know...Emet-Selch! I said you’re not allowed to be here when I’m gone.”

She starts to sit up. Quick as any hunting animal, he braces his arm on the other side of her and swings a leg across. He leans over her, caging her in on all sides  without touching her. Yet. “Yes, but I never agreed to those terms. Underhanded but...my hero did request surprises.”

Nerys puts a hand flat against his shoulder with the intent to push. His skin is warm beneath her palm, the silken feel of him unexpected. It would be so easy to shove him off, storm away from the bed. Except this is the first time truly looking at him since they began and...he has her trapped. Immolating in the pale gold fire of his eyes, mesmerized in the quirk of his brow and tilt of his full lips. The longer she stares, the more neutral his expression becomes and he returns the scrutiny.

There is no buffer. No Thancred to protect her or distract her. And she is afraid-

But not of him, she realises with a start. It’s the intensity I feel when he touches me. I’m scared of how much I want him to touch me again. I’m scared at how right this seems.

She pushes herself up with one hand, the other cups the back of his neck. Pulls him down to her. Emet stills only a moment before his eyes flutter shut and he submits to her, mouth moving soft and slow over hers. His hands curl about her waist, thumbs stroking over her skin. He savors her with the slow drag of his tongue coaxing her more open, more vulnerable to his ministrations.

When they part his eyes are half-lidded, expression utterly relaxed. He’s beautiful. He’s always beautiful. But this pierces her in a new way, so lovely he could rend her heart in two with one look. And he just might.

The hands on her hips pull her forward as he leans back. She ends up in his lap, straddling his waist in one fluid motion. Nerys reaches between them to stroke him. He has been patient this whole time, the least she can do is-

Emet catches her hand and lays the attached arm upon his shoulder, then the other. She opens her mouth to protest and he interrupts her with another kiss. Just as slow and aching, one arm hooked behind her back while the other traces fingertips along her jaw. His hand is gentle as it runs over her throat, down between her breasts, stroking circles into her waist and hip.

Nerys realises it is the longest he has gone in her presence without talking. And she feels the laugh bubbling up her throat, mouth trembling with the strength of holding it back.

“Laughing at me, hero?” He murmurs against her mouth. Nips her lower lip in reprimand.

“N-no I just...felt giddy all of a sudden.” Damn her, ruining the mood like that. Just as his hand was traveling down.

“Liar.” His scolding teeth sink into the side of her neck. She gasps against him, laughter dissolving into a breathy sound. “Better. Let’s see what other preferable sounds we can draw from you.”

“You’re getting close,” she says. Now her smile is irrepressible. “A little lower and to my left…”

“Dear, dear, dear,” he sighs. “And you were so obedient before. Do I bring out the minx in you so much?”

“I thought that was part of why you always came back to talk.”

Instead of a verbal riposte, his hand moves down and to her left. Circling her center, finding the clit and pressing down upon it. As if he has brought her to pleasure a thousand times and knows just where to touch.

Nerys buries her face in his shoulder, shuddering until his strokes are too much and she has to moan against him.

“What delicious noises you make, my dear.” He says, continuing to circle. Continuing to scrape his teeth over her skin. “Thancred was a fool to ever let you go.”

“I was.”

Nerys opens her eyes. (When did she close them?) Thancred stands a few paces from the bed, glass bottle in hand. Both of Emet’s hands splay against her back, pressing her close against him. She feels his fingers snap against her, drying Thancred in an instant.

“At least you admit it,” says Emet.

Nerys has to push a moment before he lets her lean back, getting a better view of Thancred. Shakes her head. “It wasn’t as simple as all that, or one person’s fault.”

As mad as she still is at the Exarch...she might have spoken to Thancred a dozen times before this week. Taken the aetheryte to Mor Dhona to see him, pull him aside when he joined their party in Gyr Abania. Or called him over linkpearl, as she did the night they almost lost Y’shtola.

He pushed her away after they found him in Dravania, even more after Minfilia. But she squandered opportunities, each a bright and alarming memory in hindsight.

Before Thancred can respond, Emet puts a hand to her cheek and makes her look at him. His free hand raises, wagging a finger in her face before tapping her nose. “Ah ah ah, don’t let him off so easy. Not when he is doing his best to make it up to you now…”

Nerys sees the moment a thought takes hold, curling the ends of his mouth upward, drawing his brows down. He flicks a glance over his shoulder. “Oh, is that it? Why you asked me to join?”

Thancred cloaks the soft, warm expression at Nerys with a scowl at Emet. “Don’t pretend to understand my motives.”

Emet clicks his tongue in mock scandalization. “Presumptuous of you, thinking you’re allowed to gift wrap and present me as an apology present.”

Oh.

Nerys extricates herself from his lap, climbing off the bed in a hurry. Walking to Thancred. Searching his closed-off expression for a hint. “Is...is that true?”

Thancred reaches out and takes her hand. Lifts it to his mouth. For all the things these two men have done tonight, for all the things they might still do; these soft touches disarm her the most. And then he removes the facade for her, showing the hope and wariness and the mocking little smile. One she knows is always meant for himself, not anyone else.

He sighs “He’s not wrong, but he’s also not right.” Thancred peers behind her at the bed. “But if Emet-Selch feels used, he is free to leave at any time.”

That last part doesn’t sound angry or annoyed as much as...challenging. She watches him smirk and quirk a brow. Daring the other man.

“Naughty boy,” Emet murmurs. “No, I won’t leave. This has proven to be an interesting night indeed and I am not satisfied yet.”

Nerys touches Thancred’s cheek, drawing his gaze back up to her. Looks him dead in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. Your feelings matter to me and-”

“I could have let him leave, and given you a memorable night without him. I decided I wanted to give you this instead.” The old roguish smirk grows on his lips. “And besides, he has a nice prick.”

She exhales slow, deep, making herself relax. Banishing the anxious tension in her neck and shoulders. “Okay. I believe you.”

“You always can.” Thancred draws her face down and she follows, sinking into his embrace. He still holds the bottle and it’s cool against her back as she presses against the delicious heat of his body and the hard planes of his chest. As he moves, so does she until the backs of her legs hit the mattress. Down, down, she goes until she is sprawled with her head and shoulders in Emet’s lap, Thancred holding himself above her.

“That last part,” Emet says, taking the glass bottle. “You couldn’t see my ‘nice prick’ in the water.”

“But I can see it now.” Thancred shifts his balance to one hand, the other sinking between Emet’s thighs. Sliding a hand over the long-neglected length and this time, Emet doesn’t forestall his own pleasure but lifts his hips. His full lips part and he sighs with relief.

Nerys tilts her head to look up at Thancred, who gives her an expectant look. This old game then. They haven’t played this one since the Spring Festival in Mor Dhona. She meets the challenge with a grin of her own and adjusts her position to better participate.

His fingers return to the root of Emet’s cock and slide upward. She chases them with her tongue along the velvet underside. The scents she associates with him–petrichor and ice and stone–are less here. He could be anyone she might bed.

Emet gasps and slides his hand into her hair. Guiding her as much as Thancred. The steady, near-painful pleasure is unlike many men she has taken to bed for a single night. Who often keep distance and treat her like glass. He is unlike anyone else.

The fingers twist over the swollen head and slip away for her to do the same, mimicking the motion with her swirling tongue. Emet increases pressure on her until he slides between her lips. Nerys bobs up and down without further incentive. That his grip remains insistent only makes this sweeter.

He is nearly as thick as Haurchefant, sure to make her jaw ache.

Another hand–Thancred’s–grips the back of her neck and nudges her down, down, her eyes watering as Emet fucks into her throat. Her nose meets the prickling thatch of auburn curls. Emet lets loose a more desperate sound, the groan raw as he pulls her off of him, fingers still digging into her scalp.

“Good girl,” murmurs Thancred.

“And good boy.” The hands in her hair twists, angling her to watch Emet take hold of Thancred and kiss him with teeth and tongue and heat.  Arousal pulses through her at the sight. They’re beautiful. They’re beautiful and tonight they are both hers.

Nerys rises up, sliding into their tangle and they open for her, mouths and hands worshipping at her skin. She wants to be at the center of this. She wants to be selfish and feel them attend to every inch of her before they fuck her. She wants them to burn her until she is naught but ash and pleasure.

“I need you,” she says to them both. “Please don’t stop touching me.”

“Oh, my dear.” Emet catches her chin, sliding his thumb between her lips. “As if I-we could. You are a feast laid out for us and we are but beggars.”

