#but Guydelot sleeps on it most days

[velnica]

Overtime (Sanson/Guydelot)

Sleeping the day away whilst the Chief is doing overtime... I wonder if Guydelot can make him work faster somehow 💛💚

A/N: I made a set in my apartment for Sanson's office at the Nest. If anyone want to visit it's in Lavender Beds, Ward 10, Apartment 4 - Sophia, Materia.

[sezja]

Undercover, Part 2

Part 1

Slinking his way out of the bedroom, Guydelot leaves Sanson to the onerous task of unpacking their things - sure, Sanson might've said 'help me unpack,' but one too many missions in the field with the man was enough to teach Guydelot that Sanson the Stiff had a place in mind for everything, and may the Matron Herself help you if you were fool enough to put it elsewhere. Guydelot, who would have been perfectly content to live out of his luggage for the next three weeks, thank you kindly, is more than happy to leave the fussy little bastard to his organizing. His skills are better put to use acquainting himself with their new home away from home.

It'll be nice to sleep in a real bed again. This mission's worth whatever else it throws at him for that alone - most nights the past few years have found him crashing on Sanson's couch, waking stiff and sore in the morning. But he can't hardly help that, can he? It's just that he and Sanson get to talking at the end of the day, then the conversation carries itself out the door with them and all the way to Sanson's house. Then they wind up having dinner; Sanson always complains he doesn't eat well enough, otherwise. Then they talk more, until the bells slip away, and suddenly it's too late for Guydelot to go back to his own place, so...

He smiles to himself, as he makes his way through the little sitting room and into the immense kitchen. Bigger than Sanson's back home, by a sizable margin, with wooden cabinets polished until they gleam. Enough cutlery, pots, and pans to make a culinarian jealous. Wood floors so clean they shine like mirrors. What they're meant to cook here, Guydelot isn't certain - the adjoining pantry is empty; presumably the kitchen is intended for guests who simply... don't mean to leave their little piece of paradise any time soon.

Fortunately, there's a restaurant further down the shoreline, for those less inclined to tend to their own meals. Owing to their need to be out and about to investigate, that'll be where he and Sanson seek their meals, the bard reasons, closing an empty cabinet.

He leaves the kitchen, whistling merrily to himself. Considers looking in on Sanson. Decides against it: by now, Sanson'll be well into his organizing frenzy, and if Guydelot makes an appearance, he'll see himself put to work. Nothing makes that man happier than putting his favorite bard to work...

But then, that's what everyone thinks - Sanson's finally whipped Guydelot into shape, getting him to do some work for a change.

Guydelot knows full well what everyone else thinks happens when he follows his Captain home for the night. He's seen the sidelong smirks; he's heard all the little whispers. How he's changed in the past five years! From a talented but regrettably unmotivated archer wasting away in the dregs of the Quiver to a bard recognized by the Eorzean Alliance itself for his valor! From constant reprimands to earning more medals than he knows what to do with! From shirking his duties to volunteering for the Ilsabard contingent! Why, he's a new man, that Guydelot Thildonnet, and all it took was cozying up to Sanson Smyth! What must they get up to in those long, dark hours they spend alone together, night after night?

Aye, Guydelot knows exactly what people suspect is going on.

Funny, then, that it isn't.

As to why it isn't... well, Guydelot himself isn't all that sure why not, thinking on it.

He shakes his head, heading up the stairs. The lower floor holds the necessities of living: the bedroom, the kitchen, a sitting room, a small study. Sanson'll like the study, Guydelot thinks - a place he can sit and write notes! Never mind that the little room probably exists mostly to give patrons a nice solid desk to discuss essential business matters on. Pity Sanson didn't bring a journal. It'd make it that much more entertaining to watch Sanson blithely writing in his journal, thinking about that.

Come to think of it, that might be why the kitchen has so much empty counter space, too.

Better remember to wipe them down real well if we do get around to any cooking.

Upstairs, though, is a great deal of open space, much of it open to grand balconies that allow stunning island vistas. Though of course there are other cabins much like this one littering the tropical paradise, Guydelot can't see any others from here - whether that's actually distance at work or just clever use of the island's natural greenery, there's no telling, not without going out and snooping around a bit. He smiles to himself, leaning on one of the balconies and gazing out across the trees, toward the glittering blue ocean. Soon enough, it'll be time to go do some snooping around; they'll not learn much of anything if they stay cooped up in their cabin.

Doubtless the isolated nature of the cabins makes it easy for their prowling killer - or killers - to target their prey; Guydelot'd wager he couldn't even hear screaming from another cabin from here, not even out on the balcony like this. And all that nice, lush forest makes for convenient cover. There could be a murder going on right now, and they'd never even know it.

He frowns, his mood souring.

Hells. What's Sanson up to?

Retreating from the lush natural world outside, he wanders back inside... and over to yet another balcony. This one overlooks, as he suspected, the bedroom - it'd be a charming way to watch a lover sleep, he supposes, artfully bathed in moonlight...

Just now, though, the balcony looks down on a midlander lost in thought, perched on the edge of the bed, one of Guydelot's shirts forgotten in his hands.

Guydelot can't see Sanson's face from this angle, of course, but he knows the man too well not to know what he would see: the familiar little frown on his lips, the way his eyebrows furrow when he's thinking too much. He's let himself get distracted while unpacking, plainly worrying himself all over again about the mission, about every little thing that could possibly go wrong.

"You know," he calls down, delighting only a little in Sanson's guilty startle, "If you keep sulking about this, I'm gonna start taking it personally."

"Guydelot," Sanson says, bouncing off of the bed and tossing the shirt absently aside. "It- I swear, it's not a thing to do with you; I would be twice as worried were it anyone else-"

He laughs; he can't help it. "Easy, Chief." He leans on the balcony's railing, certainly not at all relieved by Sanson's protests. "You still think you can't play the part, eh?"

With a noise of inarticulate frustration, Sanson begins pacing, pausing only occasionally to snatch up a shirt here, a sock there, and place them in their designated drawer or closet. "People train for years for this sort of work," he says, fuming, slamming a drawer closed with unnecessary force. He whirls, glaring up at Guydelot - but it's not fury with him, the bard knows full well how to tell the difference by now. "Years! And here we are, thrust directly into the heart of a murder investigation, undercover, without the benefit of any training or assistance from the Maelstrom, and if we fail, more people may die!"

"We haven't run up against anything we can't tackle together, you and I," Guydelot replies, over the clamor in his head of his own misgivings. He doesn't need to help Sanson feel any more anxious about all this. "This'll be no different."

"That's easy for you to say. You can adapt to anything-"

"So can you, Sanson." He raps his knuckles sharply on the railing. "You managed to adapt to me, didn't you?"

That, at least, earns him a weak laugh. Sanson sits heavily on the edge of the bed again, head in his hands. It truly is a massive bed - the man is dwarfed by the thing; made to comfortably support two fully-grown roegadyn men, it is; it won't be under any strain supporting an elezen and a midlander. Just now, though, it makes Sanson look altogether too small and vulnerable, in a way that makes Guydelot feel unsteady.

Hells, Chief, we have to do this together. Don't you go shrinking away from this on me.

"Well," he says, sounding a good deal more chipper than he feels. "We won't learn anything hiding in here all day. You about done unpacking?"

"No thanks to you."

"You know that's how you like it. I stayed out of your way." He stretches, stepping away from the balcony. "Let's head down to the beach and get a bite to eat, eh? See if we can't meet any of our fellow lovebirds." And put Sanson's acting ability to its first proper test, he doesn't say. Doesn't need to.

Sanson grumbles, too quiet for him to make out. Then, "Very well. Let's see this investigation underway."

[morocosmos]

FFXIVWrite 2024 Day 18 - Hackneyed

Masterlist Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Pairings: Original Character, Sanson Smyth, Guydelot Thildonnet Rating: Gen Additional Notes: Continues on from this.

Sanson's office is surprisingly modest, fitted with standard-issue furniture that's well kept, if a little faded. Yezih takes it in with a modicum of interest, if only to distract herself from the way her heart feels like it might burst. The only signs of comfort are the pot of tea sitting on a wooden tray next to a set of mugs, and a large couch to the side of the office by the window, where an elezen lays sprawled over the length of it like a stretched-out coeurl — Guydelot Thildonnet, Sanson's first recruit. He looks exactly the part often ascribed to him, with the tips of hair dyed an unnatural pale green (or is it blue?) and clothes sleep-rumpled as he lounges on the couch with his hands behind his head.

She wonders if he’s here to evaluate her too, and she suddenly regrets not asking Rema more about him.

“Have a seat, Yezih,” Sanson says, and the Keeper complies, feeling her legs wobble a little as she settles into the chair. The captain takes his own at his desk, hands threading together loosely before he addresses her again. “Now then, tell me about yourself.”

She’d prepared her answers. “You’ve probably heard of my family, ser. The Naharafs?” Sanson nods, which is encouraging. “Music runs in the clan, has been that way for most of our history. One of my aunties was a bard herself.”

“Cerah Naharaf? I’ve heard of her, yes.” It heartens Yezih that he knows, for her aunt had scarcely left a mark in history, at least compared to the greats — a point she makes sure to avoid. “Are you a musician or songstress yourself?” Sanson continues.

“Nay, ser.” She figures it’s best to keep her answers short and simple in that regard. “But I know my way around a lance, worked with the Wailers in East Shroud for a few years now. I figured I could put that to good use in your unit. And I've wanted to do my part for the Alliance for a while, what with those strange towers and all.” The role she wishes to play is responsible, honourable; the same qualities she admires about Sanson.

But before the captain can reply, Guydelot makes a sound that could be a scoff. One bright blue eye cracks open to fix on her as he smiles. “Do your part for the Alliance, eh? Can't say I've heard that one before.” Yezih gets the sudden sense that he's far more perceptive than he lets on, and tenses defensively.

Sanson interjects before she can rally a response. “What Lieutenant Guydelot means is you would do just as well to apply to the Twin Adder’s ranks,” he says. “They’re always looking for recruits who already possess combat skills; now more than ever, given the circumstances. But I have a feeling you already knew that.”

Yezih does. She knows they’re testing her, but not what it is they’re questioning. Is it her resolve? Or the reasons behind it?

“It’s your unit I want to join specifically, ser,” she answers, knowing that what she’s saying is true. “Rema and I are close, very close — have been since we were kits. We were going to join the Twin Adder either way, before she got recruited into your unit. Fightin’ by her side’s the place I want to be.” Worried that that isn’t enough, she adds, “To be honest ser, watching how you rose through the Adder’s ranks after graduating from the Guild was a big inspiration to me too. I’d like the opportunity to be a part of what you’re doing.”

She regrets that last part instantly; it sounds trite at best, and at worse, an attempt at flattery. She sees Guydelot make a face from the corner of her eye, and cringes inwardly herself. Sanson seems unfazed by the confession, and Yezih’s unsure if that’s a good or bad thing, but he’s silent for long enough that she’s shifting uncomfortably in her seat when he eventually speaks. 

“Guydelot and I will need to discuss this further, before we come to a decision,” he says, rising slowly from his chair. “Thank you for your time, Yezih. I’ll have Rema pass on the message if there are any further developments.”

Yezih nods, bowing as she stands. “Thank you, sers.” It’s a small miracle that she makes it out of the office without tripping over herself. 

All she can do now is wait.

[fistsoflightning]

unending character meme // zaya qestir

RULES: repost, don’t reblog! tag, and good luck!

