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allycryz · 3 years

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Apodyopis for Nerys and Thancred? (Or for Nerys and Haurche if that fits better for you)

Set during the Astral Era quests, probably some time between Ramuh and Leviathan

PG-13 for sexual thoughts/implications and an implied foursome; brief food mention

WoL x Thancred

It takes the better part of an hour to end up perched on Ahtstahl's lap with Greinswyf seated beside them.

Contrary to rumor, being Warrior of Light does not lead to a flood of eager would-be lovers. It leads to some, she won’t lie. But most respond with deference, caution, careful handling. As if at any point someone else will notice and they shall be in trouble.

What helps is that she knows these two somewhat. They have all worked together on settlement construction efforts, trapping creatures for meat and parts, being invited to the same revels in the pub. There is the easy familiarity of those who have seen each other often without deeper intimacy, save appreciative glances between her and the couple.

Nerys now leans against Ahtstahl's broad chest, watching the circle of dancers about the aetheryte. A breeze whispers cold into her bare arms, causing the fine hairs to stand up on end. The combined warmth of her companions helps some against the chill.

It isn't correct to call it unseasonal for a Spring Festival. The last calamity changed Mor Dhona to where it’s possible to experience all the climates in a single day.

Ahtstahl runs the backs of his large sage-colored hands over her arms. “And where is your coat, Warrior of Light?” His tone is light, caressing around the syllables of the title.

“What need have I of a coat?” She asks, smirking. “With two such fine companions to keep me warm.”

Greinswyf laughs, low and throaty. She gathers the end of one of the pink ribbons streaming from Nerys’ flower crown, wrapping it about her index finger. “Smoothly done.”

The merriment produces her own chuckle. “I thought so. I haven’t lost my touch?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Though I would be convinced if you buy the next round of mulled wine…”

“Absolutely not,” says Ahtstahl, his voice rumbling through his chest and into Nerys. “Don’t let her guilt you, Nerys-”

“Damn.” The Roegadyn woman grins at them both. “You two shall not let me have any fun.”

“-because,” he continues as if his partner hasn’t interjected. “I plan on her buying us breakfast.”

They all break into laughter. Three pairs of hands slide upon each other, finding palms and skin to fit against. Nothing too indiscreet, as they sit on one of the benches dragged out in front of The Seventh Heaven. Not that the dancers or onlookers pay them much mind. The glances her way are more likely to be curiosity about the Slayer of Primals than anything else.

A pleasing, scandalous thrill goes through her all the same as Grienswyf rubs a gentle circle into her knee.

“Do you two dance?” She asks. “Not that I am inclined to get up any time soon.”

“Only to welcome the King,” Ahtstahl says. One of his hands wanders to smooth against her hip over the fluttery linen dress she bought for the occasion. The warmth of his palm is steady and strong against the layers of pink fabric and white petticoats

“...Beg pardon?” Nerys glances about the gathered crowd, at the mingling throng up near the markets. Most decked in their best clothes with crowns of flowers or leaves upon their heads. A fine assortment of shining faces but no King among them. As the only King I know is Moogle Mog XII, surely they don’t mean…

“The King of Spring,” says Greinswyf. “They pick someone every year to usher in the season and lead us all in dance. And if he, she, or they pick you as their first dance partner; your year shall be a blessed one.”

“Oh.” ‘Tis not at all like the equinox festivities in the Shroud, given to somber offerings during the day and a raucous bacchanal during the night. There is no figurehead or even a singular master of ceremonies.

There is a masked committee of twelve Gridanians who watch over the festivities. They ensure no ill comes to anyone celebrating as the frenzy of liquor and dance reaches its zenith. Usually they are Wood Wallers or high-ranking Lancer’s Guild members.

“Who is it this year?”

“We find out together. I had my money on your Minfilia, but I see that is not to be.” Greinswyf gestures to one of the stalls set-up along the walkway between aetheryte and market. Minfilia–resplendent in an artfully draped blue gown and matching blooms in her hair–peruses the wares. Beside her, Papalymo speaks with emphatic hand gestures. He wears his usual mode of dress, but she can just make out a red flower pinned to his collar.

Between duties, she had been somewhat aware of the residents descending upon the wilds for the last moon. Bringing back as many flowers as they could find. Demand fast outpaced supply, though.

Her own carnations and lilacs are from the Weaver’s Guild, created in Ul’dah before arriving here. She has Yda to thank for it, one day rousing everyone at dawn to stumble to the market and make their reservations. Not really understanding what was happening, Nerys had gone along for the chance to buy some pretty.

Hm. Perhaps it’s her? I haven’t seen her all day.

