#Angsty McEyeballs

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Ishgardian Sam ... with a cameo from Estinien

[jerichoswain]

// @emilyplaysgames I see you posting all these Estiniens

feeding my desire to draw Angsty McEyeballs instead of my gross bird dad

how dare you

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And if Aymeric was a young god, then Estinien—Estinien was his living will, incarnate and hallowed and polished to gleaming.

[Between the Lines]

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early Temple Knights days like

Estinien:  Aymeric: wow you're tall Estinien, blinking down in surprise: ... thanks? Aymeric: how tall are you? Estinien: ... I dunno like 6'9", 6'10" with the cowlick? Aymeric: [twirling hair] omg "with the cowlick!" you are SO funny

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The clock tick ticked on the mantel.  The sun continued to set.  The gentle summer wind whispered on the window and Estinien tried to breathe, to move, to do anything but keep staring.  But he was transfixed by the flush on his face and the something else in Aymeric’s eyes; something new and very brittle, gently rising, like a dove on the surge of a thermal or a white cloud of rainfall in the Highlands — 

“Estinien?”

[One Midsummer Sunset]

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filename: Grumpy WIP

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prompt: candid photo of Estinien

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painting wip inspired by Klimt

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arguably several parts dragon (tm)

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they’re married (common law)

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Estinien is hazardous to my health

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Prompt #20: Bisect

(”T,” Estinien/Aymeric, tentative slash over an established friendship.  Takes place several years prior to canon [before the Winter of Coerthas].  Estinien POV.  Minor warning for implied headcanon about Ishgard being homophobic.)

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“The hour is late,” Estinien muttered, glancing at the clock on the mantel.  Still, the twilight lingered.  In the summer months, the sun stretched on.  “I will need to leave the manor ere long.”

Even in the warm weather, his voice always caught like a growl in his throat.  Why, he was uncertain.  The sound it made was rough and grating, morning and night.  People often made note of his timbre, the way it conjured gravel and smoke.  Some were attracted.  Some were repulsed.  Aymeric never paid it any mind.  He simply accepted it.

Now, Aymeric’s pale eyes flicked to examine the time for himself.  He made a calm sound of agreement and set his half-finished cup of tea down on the parlor table.  “Indeed,” he agreed, stifling a sudden yawn.  He cast his surly brother-in-arms a mildly reprobative glance.  “Go home, my friend.  Ser Alberic keeps his vigil until you return, does he not?”

Estinien grunted in acknowledgement but slouched deeper in the settee.

A soft laugh spilled from Aymeric’s lips and he shook his head gently.  “He is a good man—”

“I know.” Estinien tossed his head back against the couch; stared at the ceiling and sighed with frustration.  “A very good man.  One of the best men I have had the pleasure of knowing.”

“Surely he would wish to hear you say that,” Aymeric declared.

Estinien grunted and pressed his lips firmly together.

He could feel the way his friend studied him; the way his pale eyes almost left behind white-hot tracks.  Blazing and wintry all at once.  “Tell me, Estinien—if you will,” he began.  His dark voice was solemn, but kind.  “For what reason do you guard your sentiments so strictly?”

The words speared through him like a sword or a lance and he could feel his hackles start rising.

For what reason, indeed.  Beyond losing all he loved to the wrath of a wyrmking?  Beyond life as an orphan thereafter, besides?  Aymeric knew those reasons, but he asked for his own; another effort to reach down into his torment—another attempt to grapple and pull him to the surface.

Aymeric, always picking and prying, wanting so badly to untangle him.

It was a lost cause.

“Sentiment is the gateway to despair,” Estinien muttered, defensive, pulling tighter.  He studied a crack in the molding above the dusk-limned window.  “Sentiment breeds weakness.”  He clenched his jaw.  “I would sooner throw myself into the abyss than allow sentiment to control me.”

He felt the heat of Aymeric’s eyes, roaming over him slowly.  “To allow it to control you would be a weakness, indeed,” he permitted. “But I would argue that sentiment itself is far from frailness—particularly sentiments like joy, or like love.”  He took a thoughtful breath.  “Feeling breeds infirmity in reaction, most often to aching.  We lash out in pain and anger, or in sadness.”