TAGGED BY: tagged in spirit by @to-the-voiceless

TAGGING: any and all who want to do it but haven’t actually been tagged by anyone!

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Zaya Qestir

NICKNAME: none, really.

AGE: 29 by the end of Stormblood. 30-ish by the end of SHB? Haven’t figured out the time distortion thing.

BIRTHDAY: 17th of the 4th Umbral Moon (8/17)

ETHNIC GROUP: Au’ra; Xaelan

NATIONALITY: Nomad? From the Azim Steppe’s Reunion, if that helps.

LANGUAGE / S: Eorzean Sign Language, Xaelan (crude/unpracticed); understands most languages through use of the Echo

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual

ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: Demiromantic

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: dating Thancred Waters??? unsure of status during post-SHB but getting there.

HOME  TOWN /AREA: Reunion, Azim Steppe

CURRENT HOME: A shared room in the Rising Stones or a shared house in the Mist; depends on where they are at the time of night.

PROFESSION: jeweler, weaver, gladiator of the coliseum, bard teacher (appointed reluctantly by Sanson after many a problem with Guydelot’s schedule), adventurer and warrior of light

PHYSICAL.

HAIR: Straight and somewhat below shoulder length. Most of their hair is black, but slowly changes to blue and white at the tips.

EYES: Dark blue; navy color? Light blue limbal rings that glow in the dark, too.

FACE: Sharp jawline accented by their scales, often covered with some royal blue facepaint similar to Arenvald’s own.

LIPS: Often chapped, but otherwise normal.

COMPLEXION: Ashen brown? Hard to describe bc of weird lighting everywhere they go.

BLEMISHES: None

SCARS: There’s a lot, and I might make a scar map at some point??? Major ones happen to be their legs and their left arm; the legs from Ifrit and the arm from Elidibus in Zenos’s body in 4.5

TATTOOS: None, no matter how much people think the facepaint is one.

HEIGHT: Taller than the average Au’ra, about 5’4

WEIGHT: about 135 pounds

BUILD: Muscular, especially due to their main fighting style requiring muscle literally everywhere. Fistfighting for money is no small feat.

FEATURES: Their scales are an odd color (think black and blue borealis dice, but as scales), and their horns definitely look a bit… ragged. Watching them fight will give the odd realization that lightning sparks in cobalt blue come off of them sometimes.

ALLERGIES: Some undetermined fish allergy. Higiri fed them some assorted sushi once and never did again, so the Scions (and themselves) have no clue what fish they need to avoid.

USUAL HAIRSTYLE: Tied into a loose ponytail at the back. Sanson often comments how they share a hairstyle, but it’s simply from need of clear vision when moving around for monk skills and attacks.

USUAL  FACE  LOOK: Stoic as all hell. Not used to making full-on facial expressions outside of conversation, so normally looks bored.

USUAL  CLOTHING: Tabards, cyclas, or generally something with flowy fabric that doesn’t restrain movement all that much. Metal boots and gauntlets/knuckles are also common, but not always.

PSYCHOLOGY.

FEAR / S: being the last one standing, change, losing their younger siblings/younger friends, spiders, breaking a promise with their mother.

ASPIRATION / S:  To have a proper adventure, and to inspire others to live their fullest lives.

POSITIVE  TRAITS: Devoted, comforting, slightly protective, carefree

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Easily angered, impulsive, emotional, stubborn

MBTI: ISFP-T (Adventurer)

ZODIAC: Leo, apparently? Sort of fits, if you look at it closely.

TEMPERAMENT: Some crazy blend between phlegmatic and choleric? Generally carefree and easygoing with friends and willing to spend a lot of patience on them, but unrelenting and downright frightening in serious situations, especially when involving Garlemald.

SOUL  TYPE / S: Server/Caregiver

ANIMALS: Birds and dogs.

VICE HABIT / S: Drinking, although the Echo does prevent it from having any effect whatsoever, so its more of a taste thing? Tends to sleep a lot when stressed, and often spends their leftover money on gemstones for their shared collection.

FAITH: Polytheistic; the Twelve and Nhaama are gods they generally believe in.

GHOSTS?: Yes, mainly because they’ve seen one.

AFTERLIFE?: Yes.

REINCARNATION?: Probably, with how they’re sure they’ve seen someone who was supposed to be dead before

ALIENS?: before becoming Warrior of Light, it would be no, but with the revelation of Elidibus on the moon and Midgardsormr and OMEGA‌‌ (ALIEN‌ ROBOT????) they aren’t so sure anymore.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT: Does not care enough even though they are staunch friends with Nanamo. Didn’t care enough to try and challenge Oktai for the seat of Qestiri Khatun, certainly doesn’t care enough to take a political stance in Eorzea.

EDUCATION LEVEL: Barely any; just enough to read letters written in Eorzean and faintly Ishgardian (courtesy of Alphinaud and Haurchefant).

FAMILY.

FATHER: there was one, once, but he’d rather he be forgotten in pursuit of a happier future. Zaya remembers him as Baatar, but they don’t remember if that was actually his name.

MOTHERS: Erhi, Odgerel.

SIBLINGS: Oktai (older brother), Taban (older sister), Sarnai (sister), Delger and Tuya (fraternal twins)

EXTENDED FAMILY: any of the Scions (former or current) or their fellow Warriors of Light, if we’re talking found family. House Fortemps, Aymeric, Estinien, Sanson, Guydelot, Sidurgu, Rielle, and all of the Qestiri tribe are up there too, but you know, that’s kind of a lot of gifts to be sending around during Starlight. (zaya totally sends them all gifts anyways.)

NAME MEANING /S: Zaya means fate in Mongolian, which all of the other Xaelan names seem to be based on. Their previous name, Dzoldzaya, meant light of fate.

HISTORICAL CONNECTION?: Recorded history on the Azim Steppe is easily lost, but if asking around the different tribes, one could learn about a rather prominent Qestiri warrior whose image is painted in some of the caverns nearby where much of important, unforgettable Xaelan history is recorded by the Gharl, swathed in blue cloth. In the days of Amaurot, there was one standout Amaurotine who shared a love for lightning and birds…

FAVORITES.

BOOK: They don’t know enough Eorzean to read a full book, not even a children’s book. The Echo doesn’t help with reading. Urianger has read a book of myths and legends that turned out to be true to them, however, and that has been their favorite for a while. They’ve been considering asking him to read more for them, but that’s been placed on hold after the events of the First and following Mt. Gulg.

DEITY: Nhaama, or Rhalgr, if talking to someone who thinks ‘what’s a Nhaama’ when they mention her.

HOLIDAY: Starlight Celebration. Something about the festive mood always makes them happy.

MONTH: August (4th Umbral Moon)

SEASON: Summer

PLACE: On the Source, Reunion in the Azim Steppe just because interacting with other tribes is rather fun. On the First, Il Mheg all the way!

WEATHER: Clear nights where they can trace the constellations, but it isn’t too cold to need a blanket.

SOUND / S: Excited chatter, harp, singing, small hammers clinking against metal.

SCENT /S: Rain, fresh wood, the air in Gridania, light perfume, Syhrwyda’s food.

TASTE /S: Snurbleberry, honey, most Doman seafood, buuz.

FEEL /S: Soft and smooth fabrics, cold metal, the grip of someone’s hand around theirs, wind blowing through their hair on a warm day.

ANIMAL /S: Yol, chocobo (birds!).

NUMBER: 17, for their nameday and the first year they spent in Eorzea

COLORS: Cobalt blue and indigo, pale gold, soot black.

EXTRA.

TALENTS: Extremely good when working with cloth or metal; even more so when tinkering little trinkets. Interestingly enough, very good at playing flute and harp without much practice. Expert at pulling a person’s true emotions out with simply body language.

BAD AT: Sneaking around/stealth. Do not, under any circumstance, give them a job involving secrecy or stealth unless you want it to fail. Speaking/reading is also pretty horrible, due to how they were raised. Also bad at taking change or lies well.

TURN-ONS: Loyalty, bravery despite all odds, kindness and love even when it would be easier to be otherwise, being able to understand other beliefs, and a love of freedom or new experiences

TURN OFFS: Lying to their face knowingly, extreme greed, lack of self-worth, anger for no good reason

HOBBIES: making music with Guydelot and Sanson, attempting to keep a journal, idle tinkering, dancing, gardening

TROPES: Good is Not Soft, Hope Bringer, Magnetic Hero, Omniglot, The Power of Friendship, The Quiet One, Silent Snarker, Dark is Not Evil, Five Stages of Grief, Horrifying Hero, Magic Music, Warrior Poet, Dance Battler, Warrior Monk, Determinator, Pintsized Powerhouse, Pragmatic Hero (don’t let me stay on TV‌tropes pls)

QUOTES: have a snippet of some writing?

Scrawled onto a piece of paper underneath his arm in Thancred’s handwriting and marked with Zaya’s name reads, “Your words, no matter how I react, do not change how I love you all.”

MUN QUESTIONS.

Q1: If you could write your character your way in their own movie,  what would it be called,  what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?          

A1: Honestly, I think there would be two movies that could include Zaya; some comedy musical revolving around Zaya’s bard lifestyle while placing their active lifestyle in the background (called “A Bard Knock Life” bc i think puns are cool) or an action drama framed around Zaya and the Scions living some sort of high fantasy/DND type adventure bc I love that stuff called “The Unbroken Thread”. (THAT‌ QUEST‌ NAME STILL GETS‌ ME)

Q2: What would their soundtrack/score sound like?          

A2: Something featuring a flute, probably. I got attached to Zaya playing the flute being a former flute player myself. (I only wish the oboe performance sound bank clicked with me a little more…)

Q3: Why did you start writing this character?          

A3: Originally, Zaya wasn’t meant to exist. I was literally planning on just creating A’dewah, Syhrwyda, and maybe Lumelle and Elwin in different roles. Then the Au’ra came out; I‌ used my free Fantasia from the sub rewards just to be an Au’ra (I was a miqo’te before; shh, i was still babu who liked cats) and suddenly Zaya started being formed as Menphina Jewel. Before I knew it, that Menphina Jewel grew a whole backstory and a new name and new friends (Azim Steppe arc of Stormblood MSQ? Final nail in the coffin.) that slowly took over the previous two Warriors as the focus of my attention. I wasn’t even supposed to keep playing FFXIV‌ past HW, dude. I had like a million other things to be doing at the time, but here I am, lying in my grave 3 years later still attached.

Q4: What first attracted you to this character?          

A4: They’re (mostly) mute. I really wanted to explore what it’s like to not be able to talk and only converse in body language, but then I discovered that might be a problem, so my interest in sign language collided with Zaya’s backstory. It also helps me work out a personality without them sounding/looking too much like what I think is Basic Story ProtagTM like I tend to do on accident (see A’dewah and Valdis’s dialogue sometimes.)

Q5: Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5: They can’t really speak. Funny how the thing I like most is also the thing I hate most. It’s very frustrating when I want them to convey something and then they can’t without using actual words and a voice because I haven’t got a clue on how to convey that through body language. How in the world do you convey ‘I feel like I’m doing arcanist calculations when you speak’ in nonverbal language??? I have no damn idea and every attempt looks like I meant something else.

Q6: What do you have in common with your muse?          

A6: The snark, man. I have friends constantly commenting on how I’ve made a burn without me realizing I’ve done so, and it’s hilarious. The love for music also carried over big time, especially after discovering how fun the bard NPCs were to write and how they’d fit into Zaya’s relationship web. (they’re totally the more comedic side, but I love Guydelot and Sanson anyways.)

