#aymeric x synnove

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #9: The Heart of Things

Prompt: fair || Master Post || On AO3

--

It is a common element of Gyr Abanian folk stories, particularly the ones told to children, that the wisest and most heroic of characters are the ones bearing heavy scars or twisted features or the sharpest of tongues. One-Eyed Odin lives in the wild heart of the Dimwold, preferring the company of ravens and diakka and her wife to people, but the withered crone will grumblingly lead lost children by the hand back to their villagers as she teaches them the dangers and bounty of the bog, or appear at a wandering war-prince’s campfire, on her way to visit one of her many sisters, to share her hard-won wisdom (and perhaps even offer a token to help him win the day). Her son, Vidar of the Iron Arm, is brave but war-weary, his face a canyon of scars, but his equally scarred hands have gently escorted many a maiden across the mountain paths to the homes of their bridegrooms.

Synnove’s adult, analytical mind knows—or at least suspects, since her scholarly pursuits focus on mathematics and aetherology rather than history and folklore—that such stories likely evolved to teach the children of Gyr Abania to respect the veterans of the many wars and battles their people have fought. War has been the major source of her people’s coin since Ala Mhigo first rose on the shores of Loch Seld over a thousand years ago, and is war not kind to the body or the mind.

Inevitably, many of the villains of her childhood are beautiful: the Queen of Stone and Snow, cruel and capricious as the avalanches that wipe out herds and villages; Roric Silvertongue, whose prowess with a bow and manipulations both leads to the death of three kings before Princess Elysande comes out of the north to reclaim her birthright; Wicked Audr the Facestealer, who sows chaos simply for the joy of it using their thousand and one faces, each one flawless and radiant. Not that the reverse never happens: the Bone Eater is made to be as ugly on the outside as the inside, for example, and even in her old age, One-Eyed Odin’s wife Freyja is the most beautiful woman in Abalathia, and the kindest.

But Gyr Abanian lore, for the most part, warns of a beautiful face and a smooth tongue, and for all that Synnove grew up just as much on Ul’dahn tales which feature the opposite, those are the ones that lurk most often in the back of her mind.

Which is, perhaps, why she is so surprised that she isn’t wary of one Ser Aymeric de Borel.

The man is absurdly handsome and could have stepped off the pages of a storybook with a flawless face, hair as black as pitch, and eyes a clear and icy blue. His voice is a low, smooth tenor, his manners exquisite, his smile a picture-perfect politician’s. The stories of Wicked Audr and Roric Silvertongue hiss at her to beware; the ten years of living in Ul’dah remind her that pretty promises have less pretty prices.

But for all that during that first meeting he plays Alphinaud like a well-tuned fiddle, there’s a thread of earnestness about him. There was no hiding his genuine pleasure at meeting herself and her sisters; no hiding at all the spark of delight when he saw her specifically. That the carbuncles don’t seem to mind him, even like him (well, Galette and Tyr do—Ivar not liking someone is just a fact of life), is certainly a major point in his favor, too.

It’s that meeting in the Jeweled Crozier, the first time she ever sees him outside his office as Lord Commander, where she truly lets herself be charmed. There’s no artifice in his laughter, no scheming in his offer to treat her and Galette to hot chocolate. After the ruin of the Scions during the banquet and the otherwise cold reception she and her family have received from Ishgard outside House Fortemps, his warm regard is a soothing balm.

It isn’t until well into their stay in Ishgard, the conspiracy of the Dragonsong War slowly unraveling, that Synnove has a realization. She has spent a considerable amount of time with Ser Aymeric; they’ve run into one another on errands or various excursions into the city, and he’s come to Fortemps Manor more than once to invite her to a luncheon, or a café, or just a walk around one of the parks. “And Galette, and Tyr, and Ivar, are more than welcome to join if they so want to, of course.”

She is alone in the library she’s commandeered, because there is too much downtime for her to sit idly and not work on arcanima research even without most of her resources on hand, not even the carbuncles present. She is in the middle of drafting a revision to Galette’s Garuda-egi subprogram, when uncharacteristically, her mind begins to wander away from aetherophysics and to the handsome man she had had coffee with just yesterday. His cheerful greeting to their waitress and asking after her family before she took their order, the sparkle of his eyes as he recommended the chocolate torte, the soft rumble of his laugh as she told him about the firt time Ivar decided to take a nap in a working oven, which of course was the bread oven in the Gate mess, the warmth of his smile…

He’s courting me.

Synnove sets down her pen and stares unseeing at the far wall as her mind runs a malm a minute.

She’s never dreamed of romance or courting or marriage. She had just…fallen into her previous relationship, and what a mess that had been. Though, perhaps it wouldn’t have turned so ugly if they had courted properly, getting to know one another, realizing they weren’t much of a good fit after all. (Realizing the carbuncles hadn’t liked her chosen lady at all, and really, that needs to be top of her list for anything.)

She’s certainly never dreamed of an ideal partner, either, be they male or female or other. Her preferences in the rare bedmates she’s had in the past skew towards taller than her and stronger, but that’s not really the same. She supposes if she had to choose, it would be someone with whom she could have a relationship like her Aunt Angharad and Uncle Tyr did, or Grandmother and Grandfather.

Her memories of her childhood in Ala Mhigo are greyed out by time, but she remembers the feeling of those relationships if not the particulars. The comfortable silences between Auntie and Uncle as they leaned into one another, the way Grandfather would lead Grandmother in an impromptu waltz, gentle with her fragile bones as her soft laughter followed them down the halls. The respect, the care, the love. The work they had put into it.

Synnove thinks of how Ser Aymeric asks her questions about her job as an arcanist; he doesn’t always understand the high theory she has a tendency to segue into when she speaks more of her research than her duty as an agent of the thalassocracy, but he listens, and asks more questions to clarify. She thinks of his enthusiasm when she asks about him about a favorite book, or the soft, fond grief when she gently inquires about his parents, or the thin thread of frustration when he speaks on the stagnation of Ishgard's society. She thinks of the way the timber of his voice sends butterflies fluttering in her stomach, the way his midnight hair sometimes falls into his lovely blue eyes when he tilts his head and winks at her, the way he gently kisses her knuckles in greeting or departure. She thinks of how utterly delighted he was when Galette decided she was going to ride on his shoulders one day in the park, his chest puffing out with pride as he described the history of the rose gardens to them.

She thinks of it all, of what it could mean for her and for him and for them. She thinks of all the stories she was told as a child where a beautiful face could lead to ruin, but also the ones that say it didn’t matter if the face was beautiful or ugly, just that the heart was kind and just. She thinks of all the work it would take to make a Lord Commander and a Warrior of Light fit.

It would be worth it.

Synnove thinks of it all, and smiles.

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[punchelfdraws]

Commission for @dragons-bones of her gorgeous WOL Synnove and Aymeric de Borel

#my art #ffxiv art #commission work #aymeric de borel #wol x aymeric #other people's ocs #oc: synnove greywolfe

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #27: One in the Hand

Prompt: sole || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: The sequel to this year's "Levin Deals." :D

--

“Synnove.”

Synnove looked up from her book, brow furrowing as she glanced around. Had someone called her?

“Synnove.”

Oh, yep. That was Aymeric’s voice echoing into the house. And her knight sounded in a tiff.

Amused, she closed her book and reluctantly wiggled her feet out from beneath Ivar, then unwrapped herself from her nest of blankets and pillows. The worst lingering effect of her sustained aethershock from the Final Days, even moons after the fact, was she was always damnably cold, even in summer. But once free, she swung her legs off the couch, shoved her feet into her slippers, and pushed herself upright to shuffle out of the library.

Another clipped call of her name, and Synnove shook her head as she made for the kitchen garden. Ixion must have broken the armistice and begun nibbling on the rows that weren’t set aside for him.

Stepping outside, she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed with delight as the sun beat down on her shoulders. Mmm, warm.