She sucks on it, watching desire flare in his eyes. Emet sighs as if resigned, sliding his hand down so that he can kiss her again. The gentleness of it has her arms and neck prickling with awareness, her breath catching. Everything about him screams danger and yet–yet he coaxes her with lips and tongue, courting her instead of simply taking.

As if sensing her thoughts and needing to disprove her assumption, he turns her about in his arms. Bites down on the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Nerys gasps and Thancred is there to catch her, soothing her even as his own teeth drag over her pulse. Behind her is rustling and the soft pop of a bottle uncorked. She can hear Emet moving his hands together, warming his palms.

Thancred has not forgotten her request. As his mouth travels over her, his hands move in long strokes over arms and waist, hips and legs, neck and cheek. A dizzying perusal of caresses, maintaining the contact she needs.

She startles when Emet squeezes her rear, shivers when one oil slicked hand slides towards the tight ring of muscle. When the first finger begins to circle, Thancred kisses her shoulder. As it slides in to the knuckle, he strokes her sides.

“That’s it,” Thancred murmurs. “You’re doing so good. Look how wet you already are, ready for me to slide deep into you. And I will, as soon as he’s done preparing you.”

“My,” Emet says, kissing behind her ear. “He is a chatty one.”

“He is one to talk.”

“He must feel lost without some narration. Or is the talk for your benefit? Do you need me to tell you how good you’re swallowing me, how tight, how perfectly made for my fingers and my prick you are…”

Nerys means to laugh but a moan comes out instead. Digs her fingers into Thancred’s ivory locks and urges his lips downward. “I-I don’t need it but I like it.” She could have them talk to her like this for hours.

“Impatient,” Thancred mutters at her insistent pushing. He puts up a resistance, sliding his tongue over her stomach all the same.

“I don’t see you stopping me.” Nerys smiles down at him. “Unless you plan on making me pay?”

Teeth sink into her other shoulder as Emet adds a second finger. She wriggles against the sensation, tugging at Thancred’s hair in response. Quick, as if this is a battle–and maybe it is–Thancred grabs her wrists and pins them down on either side of her. Nerys grips at the unfamiliar coverlet, meeting his smirk with a scowl.

She tries to lift herself up, presenting herself for his mouth. He ignores the offering, attending to her breasts instead. Dipping down and then back up as soon as she thinks he might taste her. His grip is iron when she pushes against it, squeezing in warning when she does it again.

“Two strikes…” He says.

Now she has to know. Nerys tries a third time and finds herself dragged to lie on her back, his shoulders shoving under her thighs until they press against her stomach. Emet's slick hands leave her and she moans at the loss.

"You'll have him back in a moment." Thancred says. He glances up, has a wordless conversation with Emet behind her. Takes hold of her arms and lifts them, passing them over. Her wrists are shoved down, captured in the harsh grip of one hand pinning above her head.

It should be worrying that they are cooperating this well to make her writhe. Instead, she feels giddy and like she might dissolve from the force of anticipation..

She tests the restraint and finds no give, not even with her two hands to his one. Emet looks down at her, pitiless and expression bright with desire. And then her eyes shut because Thancred devours her. No mercy, no restraint, his hands gripping her thighs so tight they might bruise. He pushes her higher and higher until he thighs shake and she can see the edge-

And then he pulls back completely.

"Please," she gasps. "That's not fair. I need you-"

Emet’s face is upside-down above her, but he finds a way to slot his mouth against hers. She pours her frustration into the kiss, demanding release with a bite to his lip. He only chuckles against her mouth, his slow reprimand becoming something fierce. Engulfing.

When he parts from her, his lips but an ilm from hers, his eyes are unfocused and his breath ragged. She tastes his blood on her tongue. Licks her lips.

"Not yet," says Emet. "Not after we went through all the trouble of preparing you."

His hand is unyielding against her. Nerys tries to move her hips and legs instead and Thancred presses further, going the small distance needed to bend her in half. "I could come again after-"

“Listen.” Emet nips her shoulder. "We’ve staked a claim upon your pleasure. You’re going to have it...when we’re ready. Yes?”

Fuck. His words, his lowered voice...She would rub her thighs together if she could, if Thancred wasn't between them. Instead, she feels herself growing wetter, hotter. Thancred’s fingers slide over her but for all the lewd noises he draws out, he does not touch anywhere that might bring her release.

"Answer him, sweetheart,” says Thancred. "For once he is making sense."

“Yes,” she murmurs.

“What was that?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll do what you want me to.”

"Good girl," Emet says, the two of them moving her to sit up between them again. "That deserves a reward."

"Please tell me the reward is your cocks," she says, leaning back against him. "Otherwise, I don't think I'll make it."

"Impatient." Emet mutters but he drips more oil into her cleft, the three fingers returning to open her, stretch her. She braces herself against Thancred, half slumped over and cheek pressed against his heart. If she tries to touch herself, he will stop her but she considers it. Dares one hand down against her stomach. He grabs at it, kissing her as he does.

Nerys groans, rocking back against the fingers stretching her. Grasping for the peak Thancred almost brought her to.

"She's ready," says Emet at last, his voice rough. His hands dig into her cheeks, squeezing as he parts them. "Needy creature. Who knew you had it in you to desire so much?"

"I knew." Thancred kisses her shoulder. "He'll learn, sweetheart."

"That you think you can teach me anything…" Emet mutters. "Mortals. And their arrogance."

"Please," Nerys begs, her voice taut with need. She clutches at Thancred as an anchor against the sweet torture they’re putting her through. "You can lecture us all you want but first give me your-"

At that, his head presses against her. Rocks a moment before sliding into her oil-slicked passage, his hands stroking circles to soothe her as he enters slow and steady. When her breath hitches and the ache is almost too much, he stops and kisses her nape and spine until she relaxes again.

She’s trembling in his arms, overwhelmed at the fullness, the sensation of him deep in her, wrapped around her. His aether seems to sink into her, embracing her as if he has re-manifested all those phantom hands again. But it is just him, just a barrier taken down between them.

When she beds someone with strong aether...those times were just a shade of this. This is beyond anything she has ever experienced.

Emet skims his hands over her muscular thighs, hosting her close until his chin rests on her shoulder. She opens her eyes as he eases them back, watching the view trade Thancred for the ceiling and instinctively reaches out for balance. And then Emet kisses her neck and soothes her skin and she relaxes again.

"Well?" He says, holding her legs open. "She wants you too, Thancred.”

Thancred crouches between her thighs, running a hand over his cock. It has returned to its full aroused length, a tantalizing bead of moisture at the head. His refractory period is always impressive, and they have taken their time since the hot springs. Teasing her until she feels ready to burst.

"I wonder if you'll even physically be able to take it all." Emet says in her ear. "Stuffed as you already are."

He rocks his hips just so and she whimpers at the feel of him. It is true–she is already full to bursting. It is also true–she wants to take as much of them as she can. All of them if she is able.

“If it’s too much…” Thancred leans over her. Presses his cock against her folds as he lines himself up. “Look at me.”

She looks at him, into the warm depths of his eyes. Into the need and heat. Nerys lifts her hips in invitation and Emet is there to slide them back down, groaning softly.

“You know how to stop things, sweetheart. If it gets too much.”

“If it gets too much,” she repeats, licking her lips. “Thancred please fu-”

He slides into her without resistance, slick and ready as she is. It is almost too much and he isn't even half-way seated inside of her. She bites her lip so she doesn't say the word because she wants more, she wants to be utterly lost-

Emet bites the back of her neck and she cries out, but her body relaxes. Thancred slides deeper inside her, bracing his forearms on either side of them. Tension furrows between his brows.

“Alright?” He asks, more breath than sound.

“Yes,” she whimpers. “Please-please-”

"How sweetly you beg." Emet curls one hand around her breast, the other sliding down her stomach. Dragging to where Thancred is buried inside her and her swollen nub waits succor. He traces outside it, slow and taunting. "It almost makes me want to see how long we can keep you just shy of climaxing."

Thancred smirks. Some of the tension eases in his face. "Keep talking like that, it's making her clench around me."

"Bastards," she moans, reaching for Thancred. Resting arms on his shoulders as he begins to move, his slow, vexing strokes in rhythm with the lift of Emet's hips.

"Oh, do be nice," Emet continues as his fingers brush against her core. "I have only ever admired you. And here you are, exceeding all my expectations. You, who shine brighter than most mortals, you're almost radiant now-"

Nerys cannot think enough to string a response together. Sex is often a release for her, a way to center herself. This feels like...being remade. Like the tandem motion of their bodies strips everything away until there is only the pleasure and the ache. Even the growing cramp in her calves cannot compare with the ecstasy coursing through her.