Q7: How does your muse feel about you?          

A7: No clue, dude. Maybe thinks I’m boring? I don’t tend to want to drastically change things or look for new adventures; the biggest leap I’ve taken in two years is probably changing to a reed instrument from flute, and even then I don’t have to change key when‌ I read music, so it’s not that big a deal.

Q8: What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with?        

A8: Urianger and Lyse, maybe? I like the exploration of repairing relationships after something that might have ended another, weaker bond. It’s also kinda fun trying to see how Zaya would react; they’re a lot more rash than I am in real life, and that’s honestly saying something. Alisaie and Alphinaud, however, are the most fun just because I know what I’m doing when I write them, and it’s funny to see how Zaya reacts (or has a lack of reaction) to their dynamic. Guydelot and Sanson fall into another category of ‘dear god I simultaneously love and hate these two’, while Thancred, Y’shtola, Urianger, Syhrwyda, Duscha, and Ryne fall into some sort of strong found family vibes that just get me everytime I think about it

Q9: What gives you inspiration to write your muse?        

A9:…Doing job quests or side story quests or even MSQ I haven’t caught up on yet. Watch as I slowly rewrite as many MSQ‌ and job quest scenes as I can in any of my Warrior of Light’s viewpoints. (currently chiseling away at some backstory/before they were Warriors stories after reading too deep into the race/subrace text and lore keep an eye out LOL-)

Q10: How long did this take you to complete?          

A10: A day or two; don’t remember when I began. It was probably when I was procrastinating on homework, though. I didn’t post it until a week later whoops.

[sezja]

Rattled

Set in the same AU as Undercover; pre-relationship

Another nightmare jars Sanson awake, leaving his heart racing in the darkness.

At this rate, I'll be a shambling mess in the morning, he thinks, grumbling to himself as he sits up. He fumbles for the lamp with hands that still tremble, though the fear of the nightmare has passed... leaving only shame in its wake.

"I am fine," he says aloud, to the flickering shadows the lamplight casts on the familiar walls. "I am entirely fine. Nourval is in custody, my wounds have been tended, and I am safely home, in my own bed. I. Am. Fine."

And yet three nightmares have kept him from sleeping tonight.

This time last night I was still bound and gagged, my future uncertain, he thinks, drawing his knees to his chest. He rests his forehead against his knees, drawing deep breaths. This time last night, I couldn't sleep, either. Though Nourval's men had kept him drugged through most of their journey, they'd not seen any reason to do so once they'd reached their destination. Sanson had been horribly aware of his surroundings and his circumstances once they'd reached the shards of Dalamud: left alone with his thoughts and his fears. His terrible certainty that the Order would never surrender to Nourval's demands; not for one soldier.

And if not for Guydelot-

A knock at the front door jolts Sanson from his spiraling memories.

He's trembling again, eyes burning with unshed tears. Damn it all. Who would be calling on him at this hour?

It could be someone from the Twin Adder, he realizes; some urgent order that won't wait. He drags himself out of bed, sliding his feet into slippers against the night's chill, and wraps himself in a robe for something approaching dignity - no fellow soldier needs to see him in his pajamas.

Another knock, quieter. Hesitant, as though his visitor is reconsidering. "I'm coming," he calls, relieved by the steadiness of his own voice; if he looks a bit out of sorts, with any luck, it will be excused as bleariness from being woken in the middle of the night...

He opens the door.

"Guydelot?"

The bard looks, if possible, worse than Sanson himself. He looks haggard, as though he's not slept in a week, which-

Which, Sanson abruptly realizes, may very well be true. Guydelot had done a fair bit of yawning while he was tagging along after they'd reported to Commander Heuloix. Fully entangled in his own mortification at having been captured and requiring rescue in the first place, Sanson thought nothing of it at the time, but in light of his own sleeplessness...

"This'll sound stupid," Guydelot says, sounding more thoroughly embarrassed than Sanson recalls ever hearing him, "But I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd..."

He smiles. He can't help it. "Check on me, perhaps?"

"Right." Guydelot rubs his face with one hand. His hair's a mess. He must've tossed and turned for bells before simply walking out into the night; he's plainly put on the same clothes he'd worn earlier that day. "Sorry if I woke you, Chief. I'll let you get back-"

"You should come in," Sanson cuts in, stepping back and holding the door open in invitation. I don't want to be alone. "You look terrible."

"Sweet talker."

Sanson breathes a little easier with someone else in the house; he illuminates a few more lamps and encourages Guydelot to have a seat on the couch. Tea, he thinks, heading for the kitchen; tea will be just the thing we both need. Something warm and steadying. And it gives him something to do, something to think about; something that isn't what has them both so rattled tonight.

"I haven't been here since we got back from the Sea of Clouds." He's not surprised Guydelot didn't stay put on the couch; the man wouldn't be here if he wasn't restless.

And if he didn't want to keep Sanson safely in his sights.

It galls Sanson a little; pricks at his pride... but then, he wouldn't have invited Guydelot in if he didn't like the comfort and safety of having the bard near, would he?

"You're always welcome," he says, surprising himself by meaning it. The official confirmation of his unit means Guydelot is quite officially under his command, and surely that dictates they ought to maintain a professional distance... but they're an unconventional pair to say the least; Sanson suffers no delusions that Guydelot's loyalty owes anything to his rank.

So what is it owed to?

The bard smiles, leaning in the doorway as though he belongs there. There are dark smudges under his eyes that Sanson didn't notice earlier that day, but his eyes are bright and merry; the weight he'd been carrying since Sanson's capture is gone.

"Is that right?" He grins. "I reckon I might just walk you home the next few days, then," he says, in a tone that suggests he's both teasing and deadly serious. "I told Eve I'd keep an eye on you, after all. You're meant to be resting."

Even the conjurers who'd tended to his wounds knew better than to trust Sanson Smyth to rest. Sanson sighs. "Aye, if you insist. I'll make food, if you'd like."

"Twist my arm, why don't you." The bard yawns. "How's that tea coming along?"

They make simple, easy conversation; nothing touching on the time they've spent apart. It hangs between them, a shared wound... but there's comfort in simply existing here together again. There's healing in it. Only now, in fact, does Sanson begin to realize just how much time they've spent together since their return from the search for the Ballad of Oblivion; indeed, whenever their duties permit it, they seem to gravitate to one another.

Perhaps it's no wonder, then, that Guydelot seems to have taken his absence so hard. Doubtless it's the bard's absence that had Sanson teetering so close to pure despair during his time in captivity.

A strange warmth fills him at the thought.

Once the tea is finally ready, they return to the couch, perching comfortably on opposite ends. Guydelot nearly downs his tea in one gulp, coughing and sputtering at the heat-

"I fear it's not ale," Sanson says, unable to help chuckling. "You don't need to swallow it before you can taste it."

"Just-" Guydelot coughs, pounding his chest. "Just hoping to wake myself up. Haven't been sleeping well."

Sanson cradles his cup in his hands, gazing into the dark liquid. Drowsiness lingers at the corner of his own mind, warring with the last remnants of his nightmares. "No. Nor have I." He sighs, letting his eyes close. "I've been... having nightmares," he admits. "All night. I can't seem to sleep for long before another finds me."

To his surprise, it makes Guydelot laugh.

At Sanson's astonished stare, the bard laughs again.

"Hells, Chief," he says, dragging a hand through his hair. "You've been acting so normal about it all! I thought I was the only one..." He lets the thought trail off. Shakes his head. Sets his teacup aside. "Nightmares, eh?"

"I don't remember them," Sanson clarifies. I don't need to.

But Guydelot shakes his head. "Reckon I should've brought my harp. Nightmares don't stand a chance against one good lullaby."

The idea of Guydelot playing him a song to put him to sleep brings a flush to Sanson's face. "You're ridiculous."

"It's true," Guydelot protests, eyes wide and guileless. "A bard's power comes from-"

He knows this one. "The fervent desire to aid your comrades."

"Just so." This bard grins. "And that can mean the fervent desire to make my comrade go the hells to sleep and stay that way, nightmares be damned." The grin slips, ever so slightly. "I fetched you out of that bastard's hands, Sanson. I'm not about to let your dreams put you back there again."

A little thrill brushes Sanson's spine.

He hides it by taking a long sip of tea, willing his heart to stop racing.

When he's sure he can trust his voice again, he says, "For your own good as much as mine, I suspect."

Now it's his turn to watch Guydelot hastily avert his eyes, busying himself plucking at a loose thread on his trousers. "Aye, well." The bard clears his throat. "You can't fault a man for worrying about a friend."

Friend. The word leaves him strangely giddy.

"Are we?" He asks it quietly, softly. "Friends?"

It earns him a look of surprise. "You don't think so?"

"We haven't- that is-" The bounds of their professional relationship make things difficult, always. "We've never exactly... in so many words-"

Guydelot closes the distance between them, joining Sanson on his side of the couch and wrapping an arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "Listen here, you," he says, squeezing Sanson in a one-armed embrace. "I didn't write us a new Ballad of Oblivion, join your bloody unit, follow you all the way to Gyr Abania, and defy the entire Order of the Twin Adder all for you to question whether or not we're friends."

And Sanson laughs, giddy all over again, warmed from the inside out.

"Alright, alright," he says, wriggling out from under Guydelot's arm. He stands. "Friends, then. But we'd best try to get some sleep; it's well after midnight-"

"You don't mind if I stay the night," Guydelot says, not asking; he's already stretching out as best he can on the too-short couch. "I can't play you a lullaby with no harp, so you'll have to make do with my just being here."

It's enough. It's more than enough.

"And you'll sleep better knowing I'm in the next room over, I expect," Sanson says... but Guydelot has already fallen quickly asleep; only the sounds of slow, even breathing answer him.

Smiling, shaking his head in rueful affection, he returns to his own abandoned bed... and not a single nightmare troubles him for the rest of the night.

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 20: Knife Wound Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet Triggers/Content warnings: n/a

Happens shortly after this

Also references this

He's moved, not gently, and with little care for his wounds.

As he struggles back into consciousness, Sanson tries to shout through the gag - Eve must be coming back this way by now, or perhaps Guydelot will wonder what's keeping them; if he can but get their attention...! But no, his voice is thoroughly muffled, and the "bandits" move far too swiftly, covering all signs of their retreat.

Whoever these men are - Nourval's men - they know altogether too well how to hide their tracks. Well-trained and too skilled to be mere sellswords; were Sanson to guess, he might speculate that they're the sons of Gridania's wealthy elites, venerable and daunting. The sort of men who very well might align themselves with a youth claiming to be descended from Vainchelon himself, promising a war of vengeance against Ala Mhigo...

And then one of the men carrying him jars Sanson's wounds, and he thinks about little else but the pain for a while.

He tries, through the red haze that fogs his vision, to take note of where they're going - but he recognizes little of the terrain, having gotten precious little time to scout outside of the castrum. And he fades in and out of consciousness, waking wearier and wearier each time, only dimly aware of the men speaking around him.

His fear fades into numbness.

When at last they drop him unceremoniously on the ground at nightfall, Sanson is hardly lucid. He doesn't recognize the area - of course not. The beginnings of a camp bustle to life around him, but beyond that, he cannot guess where they are. Still somewhere in Gyr Abania, he supposes...

He closes his eyes, suddenly longing only for the escape sleep offers.