Estinien knew all these things.  He had no need for this homily.

“Treat me like a comrade, Aymeric, not a wayward child.”  He tried to keep the bite from his voice, but it still came out sour.  He tipped his head to face him, hoping his eyes at least held some thread of apology.  “Well do you know how much I loathe being lectured.”

When Aymeric smiled, his eyes crinkled.  They were almond-shaped and narrow and the color of ice or diamonds—but Estinien snorted at the thought, because Aymeric’s eyes were far finer than diamonds. Aymeric’s lips quirked in amusement and gentle affront.  “Do you laugh at me?”

“Bloody hells, no.” It came out along with a bitter chuckle.  “I laugh at my own damned self.”

That piqued his interest.  “Perhaps my sermon struck a chord against your will?”

Estinien grimaced with all the force he could muster.  “Shut it, Borel.”

Fury, Aymeric was smiling again.  Smiling and ruffling a hand through his hair, black and glossy, like the feathers of a raven. Why in the name of Halone was the man so godsdamned lovely?  “I shall continue to hope that you listen, somehow,” said Aymeric, almost shyly.

Estinien huffed and stared at him sternly.  “I always listen to you, you sodding dimwit.”

Aymeric grinned wryly, and—was he blushing?  “Thank heaven.”

He was.  

He was blushing.

Aymeric was blushing, and Estinien was frozen.

The clock tick ticked on the mantel.  The sun continued to set.  The gentle summer wind whispered on the window and Estinien tried to breathe, to move, to do anything but keep staring.  But he was transfixed by the flush on his face and the something else in Aymeric’s eyes; something new and very brittle, gently rising, like a dove on the surge of a thermal or a white cloud of rainfall in the Highlands— “Estinien?”

The way he said his name made every ilm of Estinien prickle.  “What.”

Aymeric took a thin breath.  The tips of his ears were red now, eyes half-veiled by black lashes.

Hellfire burned in his blood as Estinien thought he almost looked edible.  

“Might I ask you—one thing else?”

Did Estinien dare to invite it, whatever was happening?  Did he dare?  

One thing was for certain.  He had not the strength to look away.

The word fell from his lips before he could stop it.  “Ask.”

Aymeric gave a breathy laugh—a small, lopsided grin.  He managed to keep their eyes locked together despite his palpable embarrassment.  “Stop me at once if this disturbs you,” he began, his voice laced with the shadow of a tremble.  “Or if it comes at all as a surprise.  But I,” his air hitched and stoppered.  He cleared his throat once.  Twice. Shook his head in evident humiliation. There was a long, tense pause as he struggled.  “Words have ever been my strength above actions—” He took another, far more ragged inhalation.  “And yet they fail me now.”  He looked away then; closed his eyes tight.  “I was a fool to think I could ask it—”

“Tell me,” Estinien muttered, desperate to be beheld again.

Long black lashes parted to reveal that light blue gaze of glittering sky and stardust, flicking to inspect him.  But now, where the pale, fragile promise had been swelling, something heavy and glacial was sliding into place.  “A wave of impulse overwhelmed me,” Aymeric was saying, jerking his head.  “It would be remiss of me to mention, in far more ways than one.”

Estinien was ashamed of the way he wanted to yell at him; to take him by the shoulders and force him to tell.  He took a thick breath instead.  “Say what you are thinking.”

“I—” His mouth trembled.  “If it interferes with our friendship—”

“Nothing could do that,” Estinien growled.  Somehow, he was leaning closer regardless, hands still itching to grab.  Aymeric flushed a bit hotter at the closing of the distance, perhaps a bit hotter at the look in his eyes.  Well.  Confusing as they were, doubtless Aymeric could see some measure of his feelings. He was always very skilled at reading a room.

Aymeric flung the words from his lips in a rush.  “I never thought I would wish this,” he said quickly.  “I am—rarely comfortable enough to wish it, but—” The breath he took rasped in his throat, very dry.  Aymeric wet his lips.  “Would you—perhaps—would you kiss me?”