They are both talking, dropping praise upon her but now she cannot hold onto their meaning. Only the feeling of them sliding in and out of her, the ache and stretch of her body, the slap of their skin on hers. Especially as the pace picks up, both men pushing each other to a greater tempo, snapping hips to drive her back and forth between raging fire and raging fire.

The fingers at her clit press down. The edge is in sight and she sobs aloud for them to keep going. To keep moving. Not to stop again, not when she is so close.

Thancred kisses her. Lips press against her nape and she can feel Emet's smile, his breath as he mouths words into her skin that she cannot hear and cannot parse. They move faster inside her, the finger circling, teeth on her flesh-

Nerys screams as her pleasure rips through her, clutching at whatever she can as her mind enters the strange place of release–a mind so focused on one thing as to feel almost blank, a mind so overcome with feeling that there is nothing but relief and pleasure and not a single thought. She gasps and arches and sobs as they work her through it, the frenzied rhythm milking every onze of pleasure from her

Emet gasps and she feels the final, desperate thrusts of his release. And Thancred, Thancred keeps going, keeps moving in her and moving her against Emet until they are both sensitive and depleted and keening and then, and then Thancred lets himself go.

Nerys is nothing but ash and pleasure, smoldering between them.

Emet moves first, lips pressing to her back as his hand traces patterns into her skin. Idle, swirling loops and flourishes that guide her back to the land of the living. She follows their trail without hesitation, her hand sliding over his as she follows.

She opens her eyes just as fingers slides over her cheek. Thancred leans over her, forehead pressed to hers. Studying her as if he has never seen her before. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe she is someone else on the other side of what they shared.

Maybe they all are.

He slides out of her and she whimpers at the loss, both of him and the heady sense of being filled completely. But he returns to her, resting his cheek against her the swell of her chest while the rest of him lies flush against her.

Nerys strokes his hair and finds the energy to speak. “Okay?”

"Okay," says Thancred. Smiles a little. "I don't ever want to move again."

A soft snort behind her. "Your time is short as is."

"Hush," she says. "You're not going anywhere either."

"Oh?" Emet kisses her shoulder. "Bold of you to-"

Despite what he just said, Thancred moves. Slides up and nudges Nerys just so until he is able to press his lips against Emet's. The Ascian hums in response, submitting to the delightful reprimand.

At last Thancred pulls away with a sigh. "Much better."

Emet chuckles. "So, you two plan on keeping me here tonight. Well, I put myself at your mercy...provided you let me lead the figure at some point."

"If you're good," Nerys teases, and then gasps as Emet rolls his hips against her.

“My dear,” says Emet. His hands slide up her stomach, cupping her breasts. She can tell from Thancred’s expression, they’re sharing a conspiratorial look. Anticipation and wonder sing through her. “Let me prove just how good a playmate I can be."

#nerys eluned #emet-selch #thancred waters #thancred x wol x emet-selch #thancred x wol #emet-selch x wol #thancred x emet-selch #ffxiv #duskwight warrior of light #dragoon warrior of light #elezen #water cw #ally writes

[the-chanteloup]

InuYasha RP Bio

Omg. I’m alive! Things have been so hectic, I forgot I had a Tumblr! Silly me. Well, I’ve returned, and with that return, I give you my finalized InuYasha RP bio! 

So, I created this character about 18 years ago when InuYasha first aired on Adult Swim. I debuted her on Yahoo!Chat, and when that died, she sort of went into hibernation. With the series coming out, and this sudden surge of InuYasha, I really wanted to finalize her, and get her out into the world. :3  

Name (last, first): Setsuna ( Of the Karyukai, The Flower and Willow World )

Nickname(s): Hanyou, Runt, Pup, Geisha

Age: 55 (Youthful appearance, commonly mistaken for 20-25)

Species: Half-Dog Demon, Half-Human (Hanyou)

Gender: Female

Birthday: Around the Winter Solstice

Life Story:

Left on the doorstep of an orphanage in the village of Sawara, in a shabby reed basket during a harsh winter was not the ideal beginning, but, all great legends must start somewhere. Luckily, warm hearts were in good spirits this cold night, and the overseers of this particular orphanage just couldn’t leave a bright eyed, bundle of joy out in the elements. Brought in out of the cold, and raised alongside human children, the pup never really knew she was different, other than having two black fluffy ears atop her head. As she grew, she was given a general education along with the other children, nothing fancy since they were considered the lower class, but enough to get her by should she ever take to selling turnips.

Unfortunately, all fairy tales have to end, and when her 16th year rolled around, she was tossed out into the world to fend for herself.

Being a small Hanyou had its benefits job wise, roaming gangs of thieves were always willing to have her tag along for heists, at a quarter of the profit for most of the dangerous work. But fate is a fickle mistress, and while perusing through a shop during a heist one night, she was detained by an older man named Ino Tadataka, with nun chucks. How embarrassing. She didn’t need superb Demon hearing to know her comrades had bailed, leaving her the scapegoat. However, before she could decide which hand she was okay with having chopped off, the old man offered her a deal. She would assist him in mapping some of the harder to reach places in the area, and in return he would house her, feed her and teach her to read.

Since climbing trees for an old man was a much better option than losing a limb, she hastily agreed, and spent many years assisting “Old Man Ino”, as she called him, in completing his map of Japan.

In the Spring of her last month with Ino, he referred her to an old friend in a village called Kanazawa in the Western Lands for another job. With no other real work leads, other than going back to stealing, she took the lead. When she arrived at the mapped destination Ino had given her, it turned out to be an exotic tea house. She swore on all the Gods above and below that she would knock the taste out of that old pervert’s mouth for this. As she stood outside making her proclamation to bash an old man’s head in, she was interrupted by the tea house’s 'mother', Kikuya. Seeing a rare opportunity to be the only tea house in the district with a Hanyou entertaining, Kikuya took her in instantly.

Amazingly, after several rough years of learning, she was finally “promoted” to the highest rank, Geisha.

Fast forward a few short years, just a few months from fully paying off her debt, she is one of the more popular girls advertised at the tea house. Fully skilled in playing the kokyū, flirting with men in a proper way, starting and losing games of Janken or Daruma Otoshi gracefully, and pouring hot tea in hazardous ways, courtesy of her quick Hanyou reflexes, she has acquired several frequent guests.

A Samurai named Yorimoto quickly became her favorite “customer”, and though they saw each other as nothing more than siblings, she developed a connection to the Human. He was never short on adventurous stories about fighting, and war, which she soaked up like a sponge, enjoying the romantic way he told of their honor code. Being half-Demon, she was naturally drawn to weapons and all their convenient ways of killing things, and eventually convinced Yorimoto to teach her how to use the Naginata. Unfortunately, it was highly un-Geisha like to swing around a “blade on a stick”, as her mother called it, so, under the guise of certain services, they met and trained. Several months passed, and her Samurai was called away to battle, but before he left, Yorimoto gifted her a Naginata all her own, for emergencies, of course.

Even though she was content to stay at her tea house and practice her Naginata in peace until the day when she could afford to open her own business, she also wouldn’t mind a little bit of adventure sneaking in and stirring things up.  

Appearance:

Setsuna stands an intimidating five feet tall at her black ear tips, which has earned her the nickname “Runt”. Thanks to her Demon genetics, despite her small stature, she is sturdily built, muscular and has a curvy frame. She is a milky skinned Hanyou with loosely curled raven black hair that trails down to her rear, and cobalt blue, cat like eyes rimmed in coal eyeliner. Her ears are slightly fluffy, and sport two small silver hoops in each, a gift from her Geisha mother, Kikuya. Her claws are a soft pearl color; however, they are kept at a shorter length due to her kokyū playing and aesthetics for the tea house, but they still remain filed to a point and sharp.

Her only truly intimidating feature is a deep, guttural growl that could easily be mistaken for a much larger demon. Setsuna’s normal attire is that of a typical Geisha, minus the white makeup. Elaborate silk kimonos and obis, along with jeweled hair trinkets and pins. Her hair is never tied up, allowing her ears to remain out in the open. When she is training with the Naginata, she dons a black hakama, with a royal blue sash around her waist. Setsuna is almost always barefoot as she likes the feel of Earth on her skin.

Like all Hanyou, she reverts to a mortal Human form on the night of the new moon. She becomes weaker, as she loses all of her Demon abilities. Her hair fades to a dusty blonde color, and her eyes dull to a pale gray.  