“Synnove.” Oh, last syllable emphasis. Her beau was, indeed, quite irritated.

Synnove opened her eyes. And stared.

There was Aymeric, hands on his hips and wearing his gardening clothes, his brows pulled down into a ferocious scowl. There was Ixion, happily chewing on the late summer tomatoes in one of his designated vegetable rows and making a violent mess of his muzzle.

But there was also…

Aymeric pointed. “What is that?”

“I don’t know!” Synnove said, holding up her hands. “I’ve never seen him before in my life, I swear!”

Next to Ixion, snuffling curiously at the still-growing pumpkins, was a creature that might be mistaken for Rhalgr’s steed’s twin were it not for his colors. Instead of his primary coat color being blue-violet, his was sandy brown; instead of vividly stripes, his were deep ruby, and his mane and tail aglow in orange; instead of a horn of gold and striped purple, his was a molten crag, like looking at the top layer of a moving lava field. And where levin danced across Ixion’s hide, embers flaked off his own.

Ixion gently rapped his horn against his fiery doppelganger’s, and the creature stopped nosing at the green pumpkins and lifted his head. He spotted Synnove and his ears pricked up, and began picking his way carefully around the vegetable garden, then pranced across the grass to where she stood.

Synnove squeaked with delight. Aymeric sighed heavily and muttered something that sounded like, “Bloody two of them, Fury have mercy on my garden.”

The fiery steed came to a halt and reached out his neck with a polite whicker. Synnove squeaked again and held out her hands to him, and cooed as he snuffled at them to familiarize himself with her scent. “Oh, aren’t you just a handsome lad!” she crooned. “And so warm. Wherever did you come from, sweet darling?”

“We’re not keeping him.”

“Hush!”

--

G’raha Tia was wearing an expression similar to the one had the first time he met Estinien, stars literally in his eyes, ears pricked like a unicorn’s, and tail frantically lashing about him and slapping at his ankles and hips. “How,” he breathed.

Aymeric grumbled next to him. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

Synnove, astride her new friend’s back with her arms wrapped around his neck and her face buried in his glowing mane, grunted wordlessly. Said new friend was munching happily on the buds of a stalk of Lominsan sprouts.

Roksana, loafed unhappily on Aymeric’s shoulder, mumbled, A levin unicorn, now a fire unicorn? Where’s the water unicorn for me?

“It’s like looking at one of the illustrations in my favorite book of tales as a boy,” G’raha said, hands clasped in front of him. “Phaeton! The sun’s own fire made manifest!”

“I have never been to Corvos in my life,” Synnove mumbled. She was going to stay here for the rest of her life. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaarm. “Therefore, you can’t blame me for this, my love.”

“I’m blaming you a little,” Aymeric said, snappish and yet still somehow fond all at once as he pet the still-sulking white pearl carbunclet. Synnove grinned into Phaeton’s mane; now she was warm inside, too.

G’raha started hopping from foot to foot, his ears flicking in time with the movement. “There has been some speculation since Ixion began wandering more openly in Gyr Abania that he might be the result of a Mhachi experiment, though personally I would think Allag to be the more likely culprit,” he said. “Such experimentation with fauna is much more within the purview of Allagan aetherochemists rather than Mhachi voidmages, and as Allag had a strong presence in Corvos, the stark similarities between Ixion and Phaeton go from statistically unlikely phenomenon to reasonable coincidence as the products of an Allagan laboratory.”

“G’raha,” Synnove slurred, halfway to a nap with the sun warming her spine and Phaeton warming her face and stomach and everything else, “do you want to pet the pony or not?”

“Please may I pet the pony, oh please oh please oh please.”

She patted Phaeton’s neck, and the fiery unicorn raised his head and swung around to stare at G’raha with eyes like glowing coals. The miqo’te scholar, despite visibly vibrating with his excitement, stepped forward slowly, holding one hand out. Phaeton snorted, but lowered his head to whuffle against his palm.

“This is,” G’raha gushed, “the best day of my life.”

“Know the feeling,” Synnove said. Ixion, still methodically decimating his tomatoes, whickered smugly.

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #5: Levin Deals

Prompt: barbarous || Master Post || On AO3

--

“You are completely lacking manners,” Aymeric said, voice dry and flat. “Utterly bereft of decorum and good sense.”

Affronted, Ixion snorted.

“Don’t you sass me, sir.”

Behind him in her lounging chair, Synnove stifled a laugh. Aymeric pointed at her without looking. “And you stay out of this!”

Synnove stopped bothering trying to hide her amusement at that.

The yard and its garden—both the myriad flowers and the kitchen garden—were typically Synnove’s domain at her Cedarwood home, but over the years, Aymeric had developed an affinity for tending the kitchen garden. The simplicity of digging in the soil, trimming back the herbs in their pots, keeping the rows of vegetables free of weeds, even readying the empty beds for winter, were chores that soothed his mind when the work of governance set him on edge. His developed green thumb proved useful, too, now that Synnove was still in recovery from her injuries and horrific aethershock sustained from the Final Day; she simply couldn’t do most of the work of keeping her home in order until she regained more of her strength.

His lady was also horribly indulgent of the overgrown colt that constantly snuck through the skies all the way from Gyr Abania to eat his vegetables.

Aymeric used the same finger he had pointed at Synnove to jab Ixion’s muzzle. The great unicorn jerked his head back with another snort, and glared at him with one baleful red eye.

Aymeric had regularly faced the might of the Dravanian Horde his adult life, and now regularly butted heads with the worst sorts of nobles and politicians in Ishgard. A spoiled unicorn, living legend or not, was not going to cow him.

Amandina, perched between Ixion’s ears and with only her head visible above the fluff of his mane, chittered, He says your dam was a hamster and your sire smelt of elderberries. Papa, what’s a hamster?

(Synnove’s laughter turned to outright cackling.)

“My mama was a saint and my da a gentleman, and I’ll thank you to leave the questions of my parentage out of this discussion,” Aymeric bit out, crossing his arms.

Ixion whickered, dipping his head, and Amandina peeped, He says sorry!

(Trust one the carbunclets to figure out how to communicate with a god’s steed or a Mhachi experiment or whatever Ixion actually was via “sympathetic aetherial resonance” as Synnove had put it, and we’re both levin! as Amandina had said.)

Sighing, Aymeric dragged his hand down his face. He’d been at this for over half a bell now, since discovering Ixion rampaging among the tomatoes and beets and radishes. And Ixion had been decimating the kitchen garden on a semi-regular basis for a few years now. It was far too late to actually put a stop to this, but he wasn’t going to let Rhalgr’s steed rule the roost.

Therefore: compromise.

He set his gaze on Ixion again and said, firm, “I’ll set aside one row of vegetables of your choice if you leave the rest of the kitchen garden alone.”

Ixion flicked an ear and pawed the ground. Once, twice, thrice, four times, five.

Aymeric clucked his tongue and shook his head. “No. Two.”

Ixion pinned his ears back and flared his nostrils.

Aymeric raised an eyebrow.

Ixion’s ears slowly half-perked again, and he pawed at the ground. Once, twice, thrice, four times.

Aymeric shook his head once more. “Two, final offer.”

Ixion grumbled, tossing his head (Amandina squealed in delight), then turned his head to look him straight on with one eye. He raised his hoof up, set it down. And, after another moment of thought, pawed at the ground. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Aymeric made a show of narrowing his eyes and tapping his chin, even as mentally he patted himself on the back. Three had been his initial thought, but the intelligent man did not let his opponent know his full hand in a negotiation. “Acceptable,” he finally said, and held out his hand.

Ixion tapped his palm with his horn. Deal sealed.

Synnove clapped behind him. Amandina cheered, then peeped as Ixion did a victorious piaffe as though he was the winner, Papa? What’s a hamster?

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #25: The Best Cure

Prompt: call it a day || Master Post || On AO3

--

“I am nob sick.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m nob!”