"Ah, no you don't." A gentle slap to his already-bruised cheek snaps Sanson out of his doze, and he opens his eyes to the unwelcome sight of Nourval kneeling beside him. On his other side is a grizzled older Wildwood man, frowning down at him with what looks disarmingly like concern.

"It's the blow to the head," the older fellow says, gently prodding at the back of Sanson's skull, tsking when Sanson hisses in pain. "There's little I can do for it; you young fools and your penchant for cracking skulls-"

"Fine, fine." Nourval waves it off. "See to his other wounds, then. We don't want him bleeding out."

The old man huffs. "Then you might have avoided stabbing him, mightn't you?"

What follows is the single most humiliating medical examination Sanson has ever endured, with the only saving grace being that Nourval has the decency to keep watch - and his back turned, keeping the other men at a distance. Though Sanson has never considered himself a particularly modest man, there's something demoralizing about being stripped and searched twice in one godsdamned day...

He flinches when the old healer's hands find the knife wound, low on his side, where Nourval had taken the blood to write his message for Guydelot.

Guydelot...

Matron, what must Guydelot be thinking now? He must be beside himself with fear and fury in equal measure; what if he does something foolhardy?

He squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to imagine it's Guydelot's hands on him, instead.

"That'll want stitches," the healer murmurs to himself, cleaning the wound. Before Sanson can so much as brace himself, he feels the touch of a needle-

He bites down hard on the gag, choking on his scream.

Guydelot... he'd once sat perfectly still, unflinching, while Guydelot stitched up his wounds, refusing to cry out. Gods, how it hurt! But pride kept him silent; stubborn pride. He'd hated the bard with everything he had, then, and refused even to give him the satisfaction of seeing him show any sign of pain. It'd taken everything in him to clench his jaw on the desire to scream, to keep himself from weeping from the burning agony of each pass of the needle.

Tough little bastard, Guydelot had said.

He hadn't screamed for Guydelot; he won't scream for Nourval and his men, either.

He bites down hard, clenches his bound hands into fists. In and out goes the needle. In and out goes his breath, slow and even. Black spots dance in his vision, in tune with the pounding in his head.

The process seems to take forever.

"That's the worst of it," the healer says, tugging Sanson's clothing back into place. "He'll feel like dying for a day or two, I'd wager, but he'll live, like as not. I'll check back in on him in the morning."

Sanson, relaxing at last, limp as a wrung-out dishcloth, sprawls miserably on the ground. Nourval says something; he doesn't hear it. Doesn't care. Tired, too tired; he wants to sleep. He wants Guydelot, and the safety of curling into his arms at night. He wants this all to be nothing more than a dream, an awful dream, and he'll wake in the morning to find himself still wrestling over Gylbarde's journal.

He wants...

[sezja]

Aethersup, part 4

Previously: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Content warnings: Blood drinking, nsfw

How well he knows the Black Shroud by starlight - though he leaves his home, his prison, only rarely, the great forest is slow to change… at least in ways mankind will notice. Sanson moves too swiftly for mortal eyes, trusting to memory more than his own eyesight, to guide him in the shadows. Always, he fears his trespass will be challenged by the elementals themselves, and he cannot guess what may become of him if - when - that day comes; he only prays it won’t be today: without him, Guydelot will be trapped within the fungus-choked halls of Amdapor, there to waste away the rest of his days, all for want of a harp.

The more he thinks of it, the more reckless this endeavor seems. He ought to abandon it here and now, and retreat back to his moldy fortress, and let Guydelot continue his captivity in silence.

But he creeps on, passing into the East Shroud without incident. The workers at the Mun-Tuy Cellars might, perhaps, have felt a brief chill at his too-quick passage, but he does not fear them: even did they spot him, they cannot hope to harm him, surely. No more than the creatures of the Shroud, prowling more freely at night. Sanson hears, too, the telltale sounds of hunters preparing to stalk the forest in the darkness, hoping to catch their prey unawares–

How very like him they are.

He often takes his captives - his prey - at night, when his own strength is at its greatest. Though he is not strictly nocturnal, it costs him a good deal more aether to be awake and active while the sun is up, and as a result, he finds it most economical to hunt between the hours of twilight and dawn. It is why he must seek out Guydelot’s harp now, in the dark, when surely it would have been far easier to search in the daylight… but he is freshly fed, strong as he’ll ever be, and the darkness chips away at his aether far more slowly. It must be now or never, and having committed to this foolish cause, Sanson supposes he has no choice but to see it through. After all, he has already exerted the aether to leave Amdapor: if he does not return with the harp, he will have wasted Guydelot’s life force for nothing more than a jaunt beneath the trees.

The thought renews his resolve. Besides, he is reaching the spot where he found Guydelot - where the man claims he must have left his harp. Soon he may return, to give the bard his surprise gift…

What will he make of it?

Sanson’s heart flutters.

Fool, he scolds himself, shoving the notion aside; doubtless Guydelot will be too delighted by the return of his harp to pay any mind to the creature returning it. Sanson will get songs out of it: that will be his reward for having fetched it, not… whatever ridiculous notion his affection-starved imagination might be able to conjure up if left to its own devices.

Now. Where is the harp?

He reaches the tree under which he’d found the bard sleeping at sunset two days ago - he is sure of it; traces of Guydelot’s aether cling to it still. Sanson has ample cause to identify it. Frowning, he rounds the tree twice… but there is no harp, nor any other sign of Guydelot’s belongings. Absurdly, he even peers up into the lower branches, in case the bard had hung them there, but only an abandoned bird’s nest lies tucked amidst the leaves.

Anxiety claws at him. Had Guydelot’s belongings - and his harp! - been stolen in his absence, then? Dismay sets in - this is his fault, for not thinking to take them with him, surely. But he’d paid no attention to them, half-starved and desperate to get back to Amdapor before his aether grew too thin to permit him entry into the city - he’d simply taken the bard himself and run.

No harp, then.

He stands beneath the shadows of the leaves, torn once more by indecision. By all rights, he should cut his losses and return to Amdapor empty-handed, for to do otherwise may mean not returning at all…

Instead, he kneels, placing his fingers gently upon the soil where Guydelot sat. The harp would have been nearby, surely… yes. Faint but there, traces of the bard’s aether - a trail, of sorts, that could yet lead him to wherever the man’s belongings have been taken. 

This is madness. You know this is madness.

Guydelot’s aether still fills him with strength, leaving him more invigorated than he has been in moons. What a waste of that strength, hunting in the dark, following an invisible trail with an unknown end, and all for the sake of a harp, frivolous and unnecessary! But it is Guydelot’s aether, and surely there could be no better use for it than to seek out that which he prizes above all else? If his harp has fallen ino the hands of brigands or worse, surely he would want Sanson to seek it out; how will Sanson face him empty-handed when he returns, knowing what news awaits the bard when he is finally released?

He sets off, following the aether trail deep into the forest. The path leads back to the South Shroud - he dashes once more through the Mun-Tuy Cellars, then hesitates… but no, the trail leads on; no one in the Cellars themselves holds the harp. Onward he goes, moving more slowly then is his wont; it is difficult to sense the faint trail while moving at speed. Sanson could swear he senses the elementals watching his passage - or perhaps mortal hunters. Poachers prowl this part of the Shroud without fear. Perhaps it was one of them who claimed Guydelot’s harp…

But no, the trail leads still onward, past the poachers’ dens, and the tiny apple orchard, and the goblins’ encampment. He fears it will take him into the settlement of Quarrymill, but no - it circles wide around the high timbered walls, heading to the northeast. 

To a fallen log, massive and hollow, with the burning remnants of a campfire, banked to embers, but still warm.

Heart pounding in his ears, Sanson moves closer on preternaturally silent feet, not so much as a rustle of grass to mark his approach. Guydelot’s belongings are here, he can sense it: Matron, the man’s aether is all over this place! Not a bandit, then, he realizes - no, not if Guydelot has spent enough time here to leave a part of himself here. His harp was taken by someone who knows him, knows him well, well enough to recognize his abandoned belongings and take them here for safekeeping. That’s reassuring, surely? That’s all he needs to know; the harp has not been stolen, and he may return, safe in the knowledge that… that…

But music. Guydelot cannot play his harp with it safe here.

Sanson moves closer. The campsite is empty, but he is not so foolish as to trust that it has been abandoned for the night: no man native to the Shroud would leave their fire still burning, banked or no. He has little time to waste. Luckily, whoever dwells here lives lightly: there is little to search, and less to find. Sanson finds what he seeks in little time at all.

The harp. Kneeling, Sanson holds it in hands that are abruptly trembling, and it has little to do with his waning aether. It pulls at his memories, trying desperately to unbury that which pain and twisted magicks have hidden away. 

I loved music, he thinks, quietly triumphant, as his grip on the precious instrument tightens. I believed song held the power to do anything, once upon a time. I believed bards held the power of infinite possibility. He remembers, in fragments, the life that was stolen from him - recalls pausing to listen to minstrels, recalls a man - his… his father? - singing in a quiet garden. Notes on song in a careful hand. Books of songs from other nations. The harp in his hands blurs - is he weeping? He cannot, mustn’t weep; what a waste of aether! He must return to Amdapor, return to Guydelot; victorious, he can hardly wait to see what the bard will do when he–

The creak of a bowstring snaps him from his reverie. Fool! So entranced was he by the harp that he failed to pay attention to his surroundings!

“You are no poacher.” The voice at his back is surprisingly gentle, given the arrow trained between his shoulder blades, and rich with command. Sanson looks slowly over his shoulder, not daring to rise, not yet. The stranger is an elderly wildwood man, with the posture of a skilled archer - the arrow he holds is steady, without the slightest waver. The man’s gaze, despite the weapon he bears, is more curious than hostile, as though finding a strange creature rooting through his campsite is of no great moment. When he sees he has Sanson’s attention, he adds, “That harp is not mine to loan you, my friend. I must ask you to put it back, and leave in peace.”

He can kill this man.

The knowledge comes to him with clarity born of his predatory nature: it would be an easy kill, more than sufficient aether to carry him safely home. Skilled with the bow though this man may be, he is no great threat to Sanson; it would cost him nothing to cut the old man down, and then he need only return to Amdapor with the harp in tow, with no fear of leaving an enemy at his back.

For there is no question of leaving without it now. He can’t.

“No,” he says, unsure if he speaks to the stranger or himself, and rises to his feet with uncanny speed.

The twang of the bowstring nearly catches him off-guard - nearly - but he deftly ducks to the side, and the arrow thuds uselessly into a faraway tree. Sanson lunges forward, colliding with the man, letting his weight carry them to the earth; how often has he needed to do exactly this with his more recalcitrant victims? He has no weapon, but he needs none - the old man’s bow tumbles to the ground, of no use to him now.

“What-” The man gasps, wrestling against Sanson’s strength; he shoves against the vampire’s shoulders, but cannot budge him. Sanson’s hands close around his neck; it will take nothing at all to drain him dry. When they find his body in the morning, they will think nothing of it. “What-” the old man says again, as Sanson begins to pull at his aether. “What- have you done- with Guydelot!”

Guydelot.

Sanson freezes, slamming into the moment as though waking from a dream. Matron save him, what is he… what is he doing; what has possessed him, that he would attempt to kill an old man? And someone Guydelot plainly knows and cares for, with his aether all over the man’s campsite; what would he say to Guydelot if he- if he–

He tears away from the old man, scrabbling gracelessly for the harp, which he dropped in his savagery. Back to Amdapor, and fast. He runs.