Personality:

Setsuna is usually the center of the party. Having trained with her Geisha mother, she can strike up conversations easily with almost anyone. She has a laid-back demeanor, seeming to just roll with the punches. A smile of some sort is usually found on her face, giving her an easy to approach look. She has an old wisdom about her, and is always available to offer advice or find an answer to a question. She tends to have a soft spot for animals and children, but she prefers both go home with someone else. Her one true weakness is a field of wild flowers, or flowers of any kind. Though she hates to admit it, she’s a sucker for romance and intimate physical touches.

Unfortunately, with a decent amount of Demon blood in her veins, Setsuna is not the quiet, demure creature one would expect when they see her in full Geisha attire. Having been raised by thieves, her mouth is dirtier than a sewer grate, and her mind has been likened to that of a lecherous old man’s. Even with traditionally excitable genetics, she is calm, collected, and calculating, preferring her enemies to either make fools of themselves or to wander right into her trap. Though she has never been in a true battle, the canine in her usually wishes a mother fucker would so she could let her Naginata bathe in blood. Of course, that doesn’t mean she goes looking for a fight, but should one happen to peek around a corner….

Good Habit(s):

She is very understanding, and a good listener. No problem is too dramatic, or small for her ears. She offers honest advice (This could be good or bad) She is fiercely loyal to those who have earned it. Her colorful background and lifestyle have given her a wealth of wisdom and knowledge, both useful and not.  

Bad Habit(s):

Hot headed, she finds a boiling point rather quickly over certain things. Decently excitable, the World is a big adventure to a young Hanyou. Territorial, what’s hers is hers. Cursing bad enough to make perverts blush.

Like(s):

Walking in the forest, feeling the sun on her skin and the Earth on her bare feet. Having her hair done/played with. Food. Training with her Naginata. Playing the kokyū. Listening to stories, mostly battle and war stories. Thunderstorms at night. Wildflower fields.

Special Powers/Abilities:

Aside from the typical Hanyou speed, flexibility and agility, she has a natural ability to hide and camouflage herself due to her small stature. She’s also decently formidable in a fist fight. Intimidating low, guttural growl usually used for intimidation. Rapid healing.

Ambition/Life-long Dream:

Even though she longs for the thrill of battle, a more reasonable ambition would be to finally pay off her debts to Kikuya, and to open her own tea house that specializes in ‘unique’ Geishas like herself.

Love Interest:

Unknown.  

Occupation/Job:

Geisha, entertainer, Hanyou

Notes:

Now, I know y'all who follow the series are looking at me like, "Uh...THAT NAME IS FAMILIAR" And, yeah, I know, trust me. I had a moment when the official announcement was made, but when I created Setsuna, I actually used the name from the manga Angel Sanctuary ( showing my age here ), and this character was never meant to follow any sort of canon story line, ever, she was always strictly AU. With all that being said, please don't come for me. xD I am smol and anxiety ridden. I really just wanted to have her bio published, because I love this little shit of a Hanyou. She was one of my very first creations and holds a pretty special place in my cold black heart. A few more notes: I'm totally up for RP! Feel free to send me a note or whatever. I'm pretty laid-back, and open to most scenarios.

I usually ship Setsuna with Sesshomaru, because it's adorable, but, I’m open to any ship.  

She has no art. Like I said, this has been a long time coming, so I haven't had any art of her commissioned, but maybe in the near future I will. ( -eyeballs the extremely talented @destinyfall) But, I can give you details and photo references if you decide you would like to RP.

#roleplay #rp #literate rp #inuyasha #demon #original character

[clansayeed]

Bound by Choice ― III.iii. Belief

PAIRING: OC x OC x OC (Valdas x Isseya x Cynbel) RATING: Mature (reader discretion advised)

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Choice ⥽

Before there were Clans and Councils, before the fate of the world rested in certain hands, before the rise and fall of a Shadow King ― there was the Trinity. Three souls intertwined in the early hands of the universe who came to define the concept of eternity together. Because that was how they began and how they hoped to end; together. For over 2,000 years Valdas, Cynbel, and Isseya have walked through histories both mortal and supernatural. But in the early years of the 20th century something happened―something terrible. Their story has a beginning, and this is the end.

Bound by Choice and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series. Find out more [HERE].

Note: Choice is the only book in the series not based on an existing Choices story. It is set in the Bloodbound universe and features many canon characters.

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Choice/series tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Some people spend their whole lives looking for something to believe in. They're lucky that they never had to.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Two months later…

Cynbel watches as Ambrose leans against the railing with hands braced on the cold metal. Colder sea spray lashes at their cheeks under the night sky but they pay it little mind. They have, perhaps, had enough heat and fire to last more than one mortal lifetime.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a fill in my life.” The American groans, and Cynbel actually feels bad for him.

“There is far more to this life than fighting someone else’s wars. Give it time — you’ll see why we were starving so.”

Together the man glance down to the depths below. Where the foam left in the wake of their ship fades pink from bodies already lost underneath the ocean’s current.

“If y’all eat like that every day I’m startin’ to get it.”

And true enough the last few weeks of travel have been positively lavish compared to the squalor of mine living. Even this limited food supply seems boundless when they remember the rot of starvation in their bellies. But that does not diminish how good it is — how good it feels to be, not unlike the sea, free.

Sayeed held up her end of the bargain, so it was only fair that Cynbel and Isseya do the same. The where of their journey did not matter so long as they were far from Virginia’s shores. The when was with haste — and for good reason.

With none left to lead them the remaining militia of the Order of the Dawn was made harmless. The comparisons of the sides were unfortunately fraught with similarities, some not even Cynbel could deny. As the Order had culled the Old Blood; the vampires who had survived centuries of their fruitless extermination attempts, so had the war turned in their favor. But with only the newly inducted left to lead them — and many with ties that bound them to communities, to families; to vulnerability — their ‘holy mission’ was made second to the more pressing matters of the not-so-United States.

He couldn’t care less about the Godmaker’s plans now, whether he chooses to retaliate against the Trinity’s desertion of him or not. Two decks below his beloveds pass the boring hours with card games and wistful possibilities of when they make port.

He needs nothing else.

Now imagine their surprise at the familiar sight catching the last call to board. His battalion may now be nothing more than ash but there was no reason for Ambrose to turn and run. In fact Valdas had a strong inclination to name him Gaius’ spy and cast him overboard.

With only a matter of days before they find Europe on the horizon… he actually can’t remember why they didn’t.

A life for a life.

In between shuffled decks and lavish feasting and their halfhearted attempts at breaking through the hull by way of their beds, though, the Golden Son has found himself fond of the man. Older in appearance and admittedly wise beyond his years — but still so very new to what this life could offer—would offer, now.

Habit makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand when Ambrose reaches inside the breast pocket of his coat; eases when he sees the tinder box and cigarettes rolled with absolutely no skill whatsoever in his hands.

Ambrose sparks the tinder. Cynbel swallows down nightmares of hellfire. They share a moment of quiet.

“I should have said this before…” Cynbel begins around a mouth of ill-tasting smoke, “but when we make port this — our camaraderie — will come to an end.”

He’s come to expect the long silences in between answers, so much so that it barely feels like any time has passed at all when Ambrose finally does speak.

“I thought as much.” And doesn’t that just make the older vampire laugh.

“Two millennia and only now do we meet someone who understands. Shame and pity.”

“Oh I don’t, not even a lick.” The eyes that meet his, though, contradict Ambrose in every way. Eyes that seem sure and solid despite the rocking beneath their feet. So he continues.

“You three — whatever you’ve got there is… it’s dangerous.” So they have been told, and by lesser men. “But through this whole fight I’ve seen men Turn, live, and die over and over again without even a drop of the conviction you two’ve got for your Maker. I’ll be frank with you, Cynbel. It’s unsettling.”

“It’s love.”

“Is that what love is? I’m really askin’ here. Because I sure as hell ain’t ever felt a love like that. Not in this lifetime or the one that came before it.”

Just like that the conversation takes a turn for the uninteresting. Cynbel draws his attention out to the midnight horizon, where one can’t tell the sky from the sea. “All the more pitiful are you, then. I will not justify what we are for your whims, Ambrose. Not for you, not for Sayeed, not for anyone.”

“You misunderstand.”

“I doubt that.”

“It ain’t your strange-like love I’m interested in, but rather what it makes you.”

The only reason he’d offered Ambrose company was because Iss’ refused to play anything other than rummy, and he’s terrible at rummy. And standing here he can’t help but wonder which is more of a torture.

“You and Isseya nearly died for him. And I think you would have should that have been what you needed to do.”

“Of course we would have.”

“And I couldn’t understand why — not really. Why you’d risk yourselves, risk anyone else, but not him.”