Synnove gave her knight her very best “I Know You Speak Bullshite” look that she normally leveraged on carbuncles and students. Aymeric’s answering scowl would have been a more effective rebuttal if his hair wasn’t disheveled, his eyes not watery, and his nose not bright red.

“You have run yourself ragged,” Synnove said, hands on her hips, “and now you’re paying the price for spreading yourself so thin.”

“Dere’s too much to—ACHOO!”

Aymeric got his arm up just in time to sneeze into his elbow. And then a second time, and a third, in quick succession.

“Darling, you have a very competent second-in-command and an equally competent new political secretary, you can take the bloody time to rest and get better.”

An authoritative mew drifted up from next to Synnove’s shin. She pointed down. “See! Lady Crème agrees with me!”

The Ala Kharan cat leaped up onto the bed, then sat primly with her tail curled over her paws, and stared at Aymeric. Aymeric refused to look at his mother’s cat, instead trying to scowl again at Synnove. “If I always did what the cab wanted,” and now he seemed to be vainly trying to ignore how his congestion was only getting worse with every word he spoke, “I would neber ged anyding done.”

Synnove narrowed her eyes.

“Tyr.”

The topaz carbuncle popped his head over the side of the bed, and, like Lady Crème, stared. Now Aymeric looked concerned.

“Sit.”

Boof!

Aymeric tried to scramble away, Lady Crème hissing angrily at being jarred, but too late: Tyr was crawling up the bed. As soon as his hindlegs were on the mattress, the enormous carbuncle threw himself forward to flop on Aymeric’s legs and torso. Aymeric went flat on his back with an oof!

Synnove smiled. “Good boy, Tyr.”

Another wordless boof, this one smug, as Tyr drew himself up into a proper loaf shape. For good measure, he swished his tails to the side to drape over Aymeric’s face. Lady Crème stalked up the bedsheets to claim one of the pillows next to Aymeric’s head.

“You fight dirty,” Aymeric grumbled, voice further muffled by both snot and carbuncle tails.

“I fight to win,” Synnove said, smug, as she walked around the bed. “I’ve already gave Lucia a call on the ‘pearl, and I’ll be contacting Norlaise shortly.”

“Conspiracies.”

She snickered, and brushing the tips of Tyr’s tails out of the way, she leaned over and kissed Aymeric’s forehead. “I’m going to go help Hersande make some chicken noodle soup,” she said. “I’ll come check up on you in a bell. If you need anything, just tell Tyr and he’ll come get me.”

“Fiiiiiine,” came the sulky whine. A pause. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Synnove gave an ear scratch to both Tyr and Lady Crème, and then headed out of the bedroom.

Aymeric was snoring by the time she closed the door.

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[dragons-bones]

an emypreum starlight

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #hyur #hyur highlander #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x synnove #oc: synnove greywolfe #dt's screenshots #dt's witchcraft and sorcery #the forbidden tools #*lays down with a groan* #don't ask me how long these took me #the answer is too damn long #curse my goddamn adhd-induced desire for utter perfection

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #8: Social Expectations

Prompt: tepid || Master Post || On AO3

“Whenever it is we get married,” Synnove murmured just under her breath, the words carrying just to her knight’s ears and no farther, “if you ever ask me to host something like this, I will divorce you.”

“My ladylove,” Aymeric said in kind, “if I ever suggest you host something like this, you should throw me off the Steps of Faith.”

The salon was, thankfully, not so intimate that either of them would be expected to provide commentary on the poetry being shared this evening. Synnove kept a mask of blandly polite interest on her face, one perfected by years of assessor work on the docks of Limsa Lominsa pretending to give a single solitary fuck about the opinions of merchants trying to circumvent thalassocratic law, and ran through theorems in her head instead. Aymeric, she was certain, was mentally reviewing the Ishgardian strategy for the upcoming Alliance wargames.

Synnove occupied a rather strange place in Ishgardian high society: not Aymeric’s wife, technically not even his betrothed with the lack of any formal declaration, plus a Warrior of Light and possessing regular employment in a wholly different city-state that she was quite bluntly open about not giving up. Society didn’t quite know what to do with her, and she was content to keep it that way; it meant she had far fewer social obligations to fulfill. That said, it was both a social nicety to accompany her beau to some of his social obligations, and also generally good manners to give her man emotional backup considering the political viper’s nest some soirees could become at a moment’s notice.

(She did not regret tossing her wine in the odious face of his mama’s least favorite cousin, but she was grateful Aymeric had not experienced any repercussions for her action.)

Tonight was normally the sort of thing she didn’t mind attending, particularly since Aymeric usually looked forward to such events, and even if she wasn’t herself enthused, Synnove was adult enough to let her lover have a night where he could both enjoy her company and an art form from which he derived pleasure. Alas, tonight’s reading had quickly soured with the dawning realization the work being shared was an attempted epic retelling of the Dragonsong War.

The grimace on their hostess’s face hinted, at least, that such a topic had not been the original plan for the evening. Considering the poet in question was her nephew…

They were, thankfully, eventually able to flee; guests could be expected to stay only so long, and the group had been sizeable enough that those who were genuinely interested in the epic poem (still a work in progress, apparently) had crowded around the author to ask questions and provide gentle critique, giving Aymeric and Synnove the cover necessary to make their escape. After collecting their coats, the pair walked briskly through the foyer, hands clasped and fingers entwined, and out of the small manor, not slowing until they reached the end of the street and made the turn that would take them rambling further up to the top of the Pillars and to the comfortable confines of Borel Manor.

Aymeric sighed heavily, lifting their joined hands to press a kiss to her knuckles. “My apologies for a tedious evening for you becoming even more so,” he said ruefully.

Synnove snorted and dropped a kiss on his cheek. “No apologies necessary,” she said. “It’s certainly not your fault, and I’m sorry what normally would be a relaxing evening for you became uncomfortable.”

He was disappointed, she could tell from the tilt of his mouth and the tension in his jaw and the way he wrapped his arm around her to pull her close, the comfort for him rather than her. She leaned into the embrace, bringing her own arm around his waist to keep them pressed up against one another as much as possible as they meandered their way home.

“It’s probably quite terrible of me,” Aymeric said eventually, “that I’m going to have zero qualms about using you as a ready excuse for why Borel Manor will never be the hub of high society that I know some of the lords and ladies are salivating at the chance to have. At least I can flee someone else’s home.”

Synnove laughed. “I’m surprised at how few of them have picked up just how distasteful I find high society. Aren’t political vipers supposed to have keener senses than that?”

“Your poker face is exquisite, my Synnove,” Aymeric drawled, and she laughed anew. “There may also be an element of delusion, too, that surely everyone would want to be welcomed into the fold of nobility, particular a vaunted hero from supposedly humble means.”

She shuddered, not entirely theatrical with the action. Ul’dah and Thanalan did not have a noble class in quite the same way as Ishgard and Coerthas, but there was ultimately little difference between rather status was granted by wealth or by blood. Seeing the behavior of so many elites (Rereha being a rare exception, as while she’d certainly been spoiled, her parents had raised her to still be kind), and what lengths her mother had gone to in order to restore herself to what she felt was her proper place in the world, had long destroyed any interest in that world. There were many wonderful people she had met in Ishgard, but she had seen the worst of it, too, and the lengths people would go to maintain the status quo, which had only reinforced her revulsion for such stratified class structures.

Synnove would do her best to use what influence she would eventually have whenever she and Aymeric decided was the right time to wed to make more positive changes in this sky-touched city, but that was still in the unknowable future. She was in no rush to make a claim on the title of viscountess.

“I’m still not quitting the Guild when we get married,” she said, as she had many times before on nights similar to this, because to voice a thing was to make it true.

Aymeric laughed himself and kissed her temple. “I would never ask you to,” he said, as he had many times before, “and I would take you to a healer immediately to check for head wounds or foul magicks if you ever did so of your own volition.”

