#and had plans to drag papalymo along for his matching one

[charlottedabookworm]

lol Set has three tattoos: two of them are basically love letters to raha (the words raha said before he sealed the tower gotten in 2.5 and a tat of the tower itself post-5.0) but the other one-

the other one is this dorky little bad doodle of a fist on his ankle. lyse saw him scribbling it absentmindedly one day and, when they got drunk one evening, decided she had the best idea ever

she has a matching one of a shittily drawn lance in the same place

[allycryz]

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.