Cynbel doesn’t bother hiding the venom in his answer. “Because He is more than they were. More than Iss’ or myself could ever hope to be. That is the kind of devotion He inspires. Would you not do the same for Augustine? Or your First, to make a finer comparison of it.”

The same long pause — but this one drags out. Thin, fragile between them and quickly unraveling at the seams. Then—

“No.”

“Then you’re wasting time searching for answers when you would not even recognize them when found. We would have died for Him — of course. But that is merely part of it. That is what the rest of the world sees and takes us to be entirely. We are more than the death we bring and would bear for Him.

“No one seems to realize that we lived for him. Just as fiercely — perhaps even more so because we could have died, but we did not. That is what has driven our lust for living; not that we would fall to our knees and take the sword with our necks for Him, but that He gives us the strength to take the sword in hand and say ‘no more.’”

Perhaps it would be nice to be understood for once. For the ages not to seem so ignorant and dull as they always have because one person — just one, that’s all it would take — realizes their love is not about sacrifice. But that it is about survival.

In silence Ambrose takes out another cigarette, more flint. Offers him one but Cynbel declines with a small shake of his head. Four weeks he’s been able to put the events of that day behind him as he had always done. Left it in the past and continued on to a future where they need not worry about being apart.

Four fucking weeks, but that’s all.

Ambrose keeps the cigarette between his lips when he speaks again. “I lived human for forty-some years. Spent my whole young life livin’ just as most did; you understand,” —he marched the breadth of those states just the same, he understands quite well— “and Turnin’ gave me more than just the power to free myself. It gave me — well, I thought — somethin’ to believe in.”

“Immortality?”

“The First.” The way he says her name is wistful enough to strike up a curiosity in Cynbel, much like the small flame struck up on his tinderbox.

Wistful, and no longer so reverent.

“Won’t say I’m the only one, either. There were a lotta boys like me who heard about the First Vampire who rose herself up from false judgment, from bein’ put in chains on another’s lies, and not only struck her enemies down but wanted to make a place where all like her were just as free.”

They are words that draw Cynbel back to Charlottesville, to the barn and Ambrose with his little box of ashes and his little gathering and his little words of worship and meaning in their comrade’s death. Strange that the man from then is the same one who stands before him now.

“Faith does wonders in times of strife.”

“It did — ‘til I heard you two talk about your Maker, your Made-God.”

“And what has that changed in you, hm?”

“The first time I ever heard Augustine tell the story of the First Vampire he made sure we well knew that every death was a piece’a her power going home — just another drop to fill some vessel that would bring her back to save us.

“But you don’t think like that,” Ambrose says it like a revelation; like wool no longer being pulled over his eyes, “and it got me thinking about what exactly I’m keepin’ immortality for. ‘Cause I gotta say doin’ it for a love like that sounds a helluva lot better than staying around just so some day I can die for a myth.”

Cynbel narrows his eyes. “The First was no myth. She was very real.”

“I’m sure she was, Old Blood. To you and Isseya and even Valdas, probably. Just like she’s real to Augustine and Sayeed. But that’s all two thousand years gone now. Who knows if she’ll ever come back, or when. That makes her pretty myth-like to me.”

What does one say to that? He may have propositioned Ambrose for this their night of feasting with a bottle of cheap liquor in hand but it wasn’t nearly enough to bring this kind of philosophical debate out of him. Yet it’s affirming in a way—not that any of the Trinity would seek affirmation for themselves, for their devotion to one another—he didn’t quite expect.

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re trying to confess your love to me or not.”

“Ha!” Ambrose laughs so hard his cigarette tumbles into the sea not half-finished. Deserves it. “In your dreams. Though I’ll start rackin’ up a tally seeing as that’s the second time you’ve propositioned me.”

“You’re being terribly rude. And it’s a terribly long swim back to the colonies.”

But the other man just shakes his head. “Truth be told no one’s ever let me ramble on this long about anythin’. Ended up a little off the tracks.”

“A little?”

“All I’m saying, Cynbel, is you and yours —”

“The Trinity, respect your elders.”

“— yeah, sure. Whatever you call yourselves—that kind of devotion can be inspiring to my kind of folk. A lot more than prayin’ on ‘maybes.’ What was that thing, the one Isseya said in the caravan.”

“Which — oh, while she was eating your man for insubordination?”

There’s a clatter behind them and both men turn towards it. They had found themselves so deep in debate that neither took notice to the young couple stretching their legs under the moon. To the young wife who looks aghast and sullied just for hearing the words and to her young husband suddenly trying to pull her to some imagined safety.

Cynbel and Ambrose take the same moment to watch them scurry along before they resume. A needed break in the tension.

He remembers it of course. Clear as the daylight that had struck them down. Even in their desperation and fear for Valdas’ fate it was hard—literally—not to hear such things from her bloodied teeth and find himself aroused.

“‘I choose to believe in a God who walks beside me. Who will answer when I call.’”

Ambrose nods. “Strange and, pardon my French, fuckin’ insane as she was then, that’s the kind of stuff gospels are made from.”

“So you’re proposing, what,” Cynbel’s disbelief is obvious, “The Gospel of Valdemaras?”

Silence. Real, non-hesitant silence. The kind of silence that forces Cynbel to face the man for answers and finds them in a resolution unfounded in those strange, dark eyes.

Well… one person finally understands. If only he knew what that means.

#bloodbound #bloodbound fanfiction #playchoices #playchoices fanfiction #choices bb #oc: cynbel #oc: isseya #oc: valdas #oc: ambrose #oblv: bound by choice #oblv: new chapter #; my fics

[littleshebear]

Top ten ships

I was tagged by @dngrs-untld-hrshps-unnmbrd and @seigephoenix to name my top ten ships. Not in the mood for tagging but please do this if you feel like it. I like reading about ships.

1. Garrus/Shepard

This doesn’t really need any explanation does it? There’s no Shepard without Vakarian.

2. Roslin/Adama

Adversaries to enemies, to allies, to friends, to lovers, to pretty much married by the end, god they’re so sweet I love them so much, my heart. <333

3.  Manwë/Varda

[Art source]

“Manwë and Varda are seldom parted, and they remain in Valinor. Their halls are above the everlasting snow, upon Oiolossë, the uttermost tower of Taniquetil, tallest of all the mountains upon Earth. When Manwë there ascends his throne and looks forth, if Varda is beside him, he sees further than all other eyes, through mist, and through darkness, and over the leagues of the sea. And if Manwë is with her, Varda hears more clearly than all other ears the sound of voices that cry from east to west, from the hills and the valleys, and from the dark places that Melkor has made upon Earth.”

GOALS.

4. Saladin/Jolder

[Gorgeous painting by the lovely @crazy-bone-lady go forth and reblog!]

Time to break out the ship manifesto. Everything about the story of Rise of Iron is told through Saladin’s eyes and we keep coming back to Jolder. He’s always near her statue, he uses the gun that’s named for her, it’s her helm we recover and present to him. Honestly, I was a puddle of emotion during the opening cinematic, this entire DLC and the accompanying lore destroyed me. And let’s not forget the saddest line break in the history of line breaks: “Jolder’s smile.” *sobs*

5. Dottie Underwood/Peggy Carter

YOU CAN CUT THE SEXUAL TENSION WITH A KNIFE.

6. Zavala/Hawthorne

I’m sailing this ship all by myself but I’m nothing if not persistent. Time for the ship manifesto again. I just love that these two start out on opposite sides of an ideological divide but by the end of the main campaign, they’ve met somewhere in the middle. Hawthorne realises that the City has value and Guardians aren’t all terrible, arrogant nitwits. Zavala accepts that they need to look beyond the walls and that sticking with a siege mentality is self-defeating. I just love the effect Hawthorne has on Zavala’s arc. When we meet him on Titan, he poses the question that “without the Light, are we even guardians anymore?” But when he meets Hawthorne, he has his answer. The Light isn’t what makes you a Guardian, it’s willingness to fight, to take a stand for those weaker than yourself and that’s what Hawthorne embodies to him. And don’t get me started on the bit in “Unsafe at Any Speed” where she grudgingly admits he’s right and he laughs. I mean.

Lore: Zavala never smiles.  Hawthorne exists:  Zavala laughs indulgently. 

7.  Ar-Pharazôn/ Tar-Míriel

[Art source]

This one is a complicated one. There are two different versions in the Tolkien legendarium. In both versions, Pharazôn and  Míriel were first cousins. Míriel’s father, Tar-Palantir was king and favoured the old ways of their ancestor Elros (brother of Elrond). His brother,  Gimilkhâd led an opposing political faction who resented the fact that they were mortal and envied the elves their immortality.  Míriel was next in line to the throne of Númenor.