She nodded, satisfied, and Aymeric’s soft chuckle echoed in her ears the rest of the way home.

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #14: These Lavish Delights (NSFW)

Prompt: attrition || Master Post || On AO3

When Synnove had commissioned her bedframe, it was for the perfectly innocent reason of she had just purchased land and was having her house built, and she would need good, proper furniture for it. The carpenter had been Ala Mhigan, and much of her furniture thus sported carvings depicting wolves and bear and griffins, heather and hollyhock and hazelnut, and myriad more Gyr Abanian flora and fauna. The headboard of her bed had been relatively simple by comparison: rather than elaborate carvings, the carpenter had instead chosen to create jagged cut-outs that brought to mind the peaks of the High Bank as seen from Ala Mhigo’s walls, and when sunlight streamed through it, mimicked those same peaks in the depths of winter.

The cut-outs also made fantastic hand holds.

Synnove smirked to herself as she heard wood creak, and flicked her gaze up to see Aymeric’s knuckles whiten with the force of his grip on her headboard. She took a moment, too, to admire the arched length of his neck, dappled with red marks from her earlier attentions, and the way the strands of his midnight hair pooled and vanished into the shadows on her green pillows. And then she dipped her head to resume her current ministrations, tongue flicking out to catch a drop of sweat slipping down his pectoral. A groan rattled from her knight’s throat, and she chuckled.

She had lost track of time, and was no longer certain how long she had been laving attention upon her lover. A while now; Aymeric had returned home tense and on edge, some political matter daring to chase him beyond the walls of the Ishgardian Parliament, and with the carbuncles off visiting Aunt Angharad for a few days, Synnove had decided for a more luxurious approach to unwinding the stress from his shoulders.

A massage first, using an oil scented with lavender and chamomile, rubbed into his back and shoulders as he lay face down on their bed and she straddled his hips. When that hadn’t been enough to break the tension he carried, Synnove had set the oil aside and coaxed him onto his back. Lips and tongue and just the gentlest touch of teeth, the light scratch of her nails and the tips of her fingers and the shadow of her breath—those were the tools that saw her results.

When a brush of her knuckles up the length of his cock had her knight bucking upwards, a hoarse moan falling from his lips, she had pressed her lips to his ear and shushed him softly. “Now, now, my love,” she had crooned, “this isn’t about gratification. This is about pleasure.”

He had groaned, his lovely ice eyes fluttering open to glare at her, and she had mere smiled and said, “When I can be certain there are no thoughts in that lovely mind of yours save for how and where you want to finish, then I’ll let you come.”

Aymeric had groaned again, but acquiesced.

It wasn’t often they played in this manner, Synnove mused to herself as she nipped her way down her knight’s torso once more, ignoring the throbbing in her core as she had done the whole night. They were both fonder of testing their endurance via multiple rounds rather than one long, intense night of lovemaking. But she wanted him lost in his head, focused on just this with nothing of duty or responsibility nipping at his mental heels, and as it was a sight more difficult to get her Aymeric into such a state than it was with herself, denial was the path on which she needed to continue.

But not much longer, as she discovered with a gentle exhale over the head of his lovely cock, red with the force of his desire, that drew forth a half-choked whine from her knight. “Please,” he rasped, hips shaking with the effort to not chase her lips and still, still holding to the headboard. “Please.”

Triumph flooded her veins, and Synnove sat up, licking her lips. “You’ve done so well, my knight, my darling,” she said, her voice husky with arousal. “How do you want it? My skin?”

She leaned forward then, to kiss the scar on his upper torso, and at the same time press his cock between her breasts.

Aymeric moaned, but managed to grit out, “No.”

“Hmmm, then my hand?” she drawled, drawing back and wrapping one hand around him to give him a single firm stroke, pre smoothing her way.

“No,” he choked out, eyes squeezed shut and tossing his head back against her pillows again.

Synnove grinned, sly, and let go, to his frustrated whine, and shuffled further down his body. “My mouth, then?” she said, and bent down to place a lingering kiss against the head of him.

Her knight’s hips stuttered, but she had anticipated that, pulling away as he ground his teeth and said, “No.”

She didn’t bother to suppress the shudder of delight that shivered through her, eyes closing for a brief moment as she murmured, “Ah. My cunt, then,” reopening her eyes to see the effect her words had on him. He would never use such coarse language to speak of her, but something about the way she had no qualms using it for herself always seemed to spark something in him.

Aymeric opened his eyes, gaze thick with lust, and hissed, “Yes.”

Synnove laughed, low and dark, and crawled her way back up his body until she was properly astride him. She slid onto him with not even a whisper of discomfort, her arousal and slick easing the way, and her content sigh mingled with her knight’s groan of relief.

As she sat on his hips, his cock fully sheathed within her, she bit her lip and took a moment to savor the stretch of him inside her, thick and heavy and always perfect, a soft moan escaping her. Not too long a moment, though.

The rocking of her hips was slow and leisurely, almost teasing; Synnove saw no point to rush to completion now, even as desire crawled hot and needy up her spine. Aymeric’s hands found their way to her thighs, squeezing and caressing, and she let her head tilt back, her hair brushing his legs, allowing herself a moment of selfishness to enjoy having her lover all to herself at last.

And then she found herself on her back, the wind knocked out of her, and she gasped as she stared up at Aymeric.

He was a sight to behold: skin slick with oil and sweat, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide. The kiss he gave her was biting and savage, probing and claiming all at once, and when he drew away, she whined in disappointment.

“I think we’re both due a reward,” Aymeric growled, a feral grin crossing his face.

Synnove’s laughed in delight and hitched her legs around his waist, the sound harmonizing with the heavy slap of skin against skin and her knight’s wordless noises of exertion as he set to the task of putting bruises on both their hips, until they were equally incoherent, and pleasure took them both.

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #29: Parliamentary Procedure

Prompt: fuse || Master Post || On AO3

Aymeric was stuck in another meeting, his fifth of the day, the shadows of Ishgard’s spires melding with twilight outside his window as the sun finished setting, when a loud BANG! echoed just outside his office. He jumped, quill skittering from his grasp, and his eyes and those of the other members of parliament present swung towards the closed door. Not a moment ago, Aymeric had been fighting exhaustion, but now alertness took him; would someone dare to—

His door burst open, swinging wide and crashing against the wall, to reveal an absolutely furious Synnove.

He stared, wide-eyed, mouth agape, as his lady growled, “All of you, out.”

Lord Rontremont sputtered, “Mistress Greywolfe, this is highly—”

“I don’t care,” Synnove said, pivoting to the side, right arm extended with finger pointing toward the exit of his office suite. “Get. The fuck. Out. Now.”

There was pure malice in her voice, and Aymeric found himself hunching down in his seat reflexively, even though it wasn’t directed at himself. (At least, he hoped it wasn’t directed at himself.) The handful of lords and ladies slowly stood, gathering their folios, muttering under their breaths. Synnove’s eyes narrowed.

Tyr appeared then, ears flat to his head and teeth bared, and Aymeric was suddenly reminded that this was a carbuncle large enough to fight a bear or an aevis and win with sheer physical might alone. The topaz carbuncle’s accompanying growl shook every object in the room.

The members of the House of Lords vanished much faster.

Tyr plopped next to his mama, ear pricking upright and teeth covered, the aura of predator dissipating in an eye blink. Synnove gave him a gentle pat before sliding her hand down his face to scritch her eldest boy under his chin. “Such a good lad,” she crooned.

The carbuncle let out a happy boof.

Then his lady turned her attention to Aymeric, and that vicious anger was back in her green eyes, hard and flinty.

He had never had her anger turned on him before like this; the closest was the time after rescuing the hostages in the Vault, but today there is no undercurrent of desperate fear. He genuinely has no idea what could be wrong. “Synnove,” he says carefully, “what brings you—”

“It’s Watersday,” she says, clipped and precise and frosty.