“There’s so much activity,” says Nerys. “I cannot tell yet who is missing and not just out of view near Rowena’s.”

“And the King has a court, to keep people guessing. Money rides on it, of course.”

Soon as the words leave Greinswyf, the musicians ease their song to an end. The dancing slows with it, the concentric circles of linked hands shifting into a teeming mass. From her vantage point, Nerys sees the pan flute player set down his instrument. Up he stands, picking up a large, curling ram’s horn. It gleams in the sunlight, ivy twined about it.

He raises it to his lips. What emerges are notes so clear and strong and loud, they ring out across the settlement. A hush settles over the crowds. The only sounds, the horn and the steps of festival-goers answering the summons; descending from the upper markets to join the rest.

“There,” Ahtstahl says, nudging her chin to look at the North Silvertear entrance.

A procession marches in, the crowds parting to give space and everyone else a better view. Nerys hears snatches of conversation as eight attendants lead the way. The court then, their presence ruining several bets placed on the King’s identity. Both Yda and Hoary Boulder are among them (she in scarlet and white, he in black and gold), their linked hands swinging merrily.

Two yellow Chocobos enter, bridles festooned with ribbon and ivy. Behind them, they pull a cart upon which is a magnificently carved chair. It looks like it was hewn directly from an ancient tree, the branches of its back reaching into the heavens. And upon it-

“Knew it,” says Ahtstahl.

Thancred lounges upon the chair, one leg thrown over an arm. An elegant crown of bare twigs and verdant ivy perches upon his white hair, an apt combination representing the meeting of winter and spring. As they near the aetheryte, he sits up and gets to his feet in front of the throne.

Oh.

Nerys has seen Thancred naked a dozen times now. She saw him so yesterday. She has near memorized every ilm of his body. And yet. And yet.

Unlike the loose clothes he favors, his emerald tunic conforms to the line of his chest and nips in at the waist. The high collar brushes the ends of his hair and opens enough to show off throat and collarbone. He turns and the umber trousers could better be called a second skin for the way they fit him, showing off the pert curve of his rump and the muscles of his thighs. The fawn-colored boots cannot mold to his calves but they do whatever the closest thing is.

Her mouth goes dry. She cannot look away. Cannot do anything but imagine sliding her hands between the tight fit of cloth and abdomen. Peeling down those trousers and baring the curve of hip, pressing her mouth against it.

“You as well?” Ahtstahl murmurs. “The way that man attracts all eligible persons is downright uncanny.”

“You are one to talk,” says Greinswyf.

“I did not say it was a bad thing.”

Nerys is somewhat aware of the world moving around her, of three hands clasping her waist and keeping her balance. Only when her feet touch the ground, does she realise her companions have stood and brought her up with them.

Thancred’s gaze turns, catching her just as she loses herself again in the tantalizing skin over his pulse. His smirk turns knowing, and he winks. She shall never hear the end of this. (If he promises to wear this outfit often and let her imagine doing all sorts of things to him in it...he may tease her for the rest of time.)

“Go,” Ahtstahl touches her shoulder. “See if you might claim a dance.”

She turns to them, mortified. “I’m not about to drop the two of you.”

“And you shan’t.” Greinswyf leans in to kiss her cheek. “Should you not make it back, we shall have you for breakfast some other time. I promise.”

Nerys walks towards the cart, guilt lingering. But their smiles are so encouraging and she does not doubt their sincerity and...yes, she does want to dance with the King. This King with his insouciant smirk and arrogant lift to his chin. This King who looks at her now in a way that says of course I shall be rewarded with a dance from you. Such is my due.

He jumps down from the cart and strides towards her. She fixes her resolute gaze on the blinding beauty of his visage rather than the temptations below his chin. She must look too determined because his shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter.

“Your majesty,” she says, curtsying before him. Her skirts and petticoats swish about her knees.

“Fair warrior,” he purrs, extending a hand. “Will you usher in spring with me?”

“I am honored.” She takes his hand and he pulls her close, his other arm curling about her waist. It is the cue the musicians need and there is a scramble as pairs and groups form, trying to make room for each other while also watching the King and his partner.

It is all a bit chaotic, more teeming mass than field of dancers. For a long while they hover confined to one spot, her close against him, The velveteen of his tunic soft against her arm. Nerys recognizes the song, that the musicians are tripling the verse’s length. Likely aware that no one shall be ready to dance before the song’s usual end.

“Well,” Thancred says, looking up at her. “You have not told me how well I look.”

Nerys clears her throat. “Green suits you, and the crown is quite nice. I think you make a handsome King.”

