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myreia · 2 months ago

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Anthesis

Characters: Thancred Waters, Aureia Malathar (WoL) Pairings: Thancred/Aureia Summary: To celebrate her most recent accomplishment, Thancred and Aureia slip into an arboretum after hours to admire the views. But Aureia has a different plan about what view exactly he should be admiring. Rating: Explicit Tags: Thancred POV, romance, fluff, semi-public sex, adventures with lingerie Notes: Set in a vague time post-MSQ, mild contextless spoilers for Shadowbringers and Endwalker (Aureia and Thancred are both in their 40s by this point). Partially based on this gpose from wolcred week. 6,022 words Read on AO3

Evening has long since fallen, but the gardens are not silent.

Water drips from the leaves of enormous plants far larger than their wild counterparts. Mist rises, the sheen from the humidity shimmering in the air. Insects hum in a soft symphony, their lights bobbing about in the depths of the blue-green darkness. There is life singing within these crystalline walls, understated but powerful.

The quiet here is a far cry from the party thrown here only a few nights ago. It was a good one, as far as Leveilleur-funded festivities go. Elaborate, stunning, well-catered, magical, with the best bards and musicians from across the three great continents. The new arboretum is deserving of the celebration. A collaboration between the Studium and every other major institute of learning, both of the Source and other shards. A place dedicated to the preservation and study of the flora of Etheirys, both magical and non-magical, across every iteration of their star. Past and present.

Aureia is very proud of it.

She intended to linger after the event wrapped up and show him the sights, enjoy the gardens for what they are and on their own terms without distraction. But between conversing with guests, greeting friends new and old, and getting pulled into one conversation or another, time simply slipped by and they left in due course, exhausted from the conversation but content. A part of him wishes they had stayed. He would have enjoyed the heightened romanticism wandering this place in their evening wear—she was stunning that night in her long black gown, the fabric woven with small crystals so as to mimic the glimmer of stars in a night sky. She’s worn it countless times in the past half-decade, and it never fails to make an impression.

A selfish part of him wishes she had more reasons to wear it. She is beautiful no matter what she wears, but she does a number on his heart whenever she dolls herself up in finery.

And so now they’ve returned alone, long after the doors have been shut and locked, to wander and explore on their own time. Though it feels a little childish to say, there is something enchanting about these galleries filled with greenery he cannot name. The sweeping glass halls, the domed roof looking up to a sea of stars at night.

It reminds him—with a pang—of the Hortorium.

“I wish Ryne could see this,” Aureia says quietly as they ascend a wrought iron staircase to the second level. It twists about in a tight spiral, the climb giving a pleasant view of the gardens below.

Her words do little to absolve the bittersweet heartache that never fully goes away. Despite the passage of years, the distance between the Source and the First remains palpable. Ryne is grown now, with a life of her own in the Crystarium. She writes monthly, but no number of letters can be exchanged for her presence. And so, he replies with the only thing he can, an echo of a sentiment they have both voiced many times. “Perhaps one day she will.”

Aureia slows to a stop above him and glances over her shoulder. “There are flowers from Lakeland here,” she says. “In the west wing.”

Thancred smiles. “I know.”

He rises to her step and sweeps her into an embrace, kissing her deeply in the starlight. She melts against him, a palm pressed above his chest, lingering in the kiss. When at last she draws back, her gaze finds his and she raises her hand, her tips of her fingers resting against his cheek. Ruby eyes warm beneath dark lashes. Threads of grey nestled in the midnight of her hair, interwoven with the streaks of red. Creases around her eyes and mouth. The mole beneath her right eye stark against her pale skin. Familiar sights, all, and yet she never fails to take his breath away.

She never will.

He's becoming a romantic in his old age. Not that he’s old. Not yet, anyway, as she is fond of reminding him. There may be silver in his hair and he may not quite have the stamina of his youth, but there is still so much of his life left to live. Which is notable for him, given that there was a time when he thought he had no life left to live. It still escapes him some days, this notion of a peaceful life. It doesn’t feel quite real.

Aureia regards him softly and draws her thumb across his jaw, brushing the faint line of white stubble. “This is new,” she murmurs, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips.

He chuckles. “Well, you know me,” he replies with a shrug. “Never quite been one for it—”

She gives him an arch look.

“—save for a time best left in the past, aye. But admittedly I have been yearning for a change these past few months. I suppose this will do the trick. Whether it makes me scruffy or dignified is yet to be determined, though I suspect Alphinaud will be the first to let me know.”

She curls her fingers around his collar and tugs lightly. “I rather like it,” she says smartly, smoothing the fabric down. The pressure her hands passing over his collarbone stirs something deep within him. “I think you should keep it.”

“That is the intention, aye.”

A pause.

“You’re fishing for something, aren’t you.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to say it, certainly—”

Aureia throws back her head, the stairwell reflecting her tinkling laugh. “If you want to know, yes, I think it makes you look quite dashing,” she says, patting his cheek. Then she kisses him once more, slips her hand into his, and leads him up onto the landing.

They wander the second-floor gallery hand-in-hand, taking joy in their silent privacy. Their footsteps thud quietly against the marble tile, the sound muffled by the enveloping plants. It is lighter here on the second floor, even though the conservatory’s humidity still presses against them. The rush of water trickles in the distance, flowing as swiftly as a river. Large leafy trees curl up to the glass dome, reaching for the stars. The fruits of her labour.