Aymeric’s mind screeches to a halt, and he blinks. No. No, it is not Watersday. “It’s Earthsday,” he said slowly.

“Watersday.”

“Earthsday.”

“Watersday.”

“Earthsdays.”

“Watersday.”

Watersday, Tyr chorused.

Aymeric began frantically pawing through the papers on his desk, shoving some whole piles aside unceremoniously, until he finally found a copy of his calendar for the sennight. Yes, there were all of today’s meetings, and—

He raised his head, and ice rolled down his spine, because they were all under Watersday.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dropping his head to the desktop with a solid thump. “How did these get scheduled, Norlaise knew the Guild luncheon was today.”

‘Luncheon’ was an understatement; the event was more like a small symposium, wherein the senior researchers at Mealvaan’s Gate presented their current projects. Synnove had been scheduled to formally present about aetheric polarity as it related to article infusion of carbuncle-quality gemstones, a year and more of research finally collated into something fit for peer review, and she had been looking forward to it for a month. And he had promised to be there today. Her temper made perfect sense.

He didn’t even have his linkpearl. What had happened to his linkpearl?

“Norlaise,” his lady enunciated carefully, “went on leave on Firesday.”

“Fuck,” Aymeric said again. He had been in and out of parliamentary meetings the past three days so much he barely registered his own staff. “Her replacement for the sennight must have missed the note to not schedule anything after midmorning, it’s been nothing but the budget for two days now.” He lifted his head to meet his lady’s eyes and said, genuine and wretched, “I am so sorry.”

Synnove sighed heavily, the fight draining out of her. “Governmental budget is at least a good reason,” she said, agent of the thalassocracy as she was, and began walking towards him. “Though I reserve the right to tear strips for your temporary secretary’s hide.”

“Fair,” he said, as Tyr pushed the office door shut with his head and made to follow Synnove.

His lady rounded his desk and Aymeric opened his arms to her. Synnove collapsed onto his lap, and buried her face in his hair as he wrapped her up in a hug. Tyr loafed atop his feet, starting up that rumbling purr that gave his bones a pleasant rattle.

“Ultimately, you got lucky, my beau,” she said. “Harbor emergency cut all the presentations short, so we’re rescheduling the second half of the luncheon for next sennight.”

“And I will be there.”

“You had better. What I’m really mad about is that I couldn’t reach you at all when I tried to call you.”

“I don’t even know where my linkpearl cuff is right now,” Aymeric said ruefully. “I can’t remember if I left the manor without it, and if it was there and constantly ringing, Baptistaux and Hersande would have noticed it and if not brought it to me themselves, at least sent a trusted runner.”

His lady let out another heavy breath, ruffling his hair, and he squeezed her waist in response. “All right,” she said, “we’ll have to think of a backup. There are those portal tomestone-readers, I know of a couple of Allagan technology aficionados who have been experimenting with some sort of tome-to-tome communication system…”

Aymeric wrinkled his nose. He had met a couple of those aficionados, and some of them left him wishing to interact with Nero instead. And as wondrous as the reverse-engineered technology was, Allag and anything adjacent to it just left a sour taste in his mouth. “I’ll acknowledge the idea has potential,” he said, “but perhaps a backup linkpearl would work better for the interim.”

Synnove snorted. “Fine, fine,” she said. “Is there anything of vital importance on your schedule for tomorrow?”

He glanced over at the calendar for Windsday, frowning thoughtfully, then shook his head. “Looks like it’s to be mostly a paperwork and review day,” he said. “There’s something with Artoirel, but more often than not that just becomes us gossiping.”

“Excellent. You’re going to make up for scaring me by taking the day off and going shopping in Limsa Lominsa with me and the ‘buncles.”

“Oh no,” Aymeric said, flat and faux-dreadful. “How awful. A chance to buy fancy chocolates and more books and eat ice cream on the pier.”

Synnove kissed his cheek. “How lovely to be on the same page. Tyr, my boyo, get up, we’ll tidy and leave a note and be on our way.”

As Tyr stood up, followed by Synnove, Aymeric dragged his hand down his face. His lady was right, he had gotten lucky, and he shouldn’t rely wholly on Norlaise to manage his parliamentary schedule. That was a bad habit he had slid into.

Nothing like a good scare to metaphorically kick his arse, at least.

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #19: ‘Buncle Trouble

Prompt: turn a blind eye || Master Post || On AO3

The La Noscean sunshine was warm and gentle, and Aymeric had been on the edge of sleep for most of the afternoon, his head pillowed on Synnove’s stomach as his lady gently dragged her fingers through his hair. They had simply lain on a blanket in a spot in the yard not covered by flowers, content to just exist together without any words needed. Eventually, the lassitude had claimed Synnove, too, her hand stilling as she dropped into the comforting embrace of a nap with a soft snore.

They finally had a handful of days to themselves, and they fully intended to just relax.

Aymeric’s eyes drifted shut, and in his sun-warmed state he couldn’t reopen them. Full sleep beckoned towards him and he was just a few breaths away—

A pair of aetheric giggles rang in the afternoon breeze, one slightly crackling like static levin, and the other like water in a babbling brook.

Aymeric was suddenly very wide awake. So was Synnove, based on how her stomach tensed beneath his cheek.

He was oriented so that he faced towards Synnove’s feet, and he opened his eyes to see just what the twins were up to; he sensed his lady raising her head up just behind him.

Roksana was pulling, and Amandina pushing, a short trough that was usually in the chocobo stable around the corner of the house. The trough was currently full of hay and assorted vegetables, and the twins shouldn’t be able to move it at all when it was full. But even at this awkward angle, Aymeric could see the faint distortion along the bottom of the trough that meant the girls were currently working some sort of aetheric nonsense regarding either mass or movement they had no business being able to manage.

The alkonost—Synnove had yet to choose a name for her—cautiously stepped around the corner after them, head and neck lowered to sniff curiously at the trough’s goodies. Ixion ambled after her, chewing on a mouthful of what sounded suspiciously like snap peas.

…When did Ixion—

—no. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not today.

(At least the overgrown garden pest masquerading as Rhalgr’s steed hadn’t gotten into the radishes.

(The overgrown garden pest masquerading as Rhalgr’s steed had better not have gotten into the radishes.))

Aymeric very deliberately reclosed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out again slowly as he forced himself to relax. He did not want to know when Ixion arrived. He did not want to know where Amandina and Roksana were luring Ixion and the alkonost. He did not want to know the reason Amandina and Roksana were luring Ixion and the alkonost somewhere.

He heard Synnove’s head softly thunk back down on the blanket, followed shortly thereafter by her going limp beneath him, apparently deciding exactly the same thing as himself. “Never, ever having two-legged children,” she murmured, just quietly enough for Aymeric to hear but not for the sound to carry.

“Absolutely not,” he breathed in agreement. “Those kinds come equipped with thumbs.”

Synnove shuddered beneath him.

The carbuncle giggling continued.

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #13: Sun from Shadow

Prompt: confluence || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: Timeline note: set at some point in early Heavensward, during a reasonable lull in MSQ. Contains references to “Chance Encounters” from FFXIV Write 2018.

--

Aymeric was a son of Ishgard, raised by loving parents who did their best to prepare him for the den of hungry scalekin that was the mix of Ishgardian nobility and the highest echelons of the Halonic clergy, and even he was bewildered by the series of events that had led the remainders of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn to seek refuge within Ishgard. The wheels within wheels were utterly astonishing, the depth of Ul’dahn greed, even more so…and all of it upended because the Monetarists had forgotten, or overlooked, the combat prowess of the Archons.

And now five people who had been instrumental in ensuring Eorzea’s salvation from the encroachment of the Garleans were missing, possibly even dead, and the six remaining of the organization’s core considered fugitives from Ul’dahn justice.