His brown eyes dance. “Somehow that does not match the molten heat of your gaze when you first beheld me. Tell me, what was your initial reaction?”

“I have not seen you in clothes so well tailored before.” If he is going to tease her, she will tease back. One cannot be bullied, even when speaking to royalty. “My compliments to your weaver.”

Space opens at last, allowing his highness to begin the dance in earnest, as is his duty. They whirl around the aetheryte, him leading her in a complicated figure she did not know herself capable of. There is an art to guiding your partner when they are unfamiliar with the steps. Whoever taught him should be proud.

He spins her away and catches her again, hands about her waist and sliding north and his knees bending just so. She follows his cue and hops straight upward, helping him lift her twirling into the air. Down she comes, wrapping her arms about his shoulders.

“Are my clothes why,” he says, touching her cheek to tilt her face down while he rises up on tiptoe. “You were imagining all sorts of wicked things when you saw me? Don’t deny it. All this time, I only needed to wear such garments to stir such naughty thoughts.”

“I wasn’t-I didn’t-” She sputters. Drops her voice to a whisper “I have told you far naughtier things. I have done far naughtier things-”

“I know.” He kisses her cheek and spins her again. Catches her again. “But never so publicly. I rather like it.”

Nerys laughs, shaking her head. “His majesty is wicked. But I find I don’t mind, even when he tries to fluster me in public.”

“Your highness is glad.” The music, stretched out as long as possible, winds down. Thancred bends over her hand, kissing the air above it. Drops his voice. “My duties call me away. Wickedly, I like the idea of leaving you in suspense.”

“Cruel, cruel king.” And he is not far off, because she would like to pull him into some dark corner or into their rooms to pay private homage to his royal beauty. That she cannot is maddening. “What shall I do?”

He steps back and bows. “You still have your eyes and imagination. I hope this helps.”

The King of Spring walks away in such a manner that brings attention to legs and rump, molded so perfectly by his clothing. She is not the only appreciative glance. Ahtstahl is correct: it truly is uncanny how easily he can attract all and sundry.

The trick is, deciding just how she will pay him back.

The door is unlocked when she returns, arms full of a morning feast fit for an army. She finds Ahtstahl and Grienswyf in their kitchen, blearily watching a kettle boil. Neither have dressed beyond pants.

It's a lovely sight.

"I recognize those bags," Ahtstahl says, gesturing. The blue paper bags are streaked with grease and she quickly places them upon the table. Yael’s foodstuffs cost double anyone else’s and require waiting in a long line. But it has always, always been worth it.

Grienswyf sets to work pulling the crimped pastries bursting with egg and cheese from the bags and putting them on plates. As the aromas flood the kitchen, she moans aloud in delight.

"Now that, dear Grienswyf, is a sound I shall never tire of..."

Thancred steps out of the bedroom, hair damp from a shower. He has redonned his royal garments and they are just as delectable now as they were yesterday. Perhaps moreso. Until last evening, he did not have bite marks decorating his throat and clavicle.

The sight of them is near enough to reawaken her desires, even after the night’s exertions.

Thancred smirks. "Poor Nerys, running errands to satiate our hunger while she looks at us ravenous."

"I can scarce believe it," Ahtstahl says, wandering over to Thancred. Rubbing his hip. The Hyur man leans into the touch. "After all the ways she had you screaming last night, Thancred, and still ready to go."

"One must give the king his due," Nerys says, unable to keep from smirking. Very aware of Greinswyf herding her towards the others. "Wait, won't the food get cold?"

"Let it get cold," says Thancred. "You danced with me, you are meant to have a blessed year. We must start it off right."

Far be it from me to defy a king, she thinks, submitting to his will as he tugs her down to his mouth.

Breakfast can wait.

#ally writes #nerys eluned #thank you!#thancred x wol #food cw #nsfwishhh #ffxiv #thancred waters #implied thancred x wol x fetching roegadyn couple #elezen warrior of light #duskwight warrior of light

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mahri-archive · 5 years

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Save 1: Candle

Rating: Teen+ Tags: Thancred x WoL if you squint, Child Abuse, Cutscene Expansion, Second Person Narration Category: Gen Characters: Mahri Rhivesa, Brendt, Alphinaud Leveilleur, Alisae Leveilleur

____________________________________________________________

Your name is Mahri Rhivesa. That’s what you tell yourself on the caravan to Ul’dah.

Who you were before, what your father named you, isn’t important. That person is dead and you rose from her ashes. You’re born on the caravan to Ul’dah, picking your name from sounding out syllables under your breath. You feel Flicker’s pull on your aether, the small bennu pulling you up out of your funk as you remain sitting in your seat.