It was as though the world had stopped.  Time stopped ticking.  Air stopped moving.  The wind outside surely stopped blowing.  Perhaps the war was ended, and Nidhogg had finally died, and peace was falling, at last, over every malm of Coerthas— “Pardon?”

Aymeric gulped a small breath, making his shoulders rise and fall.  “Forgive me,” he blurted, all the blood in his body surely rushing to his face.  “I never should have asked—”

“No.”  

He let himself take Aymeric by the shoulders then.  He was slim, but powerful, corded with muscles; a knight with formidable gifts all his own.  Aymeric said he never thought he would wish this, and as he held him in his hands, Estinien was struck by a parallel musing: That for all the wild gnashing of his desires, Aymeric was perhaps the only man that could tempt him.

And tempted, he most certainly was.

“Never have I done such a thing with a man,” he admitted.

“Never have I,” said Aymeric, at once.

They stared hard into each other’s eyes, and Estinien took a shaky breath.  “If that is what you wish,” he said, perhaps his roughest, smokiest growl, “For you, I will grant it.”

Aymeric shook with a visible tremble; made Estinien quake through the link of his arms.  He moved an ilm closer and hesitated.  “If it feels at all—wrong—you must say so at once—”

Tentative, Estinien moved an ilm of his own.  His long hair slipped across his shoulders; began to drape to reach for Aymeric itself. “Rest assured that I will pitch you aside if it feels wrong.”

Aymeric coughed out a laugh; searched Estinien intently.  “Thank the Fury.”

Tick, tick went the clock on the mantle.  The summer wind hushed against the window, and Estinien leaned their foreheads together. His black hair was exactly as soft as it looked, and he smelled like salt and grass—they had been training afield in the daytime.  Estinien brushed their noses together and caught a whiff of the tea that Aymeric was drinking, sweetened with that syrup of birch that he liked.  A gaze blue as the sky in the morning held Estinien through the curl of long black lashes and he let himself be taken in.  Nothing in the world could be wrong if Aymeric beheld him like that. Nothing in the world could be anything but right.

He closed the distance.

Aymeric tasted like tea and birch syrup—along with the bitters of anxiety.  Estinien kissed him very gently, and Aymeric timidly answered. Their mouths found a mesh, new and unfamiliar, and Estinien was amazed at how plush his lips felt; at how quickly his own body was reacting.

They parted.

“Ah.  That was—” Aymeric exhaled, face still beguilingly rosy. He grinned and flushed harder and laughed without sound.  “That was really very nice.”

Estinien was speechless, but he grunted in what he hoped was affirmation.

Aymeric looked at him in immediate concern.  “Are you well?”

Estinien jerked his chin by way of a nod and shifted his hips.  Gods buggering damn his all too rousable flesh.  Merely one kiss and he was ready to pounce?  On Aymeric?  Verily?

The other’s eyes were flicking down, perceptive, and Estinien resisted the urge to fold his hands in his lap.  In the splitting of an instant, calculations and understanding flashed behind his pale blue eyes and Aymeric raised his black eyebrows in candid surprise, locking their gazes together again.  

“Not one word,” Estinien grumbled, leaning away, completely bisecting them.

He could tell that Aymeric bit back a laugh from the way his eyes crinkled again.  “You would deprive me of words in this moment—my instrument of choice?”

Estinien crossed his arms and took slow breaths, relieved to find that his body was calming. “I beg you would keep them to yourself,” he mumbled, knowing he would not.

“You are very good at that, you know,” Aymeric began, tongue flexing sure enough.  He was reaching for his tea as if nothing at all had happened. “Very impressive, if I am honest.”

Estinien snorted at that.  “I have had my share of practice,” he rumbled.  “Far more than you have, you cloistered old ascetic.”

“Guilty,” Aymeric readily confessed, tipping his cup to his lips.

The sound of the door in the foyer, creaking open.  Heels clicking, distant in the hall.  A voice that lilted like a harpsichord and rustled like old damask curtains.  “Aymeric?”  A pause. “There is a pair of dirtied boots cast sidewise in the vestibule.  Is Estinien there?”