There could be no question about how awful a situation it was for the Scions, and yet Aymeric had to admit to himself that he was selfishly glad for the opportunity it had presented himself.

He had been genuinely fascinated by the stories surrounding the Warriors of Light, first from what Haurchefant had shared from his meetings with them, and then via the tales that filtered north from the rest of Eorzea. Four women from disparate backgrounds who had already had a long history of friendship and seemingly stumbled onto the path of heroes of the realm, rendering aid not for glory but because it was the right thing to do. Adventurers had been a staple in Eorzea for decades, but their tale was like something from a storybook.

The meeting in Camp Dragonhead had not been the ideal situation in which to meet people he had come to admire from afar—politics had been the name of the day, and winding circles around young Master Alphinaud was hardly the best of impressions. But he had been grateful for it, anyway, the small chance to interact with the Warriors of Light.

Each of them was striking to behold: Alakhai with her dark skin and darker scales, deep mulberry hair, and wicked knives hanging from her belt; Rereha’s riotous pink-and-white hair like a peppermint candy, blindingly white smile, and the jaunty stockman’s hat in sky blue perched atop her head; Dancing Heron and her great height, the cool blue of her assessing gaze almost aglow against her russet skin. But it had been Synnove and her brilliant emerald eyes, the straightness of her spine, the absent tapping of her elegant fingers against the grimoire on her hip, that had captured his attention. Aymeric couldn’t quite say what about her had so entranced him; she had featured equally in all the stories he had heard from Haurchefant, and many of her virtues were shared by her sisters.

(He would point to the immediate aftermath of the meeting, with the discovery of the massacre Galette had enacted on the refreshments table prepared by the camp kitchen, and how Synnove had gone from scolding summoner to fondly exasperated mother to the smug carbuncle, as the real turning point in his fascination with the woman.)

But Aymeric had expected their contact to be sporadic, extraordinarily circumstances such as the battle on the Steps of Faith notwithstanding. Now, however, he had the chance to properly get to know Synnove, even as he acknowledged the unfairness in what had led to the chance.

Not that he didn’t attempt to get to know the other Scions, too. Master Alphinaud had taken a terrible blow to his pride—and Aymeric couldn’t help but wonder if the other Scions would have let the situation get as far as it had with the Crystal Braves if Alphinaud weren’t the grandson of Louisoix Leveilleur, consciously or not—but at his core, he was as kind as the Warriors of Light. Aymeric enjoyed speaking with him, recognizing another idealist in the young man, even if at the moment it was hidden behind wary grief.

Mistress Tataru he had yet to make proper acquaintance of, unfortunately; the Scions’ coinkeeper apparently had taken to the Forgotten Knight, and if his agents’ reports were correct (and they had yet to be otherwise), she was both familiarizing herself with the denizens of Ishgard and gathering intelligence for the Scions’ use. Alakhai was her frequent shadow, both as guard and agent, and while the Xaela preferred not to speak unless absolutely necessary, she still had a wicked sense of humor. The one time Aymeric had been able to escape his office to the Knight for lunch a few sennights past, Alakhai had been present, and had picked his pockets clean of even lint and dropped everything into his empty stew bowl on her way to haunt the Brume.

Dancing Heron and Rereha had ended up gravitating more towards Lucia, of the knights they had met. Heron he was not surprised by; the Hellsguard and the Garlean had similar personalities and in this case in a way that meshed rather than repelled, and both had been delighted to acquire a new sparring partner (and in the case of Lucia, a new person to sic on the Temple Knight squires to clean up their forms). Rereha had been a surprise, if only because he so rarely saw Lucia let out her playful side in public, and his own sister-by-choice was fond of indulging the bard’s over the top flirting, especially when she could send the rumor mills careening off in directions that kept the gossipmongers occupied and ignoring the real information lurking in the corners of the Congregation.

Though that didn’t mean he wasn’t getting to know both ladies better himself. Heron was an excellent chess player, and they were both content to let a game pass in silence or in quiet conversation about history or combat. And while Rereha may have worn the title of shameless hedonist with pride, that didn’t mean she was a fool, as so many seemed to think: the lalafell bard was well-read and sharp as a stiletto, providing witty commentary on music and poetry and politics, assessing the nobles of Ishgard she had met with a blunt tack that made Alphinaud blush bright red and Aymeric himself laugh out loud.

It was Synnove who was the odd one out in the group. While a scholar like Alphinaud, she wasn’t politically minded—far from it, as he learned early on, her expression falling into a mask of blank politeness when the topic had slid that way during a dinner at Fortemps Manor and her participation falling by the wayside. And while Aymeric loved Ishgard, he well knew that the city cared little for any science or craft that did not advance the war against the Dravanians, and their arcanima tradition was non-existent. Tactics were a topic she could speak on, and at length, but it wasn’t her passion.

But it left her wandering the city, and after running into her in the Crozier admiring earrings with her carbuncle unceremoniously shoved down her winter coat, Aymeric had found himself wandering the city more often in the hopes of coming across her and her carbuncles more often. Oh, sometimes he paid visit to her at Fortemps Manor or formally requested her company on some walkabout or for coffee at a café…but he most enjoyed those times where their meetings were spontaneous.

In those moments, Synnove seemed the most open and at ease, speaking more freely of herself. It was how he first learned of her aunt, Angharad, and her mentor at the Arcanists’ Guild, Mhaslona. It was how he first heard her laugh, loud and unashamed and only a little rueful as Galette crawled out of Synnove’s coat and hung half out of it to stick her face into a cup of hot chocolate. It was how he learned of her own sweet tooth, mulling over a display of pastries on a day he had a craving for a bit of sugar himself. It was how he began to learn more about her research—and how he began to curse Ishgard’s lack of an arcanima tradition, if only because he couldn’t easily learn the right questions to ask to keep her going and have the chance to listen to her husky contralto pitch into wondrous enthusiasm.

Aymeric spoke of himself to her, too; more than he ever had to any man or woman he had tentatively thought about courting in the past. And even in those moments he still found all his attention on Synnove, and he could learn how she listened, quietly absorbing all he had to say, emerald eyes on his icy ones, the beauty mark at the corner of her mouth drawn upwards by the curve of her soft smile.

But so far, his favorite thing he had had the chance to learn about Synnove was that their strides were just about the same length, be it matched in a brisk walk to escape the crush of the Jeweled Crozier at noon or in a quiet, leisurely stroll in one of the parks in the afternoon.

Betrayal and tragedy had brought this ray of sunlight in a woman’s skin to the grey stone of Ishgard, but Aymeric couldn’t bring himself to be wholly sorrowful, not when it meant he had the opportunity to bask in her radiance. He could only hope now that when she was able to retake her rightful place in the world, amongst the shining white spires of Limsa Lominsa, that it would not mean the end of all he could learn of her.

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #1: White with Envy

Prompt: cross || Master Post || On AO3

“You do know,” Aymeric drawled, one elegant black brow raised, amusement and exasperation in equal parts glittering in his ice blue eyes, “that it’s not me you have to convince about this?”

Synnove grimaced, fighting down the urge to pick at her nails, and peered over her shoulder, towards the back corner of the property where the open chocobo stable was.

Chantilly glared from beneath the eaves, feathers fluffed in agitation. She clacked her beak twice, a loud SNAP-SNAP.

She turned and faced forward again, just looking at Aymeric.

Her knight, in the middle of taking a sip of tea from his mug, pointed an accusing finger at her. As he lowered his tea, he said, “Do not use the sad eyes on me, lady mine. It’s one thing to have your creature friends visit, it’s another entirely to decide to keep them. I have no issue with allowing the poor thing to stay, but I’m not going to be the one to literally live with her.”

Synnove huffed a heavy sigh. Aymeric had, over the years, become even more blasé than her sisters about her peculiar gift with beastkin and cloudkin, to the point he could and would conspire with her chocobo into assisting in keeping her out of the office or doing anything arcanima-related if she had been banned from the Guild by Thurbyrgeim for overworking and was trying to skirt the banishment by doing it at home. It was, probably, not a good thing that Aymeric and Chantilly had developed similar You are a ridiculous creature, Synnove faces.