You slowly fall asleep and dream.

You hear crackling fire, a gentle voice, and a voice calling you angrily to arms, Warrior of Light. “You think you can fell the one true god?”

You think about how you want to fight, want to protect, want to make amends for the things your father made you do. To bring light where he’d kept you in the dark.

You feel...in place. Right where you need to be. You feel the comforting weight of a scepter in your hands and an accompanying buckler on the left arm. You feel yourself move to attack the source of the voice-

“...hey. Hey, you!”

You open your eyes, sitting up. Your back hurts from sleeping in a sitting position and your neck hurts from subconsciously keeping you from hitting your head on the bumpy journey. You rub your neck as you look around, seeing a concerned look from one of your fellow passengers. A Hyur with dark tan skin and blond hair, dressed in black (like you — you wonder how, since it’s probable he doesn’t have the temperature tolerance you have, thanks to Flicker), who’s watching you.

“Are y’all right, lass? You were moanin' somethin' fierce for a while there.” You open your mouth to respond, but he keeps talking, “Feelin' the effects of the aether, I reckon. You'll get used to it, though, don't worry.”

You give him a small nod and look outside the caravan. You see two armed men, riding astride Chocobos, join the sides of your caravan and note their blades made of brass. You put a hand on the scepter hilted at your waist, preparing an opening of frost should they turn out to be bandits. A voice from in front of the caravan calls for it to halt and you have a sinking feeling that you’re going to get practice in.

You hear the word “inspection”. That’s a question: what’s the difference between law enforcement in Thanalan to the Shroud? Are they much different from state-funded bandits? You remove the hand from your scepter, wanting the element of surprise should things turn ugly.

An armored man walks to the back of the caravan and you wonder how the Elezen children right in front of you can be so calm. You watch as the man fails to be subtle in adding a small bag of his own to the bags in the back. He makes a big show, plucking it up and shouting, “Sir, look! Somnus!”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head and close your eyes. You don’t have time for this. You have an appointment at the Thaumaturge’s Guild that you have to meet or else your search for the power to defend yourself from your father’s control will be delayed. Again.

“Business as usual,” the grizzled passenger snorts and you flick an ear in his direction, opening an eye to look at him. Just in time to see an arrow flying directly at him. You leap from your seat, pushing him to the side and grabbing the arrow mid-air. You glare into the desert sands, spotting black scales glittering under the sun. In full view of the Amal’jaa archer, you squeeze the arrow’s shaft as you light it on fire. You reduce it to ash and blow it like a kiss towards the archer, smirking.

The armored men scramble to respond, shouting at the caravan to go. The driver takes off, urging his chocobos onward. You barely manage to sit back in your seat in time, eyes still locked with that of the archer. You wink with your orange eye, letting them glare angrily into your blue eye.

“Don’t know how you can handle fanning the flames on that kind of excitement,” the grizzled passenger remarks. “It’s not good for the heart.”

“Then my life isn’t good for my heart,” you reply.

He gives you what can only be described as a Look. “You be careful 'round them Brass Blades, lass. Bastards'll have the shirts off your back if they fancy it. Like common bandits, they are, only less honest.” The grizzled passenger looks over his shoulder to where the Brass Blades and the Amal’jaa are fighting, then gives you a grin. “Thank the gods for sendin’ some beast men to the rescue.”

“That’s certainly an unorthodox way to put it,” you reply, raising an eyebrow. You look over to the Elezen children. They still look nonplussed, though you can tell that they’re watching you. They’re subtle, but you know some tricks: the one who favors blue has their book pointed in your direction and it allows them to steal glances and the one who favors red has an ear focused on you as they pretend to try to resume a nap.

“Them young’uns don’t much care for conversation, see,” the old hyur replies. Either he’s in on their attempts at subtle observation and is trying to get your attention off of them or he’s attention-starved as all older men tend to get. You humor him, running a hand through your fluffy black hair before fixing your black leather jacket.

He introduces himself: Brendt. A peddler. You cross-reference his name from the names of people you know work for your father and don’t recognize it from there. He picks you out as an adventurer and he’s not right, but he’s also not wrong. So you give him a nod, since it’s easier telling a lie that someone already believes. He talks more, seemingly more for his own entertainment than for actual conversation with you.

That is, until he asks you, “What attracted you to adventurin’ in the first place?”

“To gain power,” you answer because that’s true. “I’ve had...an interest in thaumaturgical arts for years. It’s not like you can utilize those for any peaceful purpose, so...adventuring it was.” And, just like that, you muse, Mahri Rhivesa is an adventurer. It’s a useful enough cover that you’re willing to take it.