Not fast enough.

“Blessed Althyk, guide my aim!”

The first arrow takes him in the leg - were he mortal, it would have been more than sufficient to cripple him. It nearly drops him now, out of sheer surprise: no mere archer, this man! He glances over his shoulder to find the old man kneeling, aiming - and then the second arrow slams into his shoulder. Pain blossoms: the arrow is poisoned. Poison will not kill him, of course, but the pain is excruciating, making it hard to move as quickly as he must. Another arrow joins the second in his shoulder, and his arm goes numb. He clutches the harp in his other hand, refusing to drop it.

On he runs, and no more arrows follow - perhaps he finally reached a speed the archer could not track, or perhaps he outran the man’s range… but it makes little difference; his wounds bleed aether, leaving him weak. He passes swiftly through the Shroud - if he can only reach Amdapor…

And survive passing through the barrier, survive passing through the streets crawling with bloodthirsty beasts and voidsent alike with open wounds.

Guydelot…

He hurls himself forward, to the very depths of his well of aether, determined to reach him - reach home - or die trying.

**

Am… am I dying?

Nothing so gentle as a hangover greets Guyelot when he wakes - he feels like he’s been hit by a chocobo carriage. No, a fleet of chocobo carriages. Twice. Whimpering, he curls beneath the blankets, weak and cold, shivering. Every ilm of him aches, muscles afire, and his head feels as though it’s been stuffed full of rocks and shaken about. His mouth’s dry, like it’s full of cotton. His stomach churns - not helped by the fact that every time he closes his eyes, the world feels as though it’s spinning around him, whirling at an impossible pace. He pulls the blankets over his head, but the darkness is no sanctuary; the pain, the nausea, the vertigo all follow him there.

The hells have you done to me, Sanson?

This must be what a proper feed feels like, some semi-lucid part of him recognizes, with dawning horror - this is what he’s agreed to endure for the rest of this moon, every night. Not that yesterday morning had been a picnic, but it was blissful compared to this. No wonder Sanson’s had trouble with his victims! He’ll be hard-pressed not to fight the vampire off when he comes tonight.

He drags himself upright, still shivering. Can’t seem to get warm. Can’t recall the room being this cold yesterday. Guydelot wraps the blanket around his shoulders like a heavy cape, and slowly rises from the bed on legs that feel like they’re half-liquid. Could drop right out from under him any time. He’s tempted to crawl to the table for his breakfast…

…Except there is none. The table sits empty this morning.

Now resentment simmers.

Drain a man to within an ilm of his bloody life, and you can’t be arsed to make sure he’s fed in the morning? Bastard.

Fine. So Sanson knows he’d found his way to the pantry and kitchen in the cellar yesterday, and has decided that means he’s responsible for his own meals now, evidently. Never mind that he’s dead on his feet. Never mind that he’s just had most of his aether snatched by a hungry vampire. Never mind that he’s weak as a half-drowned kitten. Fine. He does know where the kitchen is, and Sanson’s not told him he’s not allowed - and he’s not been chained to the bed again, which means his roaming about yesterday morning didn’t warrant a punishment.

Muttering furiously to himself, he hunkers into his blanket cape, and slowly staggers his way out the door.

He stumbles once or twice making his bleary way down the hall, and near the end of it, breathlessly weak, he sinks to a seat against the wall to catch his breath.

“Damn… damn you, Sanson,” he says aloud, while the world tilts alarmingly around him; how’s he meant to get down the stairs like this? 

Next time he sees the vampire, he’s giving him a piece of his mind before he gives him another shred of his aether.

Swearing under his breath, with all the stubborn resilience he can muster, the bard drags himself back to his feet, fighting for every ilm. He’ll feel a good deal better with some food in him, he knows, and a few bells’ more rest - once he makes it down to eat, anyhow. Once he’s upright, panting with the effort, he once more sets off toward the atrium - practicing the tongue-lashing he’ll give Sanson when the man has the audacity to show up begging for aether later on. If the man means to leave him a blighted shell, scraped clean of every last drop of aether he has to spare, the least he can do is–

Sanson!

All thoughts of bitterness and disgruntlement scatter as he steps into the atrium and peers over the balcony. Blood pools on the polished stone floor before the grand doors, black in the half-light, framing Sanson’s curled-up figure. Can’t tell if he’s alive from here. 

“Sanson,” Guydelot calls, clutching the balcony railing, knuckles bleached by fear and effort alike. “Sanson!” But the man doesn’t stir, not so much as a twitch. Fear spreads through him, faster and more powerful than his anger had been. He pushes himself away from the railing, claws for the stairs and makes his way down one by one on legs that still feel as though they might crumble beneath him. Spots dance before his eyes, and more than once, he fears he might black out entirely - he must stop to catch his breath, but only for a moment; every moment may be precious, if Sanson isn’t- if he’s not- if he–

“Sanson,” he whispers, reaching the bottom of the stairs on his hands and knees, and crawling the rest of the way to the vampire’s too-still form.

Arrows. Three of them, one snapped in half. One in the back of the man’s leg, just above the knee - his attacker had meant to cripple him, not to kill; they’d not have counted on Sanson being stronger and faster than the average man. The other two are in the back of his left shoulder; when hindering him had failed, doubtless his foe had gotten it in their head that perhaps he ought to be killed, after all. There are other wounds - claw marks, bite marks - that must have come from the creatures of Amdapor, drawn to the scent of blood and aether, eager to feed - but it’s the arrows Guydelot can’t stop staring at.

Something about them pulls at him, but his hazy mind can’t make sense of it.

And it doesn’t matter, not now.

“Sanson…” He reaches, tries to shake the man’s shoulder.

The vampire’s eyelids flutter. He inhales, shaky. “Guydelot…”

Relief nearly chokes him. “You’re alive,” he whispers. “Hells, you scared the piss out of me. Let’s… let’s get you cleaned up-”

“Dying,” Sanson says, so quiet Guydelot nearly misses it. “Must… must show you…” Blood trickles from his lips; perhaps one of the arrows found his lung. “How… how to escape.”

“The hells you are.” Guydelot sits up, and uses all the strength he can muster to wrench the arrows out of Sanson’s back. They clatter, blood-soaked and broken, to the floor. He rolls Sanson over, thinking to examine the wounds on his front, but cradled against the man’s chest, somehow untouched by all the blood surrounding it… is Guydelot’s harp.

Look what you’ve done, he tells himself, savagely, as a helpless fury rises in his chest. You wanted the damn thing! You pestered him about it!

“You… Sanson, gods damn you-”

Sanson relinquishes the harp when Guydelot tugs on it, and the bard’s first instinct is to hurl the bloody - bloodless, protected from all that bloodshed - across the damn room. But he lacks the strength. And he can’t let Sanson’s efforts be wasted. He sets the harp gently aside instead, safely away from both the blood and his own temper. Gods damn it all, if Sanson was willing to half-die for the thing, the least he deserves is a song out of this.

But for that, he’s got to live.

 “I’ve got a good lecture in mind for you,” Guydelot says, grunting with the effort of pulling the vampire’s dead weight into his arms, holding him close, cradled against him. Gods, he’s so cold! Half a corpse already. “I’m not letting it go to waste just because you feel like getting out of it by dying.”

Sanson tries to shake his head, but lacks the strength even for that. “Th-there is… a passage, a tunnel-”

“Shh.” He doesn’t want to hear it. Why doesn’t he want to hear it? Matron’s teats, Sanson’s handing him the way out. All it’ll cost is the vampire’s life. “Quiet, you. There’s gotta be something…” 

Sanson’s bleeding so much. No amount of bandaging could stanch these wounds, and Guydelot wouldn’t know where to start looking for medical supplies, and all the while… Helpless, he holds Sanson tighter, as though he might hold the man together by main force. Is there nothing he can do? They’re both soaked in blood now. Is he going to hold Sanson while he dies, then, and leave himself with no knowledge of how to escape from this wretched city? Just die here, himself, alone but for the corpse of the last friend he’d ever had and the harp he’d died for? He closes his eyes, resting his cheek against the top of Sanson’s head, feeling the man’s blood trickling between his fingers.

Wait.

Blood.

“Sanson,” he says, urgently. “Sanson, use my blood.”

A weak, quiet noise of protest. “I…”

“You said only if you were direly injured, aye?” He squeezes Sanson. “What’s this then, eh? You’re here planning your death and all, seems proper dire to me! Use my blood!”

“You… you’re far too weak-”

“I can laze around in bed when you’re done.” Anything. Anything at all. Don’t let him die like this. “You went to get my harp, damn you, and now nothing’ll do but I play you a song in thanks. Any song you like. But you’ve got to live first, and that means-”

Sanson curls into him. Nuzzles his neck - weak, searching. “You’re… you are certain.”

His breath on Guydelot’s neck sends heat darting through him that owes nothing to fear or anger, and makes him dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with his diminished aether. He takes a deep breath. “I’m certain I like you better alive. Drink deep.”

And then–

It hurts.

Hurts is a small word for it, for the way every animal part of his brain shrieks in protest, struggling against the moment Sanson’s fangs sink into his skin and pierce it, the moment his blood spills into Sanson’s waiting mouth. It’s pain, it’s agony, white-hot and wholly alien to him. Dizziness creeps in once more, turing the edges of his vision red-on-black-on-red, until he’s sure he’ll faint dead away - and still he clings to Sanson, keeping him close, holding on tight. The pain will pass. The pain must pass.

And then it does.

And then it becomes something wholly different.

He feels Sanson’s strength returning with each swallow, even as his own wanes. When his own grip falters, hands shaking, Sanson settles himself more comfortably, straddling Guydelot’s lap on the floor - never removing his mouth from the bard’s neck. His hands cradle Guydelot’s head, sliding into his hair, gently tipping his head back. Guydelot, unable to resist, lets his eyes slide shut; lets himself slip into a quiet, dark world where all he hears is his own heartbeat and Sanson’s breathing, and all he feels is Sanson’s lips working against his skin.

Sanson’s tongue slides over his punctured skin, and Guydelot fails to stifle a quiet moan, lifting his hands to rest on Sanson’s hips. 

That’s not what this is about, he scolds himself, some distant fragment of his scattered mind clinging to some sense of morality. 

But Sanson rocks against him, an answering moan muffled against his throat. Encouraged, Guydelot musters what strength he can for the crucial task of holding Sanson’s hips against his own, struggling to cling to both his consciousness and his companion. He’s stronger already, he admires, noting the strength in the thighs that tighten around him, sliding his hands along them eagerly. He’s stronger… and Guydelot’s weaker, fading fast.

Sanson pulls away from his throat with a shivering gasp, resting both hands on Guydelots chest. “Lie back,” he says, “Before you fall over.”

Though he fears the man means to leave him, Guydelot does; he has no choice. He certainly can’t stand - for a number of reasons. “Sanson-”

But Sanson doesn’t leave, remaining above him, grinding slowly against him, eyes half-lidded. He looks a proper fright, Guydelot thinks, giddy with blood loss; Sanson’s soaked in blood, with Guydelot’s own blood staining his lips and teeth in crimson. He looks hazy, but pleasantly so, and flushed - the healthiest Guydelot’s ever seen him look. He could nearly be mortal, if not for, well, all the blood. But he’s beautiful, blood and all, and blood loss be damned, Guydelot’s body answers to him, eager, for all the bard isn’t sure he could so much as sit up.