In the version published in the Silmarillion,  Pharazôn forced Míriel  to marry him (which was illegal, being considered incest) and took her title by force. 

There’s another version which I find way more interesting and was probably written after the published version. In this version, Pharazôn was best friends with, Amandil, a leading member of Tar-Palantir’s party, which suggests Pharazon’s relationship with his father wasn’t the best. Meanwhile, Míriel was engaged to be married to Amandil’s brother, Elentir. Míriel and Pharazôn had never met during their childhood owing to their family estrangement. Pharazon was visiting with Amandil while Miriel happened to be there and that as they say was was that. Míriel dumped Elentir and pined after Pharazôn, while Pharazôn started plotting. After Tar-Palantir died, Míriel took the ruling queen title of Tar- Míriel but willingly married Pharazôn , who became the ruling king Ar Pharazôn alongside her (still an illegal marriage but who’s going to tell them no?). 

After that, things got super bad. Pharazôn invaded Middle Earth to wage war on Sauron (good!) and captured him (good!) then took him back to Numenor (bad), where Sauron used his wiles to corrupt Pharazôn (bad!). Eventually things got so bad, he built a temple to Morgoth and sacrificed Númenoreans who were still loyal to the Valar and the Elves. Sauron eventually persuaded him to invade Valinor and overthrow the Valar so he could sieze immortality for himself (very bad!). Manwe was so dismayed, he handed power back over to Eru (God, essentially), who destroyed Numenor by sinking it beneath the sea. Miriel was the last to die in the onslaught, she climbed the highest mountain, the Meneltarma, which is now the only part of Numenor visible from the sea. 

Pharazon reached valinor but he and his men were imprisoned in caves, awaiting the Last Battle in a really on the nose case of Be Careful What You Wish For. 

Anyway, I find the second version far more compelling because I love the, very tragic, idea of an essentially good man being slowly corrupted by evil. He was *this* close to defeating Sauron for good but he failed because of pride, and Sauron exploited that. And just imagine Míriel watching the man she loved, the man she went against her family and broke the law for, falling into darkeness and being unable to do anything about it. *sobs*

8. Elrond/Celebrían

[Art Source]

Another sad one but at least this one can have a happy ending. Celebrían and Elrond took forever and a day to get together, partly because of Elrond running around doing Herald of the King stuff and waging war on Sauron but I also like to think it’s because Elrond is a massive nerd and was too shy to ask the pretty girl out. 

The reason this is a sad one is because she was captured by Orcs and tortured to within an inch of her life. Elrond was by this time the most skilled healer in Middle Earth but he realised he couldn’t save her so he sent her away to the Undying Lands. He knew he couldn’t go with her until Sauron had been defeated, so she waited patiently and she’s the reason Elrond was straight on that boat after the One Ring was destroyed.  

9.Duke Leto/Jessica Atreides

More goals. This relationship didn’t exactly start out romantically (she was essentially sold to his royal house breeding stock) but these two fell for eachother hard. She disobeyed orders from the bene gesserits because she loved him so much, he refused to marry someone “more suitable” for a man of his station because he always wanted Jessica to be his no.1. One his last thoughts before he died was that he should have said to hell with convention and married her. Moar sobbing. 

10. Amanda Ripley/Christopher Samuels.

[Art Source]

SAMUELS WANTED RIPLEY TO HAVE CLOSURE AND RIPLEY TREATED SAMUELS LIKE HE WAS REAL AND NOT “JUST AN ANDROID” AND HE THANKED HER FOR IT BEFORE HE DIED AND EVERYTHING HURTS, I JUST WANTED THEM TO BE HAPPY AND TAKE CARE OF EACHOTHER FOREVER MORE, AGGGGGGHHHHHH. 

#muh ships #so much pain #why do i love tragedy so?

[wo-the-wolf]

We Hunt The Hunter Part 1

Hello everyone! Welcome to another one of the stories, bringing back some characters, Sasha and Breka. This story was inspiried by user @quiksilvear and their requested prompt of human persistence hunting. Without further ado, lets continue!  ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The crew laid sprawled out around the ship that had landed in the middle of no where. The amphibious crew took stock of the situation, some handling the injured and the shell-shocked. However among them stood one who was bandaging her gut from a bad gash. Standing by her side was the terrifying Vin’lek known as Breka, and Sasha patted her head before looking back. The crew were soldiers, but they weren’t equipped nor prepared to survive this kind of emergency landing. "Well A’rav,” Sasha said before whistling to get his attention. Her  bionic limbs had been restored to a much greater condition, and she smiled as she caught the attention of her friend Captain A’rav. “Looks like most of our supplies got torched. How soon can we expect rescue?”  Her companion looked down at a dead crew member, covered his face and sighed, “This planet is on the fringes of our patrol route. It may be a few days before we can build a beacon from scrap. After that it could be as long as a week before anyone finds us.” 

“A week?!” Another crew member shouted before holding her broken arm and gasping in pain. The crew began to look around with worry. 

“We have enough supplies for maybe three rotations! We won’t have enough to wait that long even if we ration it heavily!” Another crew member shouted. 

A’rav looked at Sasha and sighed, “They’re right,” he muttered. A’rav stood up, swallowing a lump in his throat and raising his hands, “Men and Women of the S.S. Grep’klek please, I know the situation is grim, but we’ll find a solution in order to keep everyone fed and-”

“We don’t have enough food! How are we going to keep people from starving?!” Another crew member shouted. 

A’rav swallowed again. The books demanded Officers be kept alive and given necessary supplies, though how that would work with such a green crew was not a good thought to say the least. “We . . . We will,” he swallowed. 

A’rav felt a hand lay on his shoulder and looked to see Sasha with some kind of black straw like substance hanging from her lips. “Are you crazy?!” A crew member in white robes stammered and burst forward from the crowd. “I said not to touch those weeds! They are doused with toxins!” 

“Toxic to y’all, Huuga’s don’t like this stuff but humans drink it quite often. It’s a pretty good pick me up,” she chewed a bit and patted Breka’s head. The beast seemed to grin, causing more than a few of the crew to back up in fear. “Caffeine is a good thing for us. Besides, we’re gonna do some good old fashioned hunt’en to survive this here mess.” Sasha stepped in front of A’rav. “So, who here among y’all know how to hunt? Not with your plasma blasters you’ll just melt the meat, but anyone here fire a bow?” She looked around. No hands, in fact some confused faces made her feel a bit more uneasy. “Right . . . Spears?” She questioned. “Anyone?” No response. “A’rav . . . I . . . I’m starting to think I know why pirates are such a problem in your area.” 

“My men can fight, Sasha,” A’rav shook his head. 

“Oh I’ve seen that, but I don’t think they can survive.” Sasha sighed. “Now ain’t this gonna be a pain.”

“Well excuse us for not being versed in primitive weapons of human design!” An injured crew member growled. 

“They’re in the manual for basic survival of all species within the Coalition, and you know why?” She turned to him with the same tired look as usual, chewing on the plant a bit more. “Because we humans are good at a lot of things. But the one thing we’re good at, is killing things bigger and scarier than us.” She grabbed a nearby stick and then reached into her boot. “Come on now,” she tugged and pulled out a large knife. “There ya are,” she smiled. 

“What are you doing?” Some of the crew had begun to gather as one of the injured from earlier inquired. 

Sasha sat down on the ground and began to carve, “Well I’m making a spear. We’re gonna be stuck here a bit and ain’t got much food. Now off in the woods there’s something made of meat if those growls and howls mean anything,” she spit out the weed and plucked another one from near her, chewing on it again. “So I’m gonna go hunting.” 

“Those howls come from a Tan-nanga!” One of the more veteran looking crew members growled. “No one can match their ferocity, not even your Vin’lek pet!” 

Breka growled, causing the man to take a near unseen step back. Sasha smiled, “Sounds like fun. A good ol’ rustle an tustle. What’s your name Mister?” Sasha looked up as she picked up some metal debris, and started showing it into the wooden stick to make a crude spear. 

“Malo, Malo Wendga,” The Veteran proclaimed proudly. “I have killed many enemies for the defense of my people. I have studied the beasts around our star system. These are some of the most dangerous I speak of!” he growled, “You have no knowledge of what you face, you are a blind fool if you think to fight one!” 