Both young men straightened up at once and glanced toward the door to the parlor.  

“Aye,” Estinien shouted, knowing the sound would be distinct enough to carry.

A heartbeat of silence and a gentle hoot of laughter.  “Praise Halone,” cackled the Vicomtesse, her voice very wry.  “I knew no son of mine would make such a fine mess.”

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"dragoon” is a synonym for “goad” you guys

provoke, inflame, badger, hound

.... can I just petition to put “Estinien” in there too

Edit: oh my GOD

pester, browbeat, bludgeon, BULLDOZE

honesTLY 

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Estinien in his mind about Aymeric & the WoL:  we are married, if anyone looks at my spouses I will actually murder them,

literally anyone, including Aymeric or the WoL:  hey so would you ever get married? or

Estinien:  UGH HOW DARE YOU EVEN SAY THAT ...... runs away 

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Prompt #2: Bargain

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

(”T,” bro fluff, Estinien & Aymeric, slash if you squint)

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“I will not.”

Aymeric smirked at his churlish comrade, lifting his eyebrows.  “I can promise good food to be had there,” he continued, and when Estinien felt his face slacken slightly, Aymeric grinned in vicious triumph, surely knowing he struck at a weakness.  “Simone is the finest culinarian in Coerthas—”

“No,” Estinien insisted, shaking himself back into stone.  He tossed the tail of his hair back between his shoulder blades and tapped his tankard loudly to get the barmaid’s attention.  “I will not set foot in your manor.”  He spat the word out like it was poison and grimaced at his ale as the barmaid refilled it.

But godsforsaken Aymeric de Borel was nothing if not persistent.  He tapped his ale for a filling, too.  “What about a bargain, then,” he suggested, watching as the brew rose in his own cup.  “A challenge, man to man.”  Foam brimmed as he gripped the handle of his tankard and lifted it in imitation of a toast. “If I can finish mine faster, you come home with me.”

Estinien snorted loudly.  “Bawdy.”  But his dark eyes glinted, and he grabbed his tankard by the handle, sliding it across the table.  “You know I can drink you under the table, you demented dingbat.”  He looked at him through his long silver lashes like a wolf sizing up unfortunate prey.  “If I finish mine, you never ask me to come home with you again.”

“Seems fair,” Aymeric agreed, pale eyes blank and insipid.  His tankard lingered midair.  “Do we have an agreement?”

Estinien lifted his ale to knock against Aymeric’s and grunted.

The ghost of a smirk pressed at Aymeric’s lips as he glanced down the bar to find the maid again. He injected his voice with charm. “Beg pardon, miss—” She sidled back over, wiping her hands with a washrag.  “Care to arbitrate our challenge?”

Her eyes roved down de Borel’s absurdly beautiful face and frankly burned.  “Why not?”

Estinien tried not to snort at the way she regarded his nearly celibate companion.  Avert your futile glance.  “Right, then,” he rumbled, bracing himself, taking a breath. “Count us down.”

“Three, two, one—”

The ale was cold for once, but burned his throat as he tipped his chin and poured down the entire—

A heavy clunk beside him.  He choked on the last dregs of foam and spluttered, slamming down his tankard, glaring at Aymeric.  “No way in seven bloody damned hells—”

The barmaid was shaking her head, arms crossed.  “This one finished first.”

Aymeric tilted his mug to show him.  Empty. He wiped his lips with his tongue and the back of his hand and smiled like something feral, like something indisputably wicked.  “Fair and square,” he said, quirking one handsome black brow.  Payment rattled from his hand to the counter and he got to his feet.  “And now, if you please, the Manor Borel kitchen awaits—”

“I most certainly do not please,” Estinien spat, bristling at him.  “You cheated, you big buggering—”

But Aymeric was thrusting an arm at his shoulders and flashing a dazzling smile at the barmaid. “Much obliged, my good lady,” he said to her, causing her cheeks to flush.