“Guydelot…” Sanson’s hands slide down his chest, his stomach. “I want… I need…”

He arches as best he can, offering his best encouragement. “I fear I won’t give you a good showing of it, but I-”

It’s quick, feverish; Guydelot’s not sure Sanson doesn’t tear their clothes in his haste - and he has only a moment to register that there are a few anatomical surprises he wasn’t anticipating - but gods, the feel of him! Guydelot nearly blacks out from the sensation alone, riding the wave of Sanson’s pleasure until they both reach its crest - far sooner than usual for Guydelot, and far sooner than he’d have liked, but he supposes his body, depleted as it is, was unprepared for much more.

Sanson collapses on top of him, burying his face against Guydelot’s neck. Dimly, the bard wonders if he ought to be worried about that, but the vampire makes no attempt to bite him again - only catches his breath, like any of the mortal lovers Guydelot’s ever had. 

And then Sanson stiffens.

Lifts his head.

Guydelot catches the telltale flush of color spreading across the man’s face… and grins.

“You… did you just get aether from-”

“Don’t you- just- evidently-”

And then Guydelot blacks out properly, sparing Sanson the mortification of needing to explain.

**

He wakes again, bells later, tucked into his own bed. Afternoon sunshine streams in, but he’s slept the better part of the day away - not surprising. He feels too weak to move: if the morning had left him wondering if he might die, now he’s nearly sure of it. But by the Matron, if he has to die, he’ll have gone out with one hell of a memory; even now, he can’t help smiling. And he’s saved Sanson’s life, of that he’s certain…

…in part because the man himself is seated beside him, anxious as a new bride.

“You’re awake,” Sanson says, when he realizes Guydelot’s eyes have opened; he stands, fussing - tugging the blankets higher. Is Guydelot cold? Does he require another blanket? Is it too bright?

Amused, the bard simply shakes his head. Can’t quite keep his eyes open. Probably going to go right back to sleep the instant Sanson turns his back.

“You… you look better,” he observes, when he can keep his eyes open for two seconds. “No more talk of dying, eh?”

Sanson is subdued, fluffing Guydelot’s pillow. “You saved my life, at great cost to your own. I owe you a debt I may never be able to repay, but know this: if there is ever anything you desire, anything within my power, I-”

“Speaking of desires,” he teases, mustering the best grin he can manage. 

Sanson flushes a deeper scarlet than Guydelot’s ever seen. “That- that was… it… it would seem drinking blood enhances my… my other hungers, as well. I would never have- that is, not without- not unless-”

“Unless?”

“I would have- I would have asked,” Sanson says, his voice strangled and indignant. “I would have.. I would have courted you, not… not like that, rutting on the floor like-”

“Oh-ho!” Guydelot laughs, sitting up slowly, trembling with the effort. “It’s courtship you want, eh? Sounds like I need to brush up my best love ballads… seeing as you risked life and limb to fetch me my harp. And then…” He reaches, meaning to take Sanson’s hand, managing only to curl his own loosely atop it. “And then we can try again.”

Sanson squeaks. “No, we- we shouldn’t-” He takes a deep breath. “At the end of the moon, I will release you, and that will be that.” He clears his throat. “I should… I should bring you food. You must be starving.”

Guydelot does manage to take his hand, then, and though Sanson could easily pull away, he doesn’t. Instead, when Guydelot pulls him down, so their lips brush, Sanson yields, closing his eyes.

“I’m ravenous,” Guydelot says, and kisses him.

[sezja]

/walks in like I own the place and looks at you with an evil smile

Here, another prompt for your list

caressing the other’s cheek

:)

Touches Prompts

The training exercise went well - as well as Sanson dared to hope it may, with Guydelot still leery of his fellow bards. Still, he had at last allowed that perhaps they showed some promise (after treating both Lariat and Liautroix to a night of drinks on Sanson's coin, on the grounds that it was of course a unit exercise), and Guydelot has made himself available and present for each of their three most recent training sessions.

Sanson dares to permit himself some small shred of optimism.

And so it is with unconcealed satisfaction that he dismisses the unit for the night, sending the other two on their way, chatting amicably as they go, comparing notes about the day's work. Guydelot, of course, remains where he is: lounging on the stair that leads to their barracks room's upper level. He plucks a note, letting it ring cheerfully in the quiet.

"You're looking mighty pleased with yourself," he observes.

Sanson nods, not troubling to deny it. "I daresay we'll make a cohesive unit yet," he says, gathering up his notes in a folder to carry home - he'll look over them once more before bed, the better to sleep on the day's work, and perhaps wake with a new approach in mind. That done, he crosses the room to stand before his bard. "In perhaps a moon, we ought to be ready to see real action - perhaps something less daunting than Ghimlyt."

Guydelot smiles, but shadows creep into the depths of his eyes. "Aye. Something of a rough maiden voyage, that was."

Sanson peels off one glove, cupping the bard's cheek against his hand. "You handled it admirably."

"Kiss-arse," Guydelot replies, his gaze warming. He leans into the hand, as his voice lowers, turning quiet. Private. "You're only buttering me up so I'll turn up to tomorrow's training session, too."

Caressing Guydelot's cheekbone with his thumb, Sanson shakes his head. "No amount of flattery will sway you to do aught you don't wish to do," he acknowledges. "Besides which, that was an observation, not 'buttering you up.'"

"Aye," Guydelot says, reaching up to catch Sanson's hand in his. He lifts his other hand to tug the man's sleeve out of the way, and presses his lips gently against Sanson's wrist. "If you wanted to charm me," he teases, his breath tickling Sanson's skin. "You've more interesting ways to go about it, eh?"

Despite everything, it makes Sanson chuckle - albeit a bit breathlessly; the room feels a touch warm, all of a sudden. "I should hope I don't need to stoop to such measures-"

"I don't think it'd make a lick of difference," the bard admits - and then kisses Sanson's wrist again, making his heart flutter. "But it'd be fun to see you try."

"I think we'd best go home," Sanson says at last, shaking his head, retrieving his hand. "Before I do something I'll regret."

Guydelot stands, grinning. "Now that," he says, "sounds like a good idea."

[sezja]

Previously: 1, 2

A good-end version of this series of events

Tank Role Quest Spoilers

All at once, the pained tension in Sanson's body fades: Guydelot feels him relax at his side, so abruptly it fills the bard with terror. Death, he thinks, a cold finger on his spine... but then he hears, feels Sanson sigh, heavy with relief. And already his skin feels cooler to the touch, damp with sweat as the fever breaks.

"Guydelot." Sanson's voice: tired, ragged, but steady. Sane. When Guydelot draws back to gaze into the man's eyes, he sees no madness there, no flickering shadows, no sign that he's listening to voices no one else can hear. Only exhaustion, mortal and ordinary.

Swallowing hard, Guydelot pulls him close again, tugging Sanson fully into his lap to cradle him in his arms. It is the sort of gesture that, on a normal day, would have Sanson squirming and protesting before he settled in; today he merely sighs again, resting his head against Guydelot's shoulder. The illness, the corruption, has left him ravaged, and willing to accept what comfort he may.

"How are you feeling, Chief?" Guydelot brushes sweat-drenched hair out of Sanson's face, tracing the line of his brows with gentle fingertips.

Sanson closes his eyes. "Sore. Weary. I could sleep for a year." He nestles closer, tucking his forehead against the bard's neck. "Forgive me. I must have been insufferable-"

"Hush, you." Slow and steady, he rubs Sanson's back. Already, the chain-like abraisions on the man's arms have begun to fade, looking less angry; above the low collar of his nightshirt, Guydelot sees the rashes on his chest beginning to fade as well. A good sign. Eve and Cyn must've done their bloody work. "The worst part was not being able to help. Nophica's tits, it sounded awful."

"Don't swear." The reprimand is drowsy and automatic, no heat or heart in it. "It was. I didn't..." He shudders. "I didn't know myself. There were voices..."

"Aye, you told me what the voices said." His arms tighten. "Sanson, you know you're no failure? You make me want- you push me to be a better man, every day. There's no other leader I'd follow." The words spill out of him, messy and unplanned. "The things you try to do, the things you do, that no one else would dream of - a bard unit, when most of Gridania barely knew bards existed? Sanson-"

"Shhh." Amusement in Sanson's voice, quelling some of Guydelot's anxiety. "I know. I know. Thank you, Guydelot."

He takes a deep breath, trying to recompose himself. Knowing Sanson's not going to fall all to pieces on him helps. Helps a lot. "...You know, maybe you oughtn't drop off to sleep just yet." He smiles. "I reckon Eve'll want to see for herself you're on the mend."

Sanson stiffens. "Eve knew I was ill? Did... oh no, did she see me while I was-"

"Oh, aye, there at the start. She and Cyn were here, dealing with Gleipnir, when she heard you'd been attacked-"

Sanson sits up, mortified. "Oh, gods. You let her see me like that?"

"You were mostly just groanin' and moanin' at the time. It was before you started babbling about voices."

"Gods," he says again. "How long do you suppose we have until she gets here?"

"Assuming the thing's dead? I reckon she's sprinting back to Gridania as we speak, leaving the Elder Seedseer and Cynthia to sort out the details-"

Sanson wriggles out of Guydelot's lap, standing - or trying to; still weak from the fever, he wavers unsteadily. "I need," he says, "a bath, a change of clothes, and to not greet Eve in my bedsheets."

Guydelot laughs aloud; this is the Sanson he knows and loves, returned to him hale and whole. "Think you can walk to the tub?" He rises, without waiting for an answer, and bundles Sanson into his arms: no small feat, as Sanson isn't a light man, but it's a burden he'll gladly carry, any day.

"Guydelot, I can walk!" But Sanson winds his arms around the bard's neck anyway, letting himself be carried. "Oh, very well; I suppose it will be faster this way."

"Don't be so sure about that," Guydelot says, cheerfully. "I might never want to let you go."

"You'd better not."

"Hm?"

"I said you'd better put me down!"

[sezja]

Wish You Were Here, part 2

Previously

Sanson's inn room in Kugane is far more spacious and well-appointed than Guydelot's - a room he rented from an opportunistic merchant willing to benefit from a skilled harpist attending his stall during the quiet daylight hours. The bed isn't quite large enough for two, but they make it work, doing their best to shape two bodies into one with all the pent-up longing of their time apart, cut gloriously, unexpectedly short.

Now, later, Guydelot sits on the floor beside the bed, watching Sanson sleep. Weary though he is, he doesn't dare doze off, himself - he remains unconvinced that if he sleeps, he won't wake to find he dreamed this night, dreamed Sanson.

Gods, how impossible that he should be here!

Most evenings in Kugane, Guydelot has taken to playing in the corner of a small but popular cafe, well-liked by locals and travelers alike; it's been a good way to get the news out of Eorzea with little effort. Like the merchant, the restaurant's owner enjoys the unexpected benefits of a talented musician providing background entertainment; it's been a good way to get food and drink for a reasonable price, and he's taken full advantage of both. He'd been half-daydreaming, pleasantly tipsy from the night's "payment," letting his mind wander, thinking of Sanson - as he does these days.

When he looked up, and there Sanson was.

Hells, how many times has he thought he'd glimpsed Sanson in some faraway place; how many times has his eye been caught by some stray flash of yellow and his heart said maybe? He'd been half-certain he was imagining it. How could Sanson be here, in Kugane, halfway 'round the world from home? But those kisses were real, real as could be, and there was nothing imaginary about Sanson's body under his in this little inn bed, nothing imaginary about the man sleeping before him now.