Aymeric was also slightly better at negotiating with Chantilly. Chantilly saw Synnove as a strange mix between mama and chick and as the hen got older, she had gotten stubborn.

The Highlander sighed and slumped. Her beau was right, though. It wasn’t often that impulse overtook her good sense—at least when it came to everything that wasn’t arcanima and experiments, and even then, the impulse was tempered by safety guidelines—but it certainly had this time, and it was her responsibility to fix the problem. Time to woman up.

Synnove turned and trudged across the yard and through the kitchen garden towards the chocobo; she flicked her fingers in a rude gesture over her shoulder at Aymeric’s amused chuckle. Chantilly warked, sharp and strident, as Synnove came closer, and the white hen turned her head away, beak in the air with eyes closed, in a classic I’m ignoring you pose.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Synnove said as she ducked into the stable. The building was big enough to have enough nests for six chocobos (or three rounceys, one enormous destrier, and one jennet, when Synnove’s sisters were visiting), and could be shuttered in bad weather, but otherwise Chantilly and Aymeric’s Inkstain were well-behaved enough to have free rein of the property. Chantilly, beak still turned up, stalked over to her nest, and plopped into the carefully sculpted pile of hay with a huff; Inkstain cracked an eye open, took note of his stablemate’s sulking, and went right back to sleep.

Sighing, she walked over and plopped down next to Chantilly, crossing her legs. The hen stuck her head under her wing and took a theatric snore in response. Synnove rolled her eyes and reached out to scratch the base of Chantilly’s neck.

“I am not replacing you,” she said sternly. Chantilly snored again, but Synnove continued, “Yes, she’s going to need more of my attention, but that’s not because I think she’s prettier or more interesting, but because she’s sick and needs help.”

Synnove glanced over her shoulder, out into the yard at the other end of the acre. The alkonost was crouched in the corner next to the rose bushes, her green feathers visibly dull and greasy and the points of one horn broken and the other cracked. Tyr was loafed next to her, his vibrating purr able to be faintly felt even at this distance, while Aymeric was backing off from having left a few handfuls of hay in the formel’s reach that she was eyeing but hadn’t yet moved toward.

Truly, she hadn’t intended to adopt an alkonost, especially during a trip to Bozja entirely meant to be providing feedback on the council’s proposals regarding the education system once more families resettled into the rebuilding city. But the meeting was being held in the reclaimed Castrum Lacus Litore, and she had passed by the old beastmaster pens, and Synnove wasn’t one to turn up the opportunity to say hello to the beasts under the Bozjans’ care. And she certainly hadn’t expected an alkonost formel, rescued from one of the abandoned Zadnor outposts, to frantically escape her pen and actually follow her onto the airship home.

Synnove was…not quite used to creatures so scared she couldn’t calm them down and ensure they stayed with their keepers. And the formel had not taken well to airship travel, and Tyr’s purring had been the only other thing besides her own presence able to soothe the cloudkin.

Chantilly, for all that she was well-trained and sociable, was a bit of a possessive chocobo and didn’t like to share Synnove with the creatures that would come to visit. At the end of the day, however, Ixion or Unkteki or whomever had come to say hello would wander back to their territories, satisfied with their received attention. Synnove had arrived home with an alkonost trying to keep her head tucked beneath her arm, wary and clearly with zero intent to go anywhere.

Her jealous hen didn’t perform another overdramatic snore, and Synnove took the opportunity to shove her hand beneath Chantilly’s flyer’s shaffron to scritch the feathers on the top of her head. “You’re still my good girl, and you’re still going to be who I take with me when it’s time to be a Warrior of Light,” Synnove said. “And you’re still mostly certainly top hen.”

Chantilly huffed, sounding a little less annoyed. Synnove sat quietly for a bit longer, just scratching and petting her chocobo, and added softly, “I’ll need your help, too, sweetheart. She’s scared and we’ll need to teach her she’s safe here, but also we’ll need to teach her good manners. And you’ve got the best manners of all, she’ll be looking to you on how to behave.”

Finally, the chocobo took her head out from beneath her wing, and plopped it down instead in Synnove’s lap with a sad kweh.

Synnove chuckled and rubbed Chantilly’s cheek. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” she scolded. “You love showing up the other ‘bos in how much of a good girl you can be. Now you can have a not-so-little protégé to help you keep order in the stable.”

Another kweh, but then Chantilly was pushing herself upright and shaking herself to settle her feathers back to sleek elegance. As Synnove clambered upright herself and brushed stray straw off her legs, the chocobo purposefully strode out of the stable and towards the newest member of the household, puffing up her chest proudly.

Inkstain opened his eye again and warked softly. Synnove snorted and reached over to rub the top of his head. “She wouldn’t be Chantilly if she wasn’t a drama queen on occasion,” she agreed, and followed her ‘bo out into the sunlight.

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[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: A Bloodshore Holiday (7/7)

In the aftermath of the Dragonsong War, life for the Warriors of Light return to a certain kind of normal, and Ishgard works to build a new future for itself and its citizens. But Ser Aymeric has been drawn in too many directions by his new role as Lord Speaker of the House of Lords on top of his duties as Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, and Synnove Greywolfe of the Arcanists' Guild has delved perhaps a little too deeply into catching back up on moons of backlogged research and paperwork. Clearly, their friends need to intervene.

It's time for the two of them to take a vacation. Forcibly.

Chapter 1: Forced Leaved || Chapter 2: Navigator’s Veil || Chapter 3: A Cabin on the Coast || Chapter 4: Surf City || Chapter 5: Revelry and Repose (NSFW) || Chapter 6: A Blessed Arrangement || Chapter 7: A Home on the Cliffs

RATING: G WORD COUNT: 3894 WARNINGS: None.

--

The sixth day of their vacation, the sky was thick with clouds, the humidity blanketing the coast only kept from becoming oppressive by the wind blowing off the Strait of Merlthor. Aymeric, of course, had gone to bask on the cove’s beach after breakfast, sprawled like a starfish on a large blanket and wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks to absorb as much sun as possible in his best impression of his cat. He cared not a whit for the sweat beading his brow and chest and the backs of his knees; the best thing about this vacation (other than spending all this time with his bright lady, of course) was being able to chase the persistent ice of Coerthas from his bones.

Synnove, meanwhile, had ensconced herself in a floating chair that left her long, lovely legs dangling in the water, having taken it out of storage and kicking off from the pier with a wave as he had walked towards the beach. She wore a wide-brimmed sunhat and an open robe over her own swimwear, made of the thinnest, gauziest linen he had ever seen or felt, and had brought a mystery novel to read while she floated; the gentle rocking of the tide had eventually taken the chair to the middle of the cove, and out of the corner of his eye, Aymeric could faintly see Synnove gently swishing her legs through the clear water.

His lady seemed more settled this morning, the aftermath of last night’s impromptu conversation about the future revealing a weight now taken off her shoulders neither of them had even known she was carrying. Her smile had been soft and affectionate as Aymeric had nuzzled her awake, her movements languid as they had rolled out of bed and stumbled downstairs to prepare a breakfast of scrambled eggs with cheese and the remaining Lominsan sprouts from the previous night’s dinner. Breakfast had passed with them sitting across from one another at the kitchen table, their ankles hooked together—he couldn’t remember when they’d begun the habit of it, but it was a comfort that always instantly set him at ease—as they agreed today would be a day for lounging.

Well. Perhaps not entirely lounging…

((Read the rest on AO3!))