“That’s true,” Sasha nodded as she listened intently. “I would be one hell of a fool to fight one. But that’s because I’m not going to fight one.” She stood up and tapped her home made spear on the ground, twirling it a bit and then thrusting forward, causing some of the crowd to recoil. “I’m going to hunt it.” She stood up straight and twirled the spear a little more. “My ancestors, back before we had even discovered how to speak properly, hunted together with animals native to our home. These animals, the dog, were once creatures called wolves. They were our mortal enemy, but through sheer determination we domesticated them, because they’re the only animal that could keep up with our hunting.” 

“What? What nonsense is this?” The Veteran Malo folded his arms. 

“Many historical texts define hunting as overpowering your opponent, most ancestors of the galaxies species were prey, or predators that hunted in quick bursts, or like your kind remained still. For us, we outsmarted our prey.” She saw the crowd beginning to gather once again. She had them, and would now give them the moral they needed. “Traps, tracking, and not running but walking towards our prey got them. The prey would run, and we would merely follow. When they attack we lead them a place we can win, using our companions,” she pet Breka’s head lovingly, “And working together to bring them down.” 

“That is pure fantasy, I have never heard of any of that!” Malo scoffed. 

“Didn’t know you were a human expert?” Sasha laughed softly as Malo remained quite, clearly corned on that account. “At any rate, Breka and I will be back in roughly two days. Mostly to track some extra resources. Prey herds, water, any fruits and what not. I’ll be borrowing one of your scanners,” she began walking as she talked, and upon mentioning the scanner she plucked it out of the hands of one of the crew. “Thank you,” she clasped his shoulder for a moment and continued, “Be back soon A’rav, try not to starve while I’m gone,” she waved and then continued on towards the dense glowing woods that surrounded the ship. 

“She’s going to die,” Malo snorted. 

The rest of the crew were losing hope after she left, realizing that Malo may be right. “No,” A’rav smiled, “I know Sasha. She’s my friend, and she’s not going to die till she gets her hand on her main prey.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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HEY YOU! How’s it going? It was a pleasure to work on this arch of the short stories I’m doing to pass time during my last year of university. Once again don’t forget, if you have any prompts you want me to work on just send me them, tag me in them, anything at all! I will put them in the que if I like em! All my stories are connected so never fear, old characters will always come back! Until next time, Fly safe fellow Explorer’s of the unknown.

#humans are space orcs #humans are weird #humans in space #sci-fi & fantasy

[dentelle-grise]

Your Latest Trick

Chapter 16

(Loki x Reader)

Long after everyone has stopped talking about Loki and his misdemeanors, his failed attempt to take over Midgard and his punishment, you meet him at a party.

A tale in which Loki woos the reader despite life imprisonment, mortal wounding and the cumbersome pretense of impersonating his father.

Covering the events of ‘The Dark World’ and beyond

Original Prompt: Imagine Loki undressing you slowly, entirely by magic, only touching you with his eyes.

All chapters to date at AO3 (39K, NC-17)

Tagging: @frenchfrostpudding

Chapter 16

That night you’re dragged again from sleep at some unnameable hour. Loki’s hands clasp at you, never gripping, forever sliding, ever searching for a tighter hold. It’s another nightmare, but more intense. You call his name but he doesn’t respond and flails like someone drowning. Outside, the sky throws rain in lashes against the roof, as though mirroring his agitated state or mocking it. Finally, he gets a hold of you and pulls you roughly to him; not in a loving or passionate way, but desperately, his fingers digging in, his breathing harsh and uneven against you.

You struggle and yell at him because it hurts. You try to shake him awake or at least off of you, but he’s too strong and he’s holding you so tight that you can barely move. Loki meanwhile barely stops moving, writhing as though thrown around by a rough sea.

You think of the wards he set to prevent others hearing if you got too vocal during sex. He’s made the room impervious, like a magic island.  But it was only an illusion that nothing could touch you here, he’s brought his own monsters with him. 

Little did you think that Loki himself could be a threat. You can’t wake him and you can’t call for help - as if would you ever do such a thing. By throwing your lot in with Loki you have thrown out other options. You can’t even reach to put on the light, but least you can still breathe. So you talk to him. All this is only his mind, and that you can sooth.

“Relax. It’s alright. I’m here. You can let me go Loki. I won’t run away.”

It’s pathetic, it feels like he can’t hear you at all. “It’s alright, I’m here.” You repeat. You think of the man you saved the day of the air raid, how your words worked that time, because you did save him, the healer’s told you.  Even though it was they who did the hard part.

You keep on on. “It’s alright, I’m here. Calm down, they can’t hurt you.” But his fingers don’t loosen and his breathing won’t calm. “Loki?” Then, because you can, you start to tell him other things.

“You can’t keep doing this Loki, you’ve got to tell somebody. Did you ever tell somebody? Why don’t you tell me. Oh where in the realms do you go all day? What would I do if you didn’t come home?  What would your father do?” Then you realize that the answer to the last question is probably nothing. Loki is already dead for the whole of Asgard except a chosen few.  

And those certainly don’t include Thor.

“Oh Loki, why don’t you tell your brother you’re alive?”

And then he’s gasping for air as though he had indeed been under water. He’s panting and coughing and looking at you, eyes wild and then he mutters.

“So is he.”  And, releasing you, he throws himself back on the bed beside you and closes his eyes an instant, still breathing heavily. You turn the lamp on and it glows dimly.

“What? Who?” He opens his eyes and there is a weariness there of someone far older.

“Malekith…” he breathes. The vanquished enemy? a name you’ve only heard from your parents, Odin and Thor. “Malekith lives.”

And it all makes sense.  Odin’s continued concern for Asgard’s defense, the inciting of the populus to be ready.

“But Thor said…”

“What does Thor know? Did Thor see him die?” Loki gives a bitter laugh.

“And what if he did? Should you believe him? Thor saw me die.”

You don’t know how to respond. This doesn’t seem to bother him untowardly. You are both silent a moment, but you can hold it in.

“Why have Thor think you dead?”  

“I had little choice at the time.  I thought me dead.”

“I mean now.” You reach to touch him.

Loki pulls away from you and sits on the side of the bed, head in his hands.

“It’s alright.” You reach for him again and lay your hand on his shoulder.

“No.”

“Loki?”

“No, it’s not alright. He’s still out there. I can’t rest…” and then he turns and uncovers his face, only it’s not his face but that of another. Half white as a sheet and wizened, the other half burnt black. The eyes shine a brighter blue than those of any Aesir, but the rest of his face is twisted and either colorless or charred.

You scream.

“Loki stop it. What is that? Don’t do this.”

 Why frighten you like that?

“Be afraid. But know him. It was he who took my mother, not the monster I killed.

“Please change back now.”  You’ve seen him change himself before, but why turn himself into this enemy here in your room.  In your bed! You are shaking with anger as much as with fear.

 Then he starts to change again under your gaze and you look for his familiar features. But no, his face remains foreign, but becomes softer. It’s clearly someone of the same race, but even without the contrast he’s shown you, you would find this face beautiful.

And he smiles at you with this strangers face and you don’t know whether to be terrified or reassured.

“Who?”

“The one who saved me.”

You wait for him to go on, searching these foreign features for some sign of how he feels about this person he’s mimicking.

“I was supposed to die there…”

In the silence that follows you hear his brief sigh as he stops himself and the drops of rain steadily hitting the window outside now. He’s going all kinds of dark places you weren’t expecting, but you wouldn’t stop now he’s talking.

“I was ready to.” He has returned to his usual form and is laying close to you. You tuck yourself under his arm and he wraps it around you.

“Svartalfheim is nothing but sand.  I’d been there before - just because I could - but there’s nothing, nothing but a land ravaged by the wind.” You’ve never been there, but you know the history.

“The very planet was swallowing me. Thor thought I was dead. A sand storm blew up and he and Jane sought shelter. I couldn’t have called them if I’d tried.

I would have been buried by it. My magic was enough to stop the bleeding but not the elements.  The grains came so fast it was like being bitten by a thousand insects and I couldn’t move. I would die, not by the blade, but at the hands of a vengeful planet.”  You don’t prompt, he’s telling you this because he wants to.

He will tell you everything if you wait long enough.

“What… and who, waits for us on the other side of death?” You think immediately of Frigga, if that is who he means, or could it be an adversary, past or present. There must be more than a few that haunt him. You enlace your fingers with his and squeeze gently in the hope of bringing his thoughts back from there.

“Before, Svartalfheim was supposedly a paradise, but one in perpetual darkness.  The light destroyed life on the surface and the face of the land itself.  Now there is only the wind and the sand. It was building up all around me. If I couldn’t rise, it would soon cover my head, and I couldn’t because I was too weak and the wind too strong.”

“I might have seen mother, but when I thought of her, I knew couldn’t let it end there.  Not like that, not while he, the one who had her killed, was still out there.”