Still. Guydelot reaches, brushing a stray lock of hair out of Sanson's face, barely daring to breathe. He lets his fingertips trail over Sanson's shoulder, down his spine. A paper lantern hangs in the room, still lit, casting flickering blue shadows over Sanson's fair skin. He could still be a dream, lovely as he is, and ready to vanish with the morning's light.

Guydelot sighs, tugging the blanket up over Sanson's bare shoulders.

With a small hum, Sanson stirs, opening his eyes briefly, but only briefly. They flicker closed once more. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Didn't want to keep you up," Guydelot replies, half-smirking. "You've got an early morning. Wouldn't want you to have to explain to your bosses why you're yawning."

"So behave yourself." Amusement creeps in under the sleepiness. "But come here."

Chuckling, Guydelot stands and climbs in over Sanson, trying to fit himself into the cramped confines of the small bed. Sanson shifts onto his side, giving the bard room to curl in tight against him, warm against his back. Once Guydelot settles in, Sanson sighs in quiet contentment... and immediately sinks back into sleep, comfortable once more in Guydelot's arms. Where he ought to be, Guydelot reckons.

How does he keep managing to leave? It always seems like the right thing to do at the time; he needs his space, needs to see the world, needs...

But inevitably what he needs is Sanson.

He sighs, closing his eyes and burying his face in Sanson's hair. In the morning, for once, he'll have to sit and watch Sanson leave him behind, and that... hells, that'll hurt, won't it? Seems only right, though, right and fair, after all the times he's made Sanson stay behind and watch him leave. And he'll only do it again, when the road pulls at him again. And he's not likely to cross paths with Sanson in a faraway place like this twice, is he?

"Guydelot."

"Hm?"

"Sleep."

"Told you I'd keep you up," he replies, kissing the top of Sanson's head. "I never said it'd be the fun way, did I?"

Sanson laughs quietly. "You're insufferable."

"You're glad you found me, though."

"Aye." Sanson threads his fingers into Guydelot's, squeezing gently. "And if I'm weary in the morning, still I'll deem it worth the cost."

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 4: Nightmares Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet Triggers/Content warnings: n/a

The dream scatters, leaving him shaking and sweating - even as he forgets what the nightmare was about. As always. As usual.

Guydelot rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his racing heart slows. He was never one for nightmares, never - not until Sanson got himself abducted by Nourval; not until Guydelot spent nearly two weeks in paralyzed terror, alternating between being unable to sleep at all... and living in a hell of endless nightmares, wherein Sanson was subjected to any number of tortures and torments. A bard's imagination, vivid as it was, could sometimes be a curse.

Now he's prone to the bloody things.

Garlemald, he thinks, rubbing his face, rubbing his eyes until he sees stars behind them. It's gotta be Garlemald.

The nightmares get worse when they're fresh home from bloodshed - and though their time in Garlemald was meant to be a mission of peace, still his blood runs cold at the thought of tempered soldiers lurking on the snowfields, of magitek run rampant and ready to turn blades and bullets on any man hapless enough to cross their path. He's not yet forgotten the day that fellow - what was his name? Jullus. He's not forgotten the day Jullus ordered magitek to fire upon the camp; too sudden to react, too sudden to do more than scramble for cover and look belatedly for Sanson-

Sanson.

As always, he seeks calm in the most obvious place.

Guydelot rolls back over, looking at Sanson's face in the moonlight. If he has nightmares about Garlemald - about anything - Guydelot no longer hears of it; it's been some time since he last woke with Sanson trembling in his arms, shaken by the memories of his time as a hostage. Might be as he just carries the weight of it all better.

I'm glad one of us is getting some decent sleep, he thinks wistfully, running a hand through Sanson's hair.

"Mm." The man stirs, smiling without opening his eyes. "Guydelot...?"

"It's nothing," Guydelot says, curling closer and resting his forehead against Sanson's. "Go back to sleep."

"A nightmare?" Sanson's voice is thick on the verge of sleep; his eyelids flutter, but remain closed.

"I'm alright." He loves him so much it hurts. "You just sleep, Chief."

His only answer is a drowsy, incoherent murmur. Guydelot smiles, staying right where he is: here where he can hear Sanson's slow, even breathing; here where he can listen to the man mumbling in his sleep.

It'll keep the nightmares at bay, at least for a while.

[sezja]

@morocosmos requested: 45. sleepy kisses

Kiss Prompts (still accepting!)

Morning comes too soon, pale Garlean sunlight filtering through the thick walls of their tent like the rude awakening it is. Begrudgingly, Guydelot opens his eyes, listening to the sounds of the camp stirring around them - most have been awake for hours now, but he and Sanson took the first watch the night before: it's earned them a late morning. They'll be expected to show their faces shortly, though. Duty calls, nagging wench that she is.

Guydelot props himself up on one arm, the better to admire the man still sleeping at his side. Rare indeed that he should wake before Sanson - usually the dutiful Captain wakes with the dawn, leaving Guydelot to trundle yawning in his wake. Yet here he is: sound asleep, as comfortable here on the cold ground as ever he is at home, contentedly mumbling to himself. His hair spills loose and wild over the pillow, and Guydelot smiles, brushing it away from Sanson's face.

What he wouldn't give to stay right here.

...Well, perhaps not right here.

Shivering, he nestles back down into the blankets, curling against Sanson's back for warmth.

"Mm?" Sanson stirs in his arms, shifting back against him. "Guydelot."

Unable - unwilling - to resist, Guydelot presses his lips gently against the side of Sanson's neck, just beneath his ear. "Morning, Chief." It earns a drowsy hum, which is all the evidence Guydelot needs that the man isn't quite awake yet - not a single lecture about being on duty to be heard. Smiling, Guydelot kisses him again, his lips tracing a light path to Sanson's shoulder.

"Guydelot," Sanson says again, more lucid this time.

Damn. "Aye?"

Sanson rolls in his arms, yawning. "I know you aren't attempting to misbehave while we're on duty," he says, resting his head on Guydelot's arm. "Taking advantage of me while I'm half-asleep, no less."

With a chuckle, Guydelot leans down, kissing the man's forehead. "Me? I'd never."

"No?"

"Of course not. The very image of innocence, that's me."

Sanson smiles, amusement glinting in those beautiful blue eyes. "What a shame."

"Wh-"

"Best we get ready to face the day, then," Sanson says, sitting up. "We don't want to be any later than we-"

Guydelot snags him around the waist, pulling him back down, laughing, for more kisses.

[sezja]

Febuwhump Day 6: Hypothermia Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV Characters/Ship: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet (pre-relationship) Triggers/Content warnings: n/a

"Guydelot?"

He remembers snow, a great deal of snow. Blizzard. It was a blizzard. Hells, the people of Falcon's Nest had warned him not to set off into it, but he wasn't about to listen; he had a package in his pocket and a note for a knight from his weepy-eyed sweetheart, and no little snow was going to stop him. Damn fool decision, in the end. He remembers snow so thick he couldn't see an ilm in front of his face, wind that bit through his clothes and made him wish he'd thought to wear warmer gear. It's never been his strong suit, planning ahead.

"Guydelot!"

He knows that voice, that terse, angry voice. Listened to it complaining in Gridania, listened to it whining in Ishgard. Sanson. Guydelot's guts twist. If Sanson's here, hells; that means he's been salvaged out of some snowbank somewhere and dragged back to his "leader" like a wayward pup. And that means he's got some explaining to do. Gods damn it all. He was hoping to die without having to explain a damn thing.

"Guydelot, I know you're awake, don't-"

"Aye, don't screech in my ear about it," the bard mutters, opening his eyes.

Warm, it's blessedly warm; the feeling's back in his fingers and toes. Warily, Guydelot lifts his hands to study them himself, but there they are: all ten, right where they should be, no hint of frostbite. Must be that he'd been found not long after he blacked out, hot and cold all over. That's the last damn time he tries to wander off into a Coerthan blizzard.

And sitting next to his bed is a sour-looking Sanson Smyth, looking fit to stew alive in his own rage. "Have you any idea the trouble you've-"

"I was looking for a knight," Guydelot says, forcing himself to sit up, never mind that his limbs still feel a bit more wobbly than he'd like. "His patrol was running well behind. Did he ever report back?"

"The knight!" Sanson stands, hands curled into fists. "You were found half-dead, half-frozen, and you're still concerned for this knight you have some quarrel with?!"

"He might still be-" Confused, Guydelot halts mid-sentence, wondering if perhaps hypothermia muddled his thoughts more than he'd expected. "...Quarrel?"

"It's why you left Ishgard," Sanson says, frowning. "To pick a fight with the knight whose lady love insulted your singing." His frown deepens. "Is it not?"

Blinking, Guydelot feels himself suddenly adrift. "I- what in the hells gave you that idea?" He waves off Sanson's stammering explanation. "Never mind. The knight. Alamenain. Did his patrol make it back?"

"I- yes, but-" Sanson shakes himself, recovering his composure. "Yes. Eve continued on after we found you, seeking the knight you'd left to..." He clears his throat. "We had no way of knowing if you'd found him or not, you see, and needed to know how matters stood. His patrol had been attacked by beasts driven ahead of the storm - most of them were slaughtered, but Alamenain himself survived to return to Falcon's Nest."

Slaughtered, Guydelot reflects, gloomy. Perhaps if he'd arrived in time, he might've lent a hand and spared lives... or perhaps not.

He'd never know.

Coughing, he lies back down. The conversation's taken its toll, and the sooner he can get Sanson the insufferably Stiff out of his hair, the sooner he can sleep. "There's a package with a note in the pocket of my coat," he informs his sulky companion. "It's from his sweetheart. See it to him, eh?"

Stunned silence. "You... you left the city- in a blizzard- to deliver a note?"

Guydelot closes his eyes. Wish I'd just died in the snow. "He knows a thing or two about old songs," he says. "Might be as he knows about your godsdamned Ballad."

He expects that to send Sanson sprinting off to deliver the package, but to his surprise, the man lingers a moment longer. Guydelot doesn't bother opening his eyes again; they're too heavy, but he hears when Sanson finally stands and sighs... and a moment later, the blankets are pulled up higher around Guydelot's shoulders, tucked in to trap the warmth in with him.

"That was foolish," Sanson says while he works, so close his breath stirs Guydelot's hair. "Foolish and brash... and brave. Don't do anything like it again."

Guydelot snorts. "Deliver the note."

[sezja]

Previously: CALL ME, DATE ME, KISS ME

WANT ME : The first time Sanson wanted to have sex with Guydelot.

Tailfeather is a strange community, but Sanson finds he enjoys sitting on the fringes of it, observing the comings and goings of the hunters - and this morning finds him doing just that: watching a group of particularly exuberant young hunters splashing playfully in the stream that winds its way through the settlement. Guydelot, never content to sit on the fringes when he can mingle and make a nuisance of himself, has joined them.

It occurs to Sanson, watching from a safe (and dry) distance, that he has never seen Guydelot laugh until now.

Barefoot and stripped to the waist, the man frolics like a child in the shallow water, kicking up small waves to soak his new friends. Sanson sighs, distracted from his journal by the noise - and yes, very well, by the sight of so many half-dressed hunters, many of them fit from their profession and the demands of their chores around the great forest.

And Guydelot.