Estinien struggled away from Aymeric and stalked to the door.  He slammed it open and lunged out into the night.  Flurries were pouring fat chunks of snow into the streets. Hackles raised, he grimaced at the frosty bits of sky raining down, squared his shoulders against the cold, and hunched at the edge of the wall.

The door swung open and Aymeric closed it politely.  “I truly want to feed you, you know,” he said, sidling up beside him, shoving his hands in his cloak pockets.  A note of dry humor.  “Your delicate virtue is safe with me.”

“You make me sound like a bloody stray hound,” he grumbled, throwing him a glare.  “I truly want to feed you,” he mocked, scoffing.  But he was swaying slightly forward, slightly away from the tavern.

Aymeric started strolling out into the street, blinking up at the sky, smiling gently at the snowflakes.  “Come on then,” he beckoned, glancing back at him.  “Heel.”

Luckily for him, he managed to duck before the ball of slush hit him in his stupid, handsome face.

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Prompt #1: Voracious

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

(”T,” domestic fluff, Estinien/FemWoL, Fortemps & Friends)

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“My mother’s family recipe,” she explained.  

She had been baking since dawn, robed in a dress and an apron, her hair tied back.  A streak of flour was ashen on her chin.  She kept her eyes on Estinien as she handed one lumpy, crumbly, sugar-dusted pastry to Alphinaud.  “You should try one, you would like it.”

The boy was cramming the entire biscuit in his mouth, chewing and nodding through the storm of crumbs and sugar that threatened to spew from his lips.  He half swallowed and covered his mouth with a napkin as he spoke through the mess.  “Gods yes, Estinien,” he mumbled, trying to protect his necktie from the carnage.  “I beg you would try it—”

Estinien grunted and stared at the already half-eaten platter.  Powdered sugar was piled everywhere upon it like a snowdrift.  A few stray hunks of cookie-flesh and walnuts broke the white expanse.  He knew the way he wrinkled his nose made him look like maybe he wanted to sniff it, and he knew he reminded her strongly of a dog when she choked on the laugh that bubbled to her lips.  “Laugh at me some more,” he grumbled, glaring down at her, “And I can show you exactly where to shove your godsdamned biscuits.”

“How about starting with your mouth,” she suggested, picking one up.  She held it out to him on the flat of her palm in offering. “Please?”

He gave her his finest deadpan expression, crossed his arms, and scowled, looming there over the kitchen table in his Ishgardian plainclothes.

“Oh, I thought I smelled something delectable.”  Emmanellain de Fortemps swaggered into the kitchen, buttoning his collar.  “Alphinaud, capital job convincing our old girl to bake them again.”  He snagged a plate from the cupboard and piled it with sugar and cookies, glancing at Estinien in mild surprise.  “Early morning, Ser Dragoon?”

Before Estinien could stab him with an answer, the teakettle started to whistle—and before their unusually domestic hero could get up and fetch whatever else she planned to serve them, Alphinaud stopped her.  “Allow me,” he said kindly, giving her a timid smile.  “You really should be resting—we only just returned from Dravania.”

“It’s been three days,” she said, laughing, shaking her head at him fondly.  “But if you want to start the tea, I won’t stop you.”

Emmanellain was already at the pantry, still holding his plate, chewing a biscuit, rummaging through the tea tins.  “Coerthan or something a tad more exotic?”

“Coerthan if you please.”  Estinien’s grunt as he sank to the chair beside her—the one unoccupied by Alphinaud—before Emmanellain could take it.  She put the cookie on a napkin and slid the offering across the altar to leave it in front of him.  He could feel her grinning at him and pointedly avoided her eyes.  “This is a poor choice of breakfast,” he muttered.

“But a delicious one,” Emmanellain blustered.  The boys bumbled around in the background with the tea and Estinien stared at the biscuit in front of him.

“Oh, please eat it,” she said, knocking his knee with hers beneath the table.

He turned to her and scowled—scowled at the maddening way her eyes glittered—the maddening way she kept smiling—the maddening streak of flour or sugar that lined her chin and made him want to lick it off.

He crammed the crumbling cookie in his mouth and raised his eyebrows as he chewed it.

It was good.

it was passably delicious.

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