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x synnove #oc: synnove greywolfe #dt's writing #*keels over* #it's done #i'm free #no more chaptered fiction from me ever this is not my preferred storytelling at all #but i got the idea done and that's what counts #i was originally going to do an epilogue but decided against it #as it was so tonally different that it felt like it bordered on mood whiplash #so this will stand on its own

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV Write Entry #7: Ribbon Games

Prompt: pawn || Master Post || On AO3

A/N: This one didn’t get quite going towards the end I intended for it, but hey, such is writing.

--

Ooooooh, Papa, can we look at those? Roksana said into his right ear, pointing with a paw. Aymeric turned obediently, walking in the direction of the haberdasher that had caught the white pearl carbuncle’s attention. The shopkeep had set up some displays on the street, likely lured outside by the sunny forecast for the next few days, and Aymeric had no doubt it had been the bright colors that had caught Roksana’s attention.

The carbuncle stood carefully balanced on his shoulder, with Amandina tucked into the crook of his arm while she nibbled on the remains of her almond croissant. The twins were still small—water and lightning crystals of the right polarity were still difficult to locate, no matter that Synnove expended a considerable amount of her funding on bounties to coax her fellow adventurers into assisting��but nonetheless were no longer so small that one of them could fit into a pair of cupped hands with ease. His shoulders (and head) were no longer the broad expanse they could bounce atop to their heart’s content, to their sulky pouts the day they had learned they needed to put some effort into riding around on their parents.

That, however, did not mean they did not still act like they were tiny carbunclets.

Roksana leaped from his shoulder with a loud wheeeeeeee! into a basket of ribbons, vanishing into the jumble so deep that only her tails stuck out. The trio of tails wriggled, her fur iridescing between white and blue with the movement, and then she burrowed further down so she could turn and pop her head out, ears flicking in delight, a blue brocade ribbon with sunbursts patterns on it clutched in her month. I like this one, Papa! Could you hold it for me?

“Certainly, sweetheart,” Aymeric said with a laugh, accepting the ribbon from her as she dove back into the basket to look for something else she might prefer instead.

Ooooooh, buttons! Amandina chirped, and stuffed the remainder of her croissant in her mouth, chewing furiously. Aymeric automatically brushed crumbs off her and set her down on the display table, and the black pearl carbuncle bounded over to the button basket, plopping down and happily pawing through the shiny notions.

“Such an attentive caretaker,” a wry drawl echoed from his left, a creeping hint of malice hiding at the edge of the words.

Long years of being inundated by the high society of Ishgardian nobility meant Aymeric didn’t stiffen or flinch, and merely turned his most charming smile, the one Synnove called his shark’s grin, on Mariaute, Countess de Dzemael.

The countess was beginning to grey, bands of steel winging from her temples, a stark contrast against her black hair swept into a simple chignon. She was dramatic in her House colors of grey and red, a cap pinned to her hair crowned with a quartet of red feathers and a pair of silver rooks dangling from her ears. He would have considered her beautiful if it wasn’t for the spark of enmity that lurked in her amber eyes and overshadowed all else about her.

“A pleasure, Countess Mariaute,” he murmured, giving her an etiquette-perfect bow to the spouse of the Head of a High House as due from the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights and the Head of State.

“Ser Aymeric,” she said in turn, curtseying the exact degree to return the salute.

Amandina glanced over her shoulder, ears and tails twitching, and stared for a moment at the elezen matron, before returning to her buttons, pawing at them a little less enthusiastically, one ear turned towards them. Aymeric gave a discreet little flick of her central tail in acknowledgement.

“A fine day for a stroll along the Crozier,” he offered.

“Certainly,” the countess said, turning her gaze to the table of notions—and the carbunclets. “A shame I did not think to ask for my grandchildren to accompany me; I believe they would be as fascinated by these baubles as these two.”

Aymeric kept his smile firmly in place despite his desire to frown. “A spark of color on a beautiful day after the dreariness of snow and fog is always appreciated, especially by the young,” he said.

Roksana chose that moment to pop back out of the ribbon basket, another brocade ribbon carefully held in her mouth, this one emerald with stars picked out in gold and copper. This one, too, please, Papa! she said. Then, noticing the countess, she perked her ears upright and waved one paw. Hi!

Countess Mariaute’s mouth twitched suspiciously. “Hello, little one,” she said.

Aymeric mentally raised his eyebrows as he accepted the ribbon from Roksana. Had she nearly smiled? The Steel Rose of Dzemael?

Roksana ducked back into the basket, and almost immediately returned with yet another brocaded one—she seemed quite fond of the heavy embellishments. The one in her mouth was silver, with scarlet feathers. This one matches your hat! the white carbuncle burbled happily.

“So it does, so it does,” Countess Mariaute said, accepting the ribbon and examining it thoughtfully. “You have an excellent eye, little miss.”

Mommy says I’m a magpie, Roksana said with a cheery ear wiggle. But I know how to use coin for goods and services!

Aymeric coughed to cover a laugh, even as the countess’s mouth twitched again. “Troublemakers, hm?” she said. The malice had vanished, and Aymeric allowed himself to properly relax.

“What children aren’t?” he said dryly. “Especially twins.”

Amandina, meanwhile, had finally made her choices: a set of seven bronze buttons shaped like starbursts, and another set of seven shaped like crescents, the latter set with moonstone chips. May I have these, please, Papa? she said.

“Of course, Amandina,” he said to her, gathering them up and placing them into a small velvet bag from a pile left for customers to place their finds in. “Roksana, are you content with your choices?”

Yes, Papa!

Two loud pops! echoed up and down the street; the countess noticeably startled, but Aymeric had the experience to merely brace himself as Roksana appeared on his right shoulder and Amandina on his left. As he wrapped Roksana’s chosen ribbons around his hand, he said, “My apologies, my lady, but we must be on our way. Have a lovely afternoon.”

“And to you and your girls, Lord Commander,” Countess Mariaute said.

Aymeric hummed thoughtfully as he entered the haberdashery to pay for the twins’ choice of pretties. That was quite possibly the first time he had ever heard the woman refer to the carbuncles in a manner that acknowledged anything familial.

He gave ground to her as she entered the shop on his way out, the girls waving as he bowed. And he couldn’t help but notice, with a smile, that Countess Mariaute still carried the silver-and-scarlet brocade ribbon that Roksana had picked out for her.

Aymeric wondered if, should he run into her on walkabout again, the ribbon would be added to her hat.

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#ffxivwrite2022 #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #aymeric de borel #aymeric x wol #aymeric x synnove #synnove's carbuncles #dt's writing

[dragons-bones]

are you planning to write Aymeric and Synnove's wedding this year?

friend.

comrade.

compadre.

pal.

it is the day of my birth so i will be frank:

i have been asked this in asks or comments four or five times now.

as my friends will tell you, i am a contrary individual.

and the more i am asked

the less likely i will get them hitched. i will marry them when i am good and ready. i will marry them when they are good and ready.

and at this point it is now officially not any time soon.

so i am going to politely ask y'all:

please stop asking me this.

#anonymous #dt answers things #aymeric x synnove #putting this in my tag for them for reference #i know y'all who ask mean well #but please stop asking

[dragons-bones]

I know it is technically MUNday but I want to ask a ship question for Synnove and Aymeric:

It's time to go to the amusement park. Who likes the roller coasters more and who likes fair food more?

Aymeric is absolutely the one who likes the roller coasters more. The little boy inside of him that never really got the chance to just be a little boy is rattling the bars of his mind and demanding to go on the highest, fastest roller coaster first. Synnove convinces him to work his way up to that one so that the others don't all seem lackluster in comparison.

Synnove, meanwhile and shocking no one, is really into fair food. She will try anything once, and there's all the obvious sweet treats (funnel cake, deep-fried oreos, the million and one flavors of ice cream), but she would be an absolutely sucker for roasted corn on the cob, fried pickles, and fried cheese curds. Aymeric probably eyes the curds mistrustfully, at least until Estinien swoops over to try and steal his serving, while Synnove's ignoring them both and just humming happily as she eats.

#tehjai #dt answers things #aymeric x synnove