I could not rise, so I rolled.” He laughs at himself. “There wasn’t much of a slope and it was agony, but I stayed on the surface. I just hoped I could get to our craft, though I’d lost all sense of direction.  With the sand flying in my eyes and nose, All I could see was grey and and all I could taste was the foul stench of that place.

 Finally, I could go no further, I was tempted to think the storm was waning or maybe it was my senses fading, But then, at the end of exhaustion, and too weak to fight anyone, I felt hands, there in the sand, grabbing me, dragging me.”

Now you know you won’t sleep until you’ve heard the whole of this, but Loki has gone silent. You nudge him and he tightens the arm that’s draped around your shoulders and nuzzles your hair. He makes an audible sigh and then says:

“Being a prisoner yet again, that was my first fear.” You wonder how he could find this worse than suffocation in a sand storm of Svartalfheim, but you let him go on. “I was helpless, if I was to be a prisoner and a pawn once more then there was nothing I could do. I had no idea who had taken me, who it was harshly dragging me.  Who it was who didn’t have the decency, or the strength, to carry me.

They took me somewhere dark, completely dark, it must have been underground. They could see perfectly I think, but not I.

I was tended to and left to rest on the floor, covered with sand, like everywhere else.

I don’t know how much time passed, it was always dark.  When one of them came I made a little light by magic and they ran away, but not before I got a look at them.  I’d been taken by the dark elves.” You gasp audibly at that, thinking of the attack, of Frigga.

“I was too weak to do anything but wait.

She looked like him, like Malekith, the only other of them I ever saw without a mask.”

“She?!” A girl dark elf? They have those?

“What difference does it make?” So he met a girl on Svartalfhelm.  Met and was cared for by. You should be thankful, but you are still uneasy.

“I learnt a lot about them in a short time. It is clear they do not all support Malekith.  This is why she helped me. She saw Thor and I fighting his party.

They live in caves, in holes, in places dug out to find the darkness. I don’t know what they eat, if not the rock of itself, she had no food for me.

"I gradually got better,  I imagined you, like a glimmer, a live thing, a promise." You take his hand in the gloom, afraid to let him see how those words affect you.

"Then Malekith came back. Mutilated but not dead. We thought him crushed by his ship, but there were still those loyal to him who came to his aid that rescued him.”  

“But Thor believes him dead! The people…”

“Have been shaken enough and are more than ready to defend the realm.”

“But why let all Asgard think you dead?”

“It’s safer that way. And besides, who would trust me?  I am better respected dead than I ever was alive.”

“And Thor?”

“I will tell him, when the time comes.” It doesn’t sound like he is in much of a hurry. “And then I will let him think it was the trick of the century.”

With that he lays down again and rolls on his side.  He cradles you to him, and you feel his silent laughter vibrating against your back.

Oh but you didn’t see him. Loki. You want to say, but it wouldn’t help.

He falls asleep, perhaps happy to have shared all this with you, but you remain awake, going through it all in your mind. You are glad Thor is away, keeping Loki’s secret from him would be too hard with him around.

Oh why did Loki have to burden you with such secrets? But then you look at him, peaceful and beautiful.  The biggest secret is his life, the pulse thrumming softly under your hand and your own heart is singing with it.

Chapter 17

#loki #loki fanfiction #imagine loki #loki x reader #the dark world #your latest trick

[lovehotelreservation]

I’ll Say “I Love You” Until We Get Along - Saranghae [2/15]

Summary: Begotten by the gods, Ardyn has sought to return the favor, their precious world to burn. Until he runs into you, a cherished reminder of his past that he thought to have closed his heart to centuries ago. Now, however, he finds your heart sealed shut to him, and he is determined to pry it open one way or another. Prequel and sequel to “The Most Beautiful Boogie Man”

Rating: PG-13*

Pairing: Reader/Ardyn

[Previous Chapter] 

[Next Chapter]

Hello everyone! (´∀｀)♡ Ahh it feels so great to be able to have consistent updates for this fic! Just to note, but I intend on updating this fic on every Friday henceforth, unless noted otherwise--if any changes come up, please check out the “in today’s episode” tag on my Tumblr for any updates/announcements!

That said, I hope you’re enjoying the story so far! Thanks so much for reading!

*Rating will go up with future updates

**Warning: this fic will contain themes of unhealthy relationship behavior, obsessive behavior, stalking, and somnophilia

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Was this not what he wanted?

Days ago, Ardyn had returned to the Insomnia that was no longer his, the city which he ruled all of Lucis from with you by his side. Two millennia had passed, its people and appearance utterly different from his reign while still carrying a sense of familiarity. He even returned to the gelato shop right before today's proceedings to indulge in the flavor you chose, seeing it as an indirect kiss through a sweetness that miraculously did indeed last through time.

But now, here was Insomnia, devastated and left to be gutted to ruin. The efforts of King Regis and Lucian rulers before him all squandered in mere hours.

As he cried out in dramatized, faux-anguish while he and Emperor Aldercapt viewed the destruction from above, it truly was pitiable waste.

A waste of his time and his protection.

Even now, while finally in possession of that blighted Crystal that brought forth his downfall, eviscerating the livelihoods of Lucians while setting off the inevitable destruction of the Lucis Caelum line merely ebbed at his craving for vengeance.

And yet, while the clash between the Old Wall and the Diamond Weapon amidst the burning remains of Insomnia was quite the spectacle, Ardyn couldn't help but feel empty with boredom, even with his over-exaggerated declarations of awe and wonder.

Which, to be frank, was a common occurrence for him at this dragged out point of his existence.

Especially when all he wanted was to be with the person who captivated him most.

Instead, you were with the prince who now no longer had a kingdom, but possessed every reason for Ardyn to continue to harbor centuries worth of bitter hatred.

A mortal who had the power of the gods at his side.

A messiah that would free the world from ruin and, in turn, Ardyn from his curse.

But what made the chancellor hate Noctis to his core was that he was a mere young man who was given the utmost privilege and blessing of being in your presence.

How much further would Izunia continue to taunt him, he wondered? As though somehow being reborn from a wicked, conniving power-hungry royal to the angst-riddled, lethargic Prince Noctis couldn't be even more of an insult, a jeer from the gods while continuing to watch him suffer for his sacrifice to his people.

And even with Ardyn's desperate grab to have his revenge--amidst being smited out of the grandeur of Lucian's splendid history--by stealing the identity of Izunia and wreaking havoc whilst masquerading under his name, what good would a sullied reputation do if the aforementioned royal still came out as superior?

The thought made his blood boil, his lips parched for the frigid quench of bloodied revenge. Immortality may have made him numb to most common displays of humanity, but in this moment, he could've honestly set the ship ablaze by the rage that began to burst from within him.

Only to then think about you standing before him with only a large glass window separating you both, a cone of gelato in hand, tasting and licking at the frozen treat with pure, blissful indulgence.

Like the waves of Galdin Quay gently washing upon a golden shoreline, so did a sense of peace, one that remained with him as he waltzed up to the ship's cockpit to relay Aldercapt's order to be brought back to Niflheim.

But not before checking up on the whereabouts of the Crownsguard and wherever they--or rather, one--had scattered off to.

Humming to himself, he stood behind one of the Imperial officers as they infiltrated through Insomnia's city-wide security system, now made vulnerable by the day's proceedings.

With the chaos that transpired, any surviving surveillance footage retrieved was in distorted quality. Though, he did not need clips of one Cor Leonis escorting you out of the Citadel--one hand on your back while the other wielded his katana--to be in pristine quality. He could fathom the intensity of jealousy without any issue. However, his anger was quelled by the sight of you with a sword in hand.

A deep, low chuckle roused from within his throat.

This version of you was far from the pacifist queen that you were in the last life, one who was certainly not regulated to playing secretary for the Crownsguard.

He wondered how you would fare in a swordfight against him--not that he could bear to lay a finger on you.

Still, the thought of you with a weapon in hand, lashing out upon and striking down your enemies with a fierce battle cry...

How thrilling.

As the officer was about to move onward to more footage of Crownsguard members, they were stopped by Ardyn raising an arm while letting out an awed "Halt, my good sir!"

Stepping forward closer to the large display screen before him, the footage presented currently paused as the hand that he had up moved to touch your face.

A smirk quirking onto his features, the adoring yet lustful look in his eyes was mirrored by the words he crooned out while gently running his thumb over the screen,

"This one. Tell me everything you can about this one."

#ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #reader insert #fic #i'll say i love you until we get along #super freaknasty writing #management will return in a queue minutes