His most recent lover - gods, that was two years ago now? Three? - had been an Elezen, Sanson recalls: a lancer, not an archer, and there's a marked difference in how the muscles form. Drawing a longbow has given Guydelot a strong chest, and those shoulders… whatever Guydelot may lack in discipline he surely made up for with practice; this is not the body of a man who slacks in his archery. Sanson has the sudden urge to place a hand on Guydelot's back, to feel those muscles at work.

Matron preserve me, I'm going mad. It's only how long it's been since he last shared a bed, that's all; he simply needs to look at someone else, anyone else. Anyone else. He may at last be warming to Guydelot - begrudgingly - but this goes well beyond warming.

But what would it feel like, that chest pressed against him? How would it feel to let Guydelot's hands, so skilled with a harp's strings, explore his skin with the same gentle dexterity? That voice in his ear, low and intimate. And his lips…

"You're lookin' a tad flushed, friend." Marcechamp's voice jars Sanson from his dangerous thoughts, and by the man's mischievous grin, Sanson suspects he knows where those thoughts had wandered. Is he so transparent? A galling thought. Particularly with Guydelot, observant as a bard should be, nearby. "Maybe you ought to join in the fun to cool off?"

"I think not." No, he's going to avoid Guydelot as best he can for the rest of the day, and hope to sort out his own head in the meantime.

WANT ME : The first time Guydelot wanted to have sex with Sanson.

Guydelot has a strong suspicion the room they're given in Falcon's Nest was, until they arrived, a broom closet. Scarcely a fulm between their beds, and they can't both stand up at the same time without stepping on each other's toes; it's a claustrophobic little hole in the wall - so it's no surprise, then, that he's been everywhere else of late. Charming his way into better sleeping quarters is easy: Falcon's Nest is full of stonemasons and soldiers with simple pleasures, and this far from Ishgard proper, being foreign is in his favor more often than not. Most nights he doesn't have to crawl into this tiny hole.

He's not so lucky tonight. He lays face-down on the rickety bed, trying to doze off and failing - kept awake by the sound of Sanson scribbling in his journal, so close it could practically be in the same bed. Another benefit to sleeping elsewhere: superior company.

What's he even writing about? They've been in Falcon's Nest for four days now, waiting on word from Alamenain; there's been no news - what's he got to write about? Guydelot cracks one annoyed eye open, glaring at the inconsiderate bastard. Scribble, scribble. Guydelot wonders if he could reach over and swat the damn book out of Sanson's hands. Not for the first time, he considers burning it while Sanson's not looking - if he ever stops looking at it.

Oblivious to Guydelot's irritation, Sanson scribbles blissfully on. He's dressed for bed: hair down, simple bedclothes; the most relaxed Guydelot ever sees him - but there's still that infuriating stiffness, that rigid manner that never quite disappears entirely. What would it take to shake it, Guydelot wonders?

Pausing for thought, Sanson briefly rests the feather of his quill against his lower lip. Nice lips, Guydelot muses: lips meant for smiling, for kissing. Pity they’re always frowning, even now, pursed in consideration as Sanson mulls over whatever bit of trivial nonsense he feels like memorializing in writing. Never mind swatting the book away. What if he took the quill instead, trailing the feather over those wasted lips, down Sanson’s throat, down the loose collar of his nightshirt…

Might see some life in you then, Sanson the Stiff.

And then Sanson resumes writing, and the impulse of desire flickers out as swiftly as it came. Guydelot sighs, rolls to face the wall, pulls the pillow over his head, and tries to sleep.

[sezja]

Sleeptalker (part 1/?)

Part 2

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Guydelot/Sanson (pre-relationship)

-

Guydelot trudges to their room at the inn later than he intended to, and might have had one drink more than he meant, too, but who could blame him? This mission is off to a miserable start, and it only threatens to get worse - the least he can hope for is that perhaps the nagging little wretch has already gone to sleep. That way he might at least be spared a lecture.

He enters the room, relieved to find that the hinges don’t squeal and the floorboards don’t creak: for a place that surely doesn’t see many visitors, this little inn seems well maintained. Guydelot thanks his lucky stars… or perhaps just a bored innkeeper. There’s one lamp on, low, and it illuminates the small room with flickering shadows.

And sure enough, Sanson’s already asleep.

Guydelot allows himself a long, quiet sigh of relief. Lucky stars, indeed. Quietly, he slips into the room, closing the door behind him. It’s not a bad little room for a brief stay, though it’s a bit drafty and the windows rattle in the frigid Coerthan wind - it’s four walls and a roof, and he’s not particular. Not after hearing some of the tavern’s rougher natives complaining about conditions in the lower stories; no, after that, Guydelot’s more than content just to have a bed for the night. Even if that bed does have a perfect view of Sanson Smyth.

He strips off his boots and clothes in silence, then takes a seat on the edge of his bed, studying his sleeping companion.

So this is the Serpent Captain Jehantel mentioned, then. So far Guydelot’s not impressed: like most men in authority, this one’s up his own arse, with a big head full of ideas and no concern whatsoever about the people he’s got plans for. Out here hunting after a song, of all things. What’s a well-to-do lancer know about songs? Even now, sound asleep, he’s still clutching that damned book of his, cradled against his chest, one arm wrapped around it - and what’s he even been writing about, any road? They haven’t been on the road more than a day yet, but there he was the whole way to Ishgard: scribble scribble scribble, no time for conversation.

Not hard on the eyes, though, Guydelot admits, in the privacy of his own mind - even if the thought does make him frown. It’s true, though. In the flickering lantern light, the pompous prat looks peaceful, all his stiffness softened and faded. The bed was built to suit an elezen frame, and as a result, Sanson looks almost comically small, bundled up in blankets with his journal; Guydelot finds himself smiling at the sight in spite of himself. Why’s Sanson got to be such a miserable stiff-necked bastard, anyhow?

This could have been a halfway enjoyable little adventure: just Guydelot and the Warrior of Light, chasing a song through the legends of Coerthas. Instead…

“There’s gotta be more to you, right?” Softly spoken, the question hangs in the air between Guydelot and the sleeping soldier, not meant to be heard or answered. He leans forward, resting his chin in one hand. “Jehantel likes you well enough. Means he sees something-”

Sanson mutters, and Guydelot bites his tongue, hastening to look anywhere else - but no, Sanson’s not waking up, just talking in his sleep: quiet murmuring that goes on for a minute or more, incoherent and unintelligible.

By the gods, he doesn’t even shut up when he’s asleep, Guydelot muses in disgust, finally lying down in his own bed and rolling to face the wall. This whole mission is turning into a chore, and the sooner he can be done with it - and done with Sanson - the better.

[fistsoflightning]

here’s the full collection of FFXIVwrite2019 prompts in one thing! TBD on some extra editing; i have missed a few words and grammar things, so gonna go back when i have time in mid october maybe?

if you just wanna stay on tumblr, i’ve got the links to those just below the read more! (title | prompt | desc.| spoilers/set in...) things in bold are the writings i’m most proud of!

prompt #1: dragonscale | voracious | zaya, thancred, and a need for warmth | post patch 4.4

prompt #2: a few gil | bargain | alphinaud, ryne, alisaie, and buying groceries | post SHB

prompt #3: my dearest sapling | lost | zaya, feo ul, and contemplation | lvl 79 to 80 SHB

prompt #4: untouchable | shifting blame | thancred, minfilia, urianger, zaya, and dealing with the fuath | lvl 73 SHB

prompt #5: skip, hop, and jump | vault | lumelle, estinien, haurchefant, and a choice of family | post 2.55

prompt #6: dance like nobody’s watching | first steps | ryne, alisaie, and what makes a family | post SHB

prompt #7: forgive me, forgive me not | forgiven | zaya, urianger, and the words of an old story | lvl 79 SHB, set after ‘my dearest sapling’ and lvl 70 DRK quest “Our Comprimise”

prompt #8: crystallized | free day; i chose sensitivity | zaya, alisaie, and the unfortunate side effects of the echo | lvl 70, alisaie’s side of SHB

prompt #9: metathesiophobia | hesitate | zaya, thancred, and a deep, dark fear of changing | post SHB; a b-side to ‘dance like nobody’s watching’

prompt #10: this riddle | foster | those left to clean up the mess left behind by a historian and a strong hope | patch 4.4 and onwards

prompt #11: fan the flames, feed the storms | snuff | zaya, estinien, aymeric, and keeping the soul of hope alive | lvl 70 ‘A Requiem for Heroes’ fight

prompt #12: burn your fingers | fingers crossed | the exarch, the scions, and twelve people too many | in between StB and SHB

prompt #13: thirty-two names for love | wax | zaya, thancred, ryne, y’shtola, and what it means to love someone | post SHB

prompt #14: to go on spinning | scour | zaya’s family, estinien, cid, the living scions and how sometimes hope doesn’t exist | AU; SHB related

prompt #15: on your feet | free day; i chose ‘time’ | emet-selch, feo ul, ryne, and how they take care of someone running out of time | set after lvl 79 ‘Extinguishing the Last Light’

prompt #16: apparitions | jitter | zaya, ysayle, haurchefant, and what is and what isn’t an unfortunate side effect of the echo | set after ‘A Requiem for Heroes’

prompt #17: upon a pedestal | obeisant | zaya, thancred, and the aftermath of the words of an Ascian | post-SHB, uses a spoiler from an SE trailer

prompt #18: deep down beneath blinding indigo | wilt | zaya, tataru, and the ephemeral being of flowers and people | post ‘A Requiem for Heroes’, slight spoilers for patch 4.4 and beyond

prompt #19: storm-tossed seas | radiant | zaya, ardbert, and the desperate measures they take to let others survive | major SHB spoilers; set in lvl 79 area

prompt #20: shared soul | bisect | zaya, alisaie, alphinaud, and the consequences of being two people with one soul | slight stormblood spoilers from lvl 68 ‘Heavens Weep’

prompt #21: fill their shoes | crunch | zaya, tataru, guydelot, sanson, and the consequences of being the last one left to fill a burden | post patch 4.5

prompt #22: by my side, at my back | free day; i chose ‘siblings’ | alisaie, alphinaud, and the bond of twins that surpasses all expectations | patch 4.3 and SHB spoilers

prompt #23: flood of little miracles | parched | zaya, guydelot, sanson, aymeric, and the multi-faceted thirsts of an army | minor StB spoilers; mainly location; set after patch 4.5x

prompt #24: scar story | unctuous | zaya, guydelot, sanson, and the aftermath of the end of a story | lvl 70 BRD quest spoilers, kinda

prompt #25: whatever kept the waters calm | trust | zaya, lyse, and the consequences of a lifetime of lies | tw: angry argument? resolved by the end though

prompt #26: drink me | slosh | zaya, sanson, guydelot, and the uses of a sleeping draught | post ‘A Requiem for Heroes’

prompt #27: forgiven distraction | palaver | zaya, the scions, ryne, and the weary talk of aetherial uses of talos research | post-SHB, no real spoilers

prompt #28: listen to our heartbeat | attune | valdís, zaya, ardbert, nyelbert, and the warmth and pain of sharing a heartbeat | major SHB spoilers; set just before the lvl 80 trial

prompt #29: double sharp | free day; i chose ‘practice’ | zaya, guydelot, sanson, and one of the bad days to be a bard | set after lvl 70 BRD quest, no real spoilers

prompt #30: nyctophilia | darkness | thancred, y’shtola, urianger, alisaie, alphinaud, ryne, zaya, and the comforts of the dark | post-SHB, no specific spoilers?