“I imagine ye can use thaumaturgy a lot to protect people,” he replies and you have to stop yourself from blinking. Did he just put words in your mouth about protecting people? You’re not opposed to protecting others, it’s just...presumptuous. And telling. Like he knows more about your backstory than you’ve let on in this conversation. Or that he’s making assumptions that all adventurers want to protect and help. You don’t know which is more dangerous.

He talks of the Adventurer’s Guild and you note important facts down mentally, things to keep up your cover should the children continue watching you once you’re in the city. You were going to focus on mastering your magic, becoming powerful enough that any agent your father sent after you would be cinders, but you didn’t like the idea of these children and whoever they worked for knowing the truth about you. They could have been polite and simply asked instead of employing an old peddler to disarm you. That might’ve made you more cooperative. Now they get to deal with a mask.

Unknowingly to you, the words Brendt uses to describe Ul’dah as your caravan approaches the city will be used to describe you to the Antecedent of the Scions in a linkshell report. “Deep in the desert, she rises like a wild, solitary rose amidst the dust and rock. A right symbol of defiance, eyes like fire and ice. Her name: Mahri Rhivesa. Your man Thancred might want to keep an eye on her: she all but dared an Amal’jaa to a brawl and I think the only reason she didn’t is because she didn’t have the time to. That’s the kind of woman you want on hand if you’re fighting primals.”

Your first few days in Ul’dah, you’re more on edge than you figure you would have been without the two Elezan kids following you around. If the blue one thinks you can be distracted by a strolling Carbuncle, they’ve got another thing coming. You play out your cover, playing the part of ambitious adventurer. It’s not a part you thought would have you searching for a runaway young noblewoman.

“What does she have to run away from?” you ask yourself in the privacy of the Ul’dahn desert. “Stability? Comfort? An honest home? Family who loves her?”

Flicker sits on your shoulder, her orange feathers glinting softly in the sunset. She nudges your cheek with her beak. You turn and she presses her forehead against yours. A wordless plea to remember that, despite everything, you have family who loves you too. Even if it’s just her, it’s more than you’ve ever had.

Flicker returns to the sky to be your eyes and you remain on the ground.

You find leads. The noblewoman was somewhat sloppy, making you wonder if she cares if she’s pursued or if she’s truly in that much desperation not to think of these things. You track her to the Sultantree and it’s there, when you’re within sight range of the tree, when you feel a tingle down your spine that will swiftly become familiar in the coming years. It’s the sense of being watched from the shadows and over the years, you will be able to differentiate when he’s watching you from shadowy perch from when others watch you.

Thancred Waters has a unique energy about him that’s unmistakable and it carries in his gaze.

The young noblewoman is praying to the Sultantree when you find her. That’s your third hint that she’s not just a young noblewoman: from what you can tell, only one noble family in Ul’dah had that particular eccentricity. The family of Ul. The sultanate.

Before you can say anything, one of the seven hells breaks lose. You move without thinking, burning and freezing and protecting in a way that will have a habit of getting you noticed. The sultana will remember the way you moved, like a dancer who was well acquainted with her partner Danger. Thancred will remember tactics, like your preference for fire and your tendency to throw yourself as close to the problem as possible (he will have trouble forgetting the way you leapt at the voidsent with hands open into claws of fire. He will have trouble forgetting the burn scars you keep hidden beneath gloves, even when the scars are gone. In the far future, when you are separated from each other, he will wonder if you fought with such ferocity for Minfilia).

A sultana saved, you find yourself opening your eyes in more ways than one.

You hear Thancred out multiple times, becoming acquainted as allies until he finally coaxes you to the Waking Sands. You learn to hear the true sincerity of others, dropping your armor of cynicism. You hear what is unsaid by your fellow Scions: that you are the expendable Echo-wielder, that you are loved, that you are their weapon, that you are their friend.

You think, constantly, about how they only know a lie. Mahri Rhivesa is you, true, but...you wonder about, mayhap, putting down the mask. Letting them know parts of how you’re like this (though, you wonder if they care about you or just the Echo you wield. ‘Tis hard to say).

You feel...much. You feel used, and yet...you feel welcomed. Thancred seems to sense that his presence calms you and he, with charismatic ease, rescues you when the other Scions become overwhelming. You feel like you’re exactly where you belong, on missions with him and during downtime with him. The two of you discuss places, various hidey-holes you’d both spotted. You will feel relief using those spots in the future and imagine his smug laugh to calm your nerves. “I told you this was a good spot.”

All of this is nothing but a start.

#thancred x wol #....#...#..#.#candle #prose

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