How many of these have sprouted from seedlings gathered from the world over? How many have come from across the shards? The ancients’ distant past? It was her mind that birthed it. Her heart that cultivated it. Her care that nurtured it. She has come a long way from killing plants on her windowsill in the dim light of the Forgotten Knight.

It is truly impressive, this work of hers.

“Have you reconsidered?” he asks after a moment. “Your thesis?”

Her pace slows, her hand tugging gently on his. “Which one? You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Your Archon’s thesis.”

“Again, you’ll have to be more specific. Which one?”

He exhales a long sigh. She’s being obstinate on purpose, as she always is whenever this topic comes up. “Any of them.”

“There’s not much to be reconsidered. I’ll finish them when I’m ready.” She pauses, her gaze drawn to the heartblooms poking through the verdant greenery. Though there is a dedicated plot to the Elpis flower on the first level, the blooms have a habit of showing up in unexpected places, shining with faint light. “I don’t need another title.”

“It’s not about the title.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s an acknowledgement. Of your qualifications and your contributions.” He glances at her. “Some would say you have contributed more than most.”

“I’m flattered, Thancred, truly, but I don’t think I need it. Nor do I want it.” Her grip on his hand tightens, her fingers twining with his, and she slows their pace. The heartblooms rustle, turning gently towards her as they pass like flowers turning to face the sun, their petals flushed with a soft reddish violet. Though they react to the emotions of all within their presence, the blooms seem particularly attuned to her. “I’m not a scholar, I simply have questions and enjoy finding the answers for myself. I like to have clarity. I like discovery. In some fields that may make me an expert, but expertise does not make an academic.”

“Spoken like a true academic.”

Her mouth opens and yet no words come out. The familiar little crinkle that happens when she can’t think of a good retort forms between her brows; her lips twitch as she holds back a smile, torn between laughter and irritation. She shoots him a glare and raps him lightly on the arm in mock outrage.

He laughs. “Am I wrong?”

With a sigh, she links her arm with his and pulls him further down the path. “You aren’t. But being an Archon isn’t simply about the recognition of skill. It is a Sharlayan position, with Sharlayan connections. And I am not Sharlayan.”

“All the more reason to accept, no? The Forum no longer holds its knowledge behind closed borders. A non-Sharlayan Archon would mean much to Eorzea and beyond. A symbol of the changing times, that all are welcome here.”

“I think I have been someone’s symbol more than enough times. Sharlayan doesn’t need me to be theirs. My work is already based here out of necessity, I’m close enough as it is. I wouldn’t want the Alliance thinking I favour one country over another.” Her jaw tightens. “I’m sorry. I know this is important to you, I just… I don’t think I can. At least not now.”

He squeezes her hand and presses a kiss to her forehead. Though his heart sinks with her refusal, he is grateful she stands her ground. This is a decision she must make for herself, he cannot make it for her.

Another turn and they pass through an archway of stone and glass, stepping out into the central hall. The heartblooms grow bright and plentiful here, their luminescence spreading a gentle glow across the dark paths. He can sense the undercurrent of dynamis weaving around them, tugging at them like the flow of a gentle tide. Subtle, but strong. Strange to think how he can make more sense of it now than aether. It is no replacement for the aether he can no longer control, but perhaps it is a guide to something else. Another unknown in a sea of unknowns.

There is so very little that is constant in his life, save for the one walking at his side. His wife. His partner. His friend.

The heartblooms pulse around them, flushing a pale pink.

Aureia exhales a soft sigh and slips her hand from his. She approaches the centre of the gallery where it overlooks the floor below and peers down, trailing her fingers idly across the marble railing. The pool glistens, its waters reflecting the moon above where it shines through the glass roof. Dark, leafy flora encroach its perimeter, obfuscating the rest of the level. Fireflies float through the darkness, their pale lights winking in and out. She rests an arm against the railing, the fingers of her other hand toying idly with a lock of escaped hair. It’s wavier than it should be, curled by its time in her high bun.

She glances over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised. “What?” she asks.

She’s caught him staring at her.

He chuckles and shrugs, spreading his hands. “Nothing,” he says quietly.

A small smile tugs at the corners of her lips. Slowly, she steps into him and sweeps him into a silent kiss, her mouth pressed gently, but openly, to his. Her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him into her. He wraps his arms around her, a hand on her lower back, slipping down to brush her ass. She laughs, the quiet, throaty sound rumbling pleasantly against his lips, stirring desire. When she finally breaks and pulls away, she leaves him breathless and wanting, aching for more. She raises her eyes, looking at him through dark lashes, a coy smile brightening her face, then turns and walks away.

“Aureia,” he calls, his voice echoes through the arboretum, but she does not answer.

Smiling to himself, he follows.

He finds here meandering down the open path, surveying the gardens with wide-eyed curiosity. Her movements are slow and calm, yet precise with intention—even here, in this moment of peace, the warrior does not leave her completely. She pauses now and then, standing on tiptoe here to examine the giant leaves of a tree he cannot name, crouching there to examine the blue petals of some Thavnairian flower. Each time he catches up with her, she moves onto the next display, acting as if him arriving and her leaving in are a coincidence.

But even she can’t hide that mischievous little grin or the way her eyes light up.

“Aureia,” he calls as the hem of her cloak disappears around the corner.

Tinkling laughter resounds in his ears and her footsteps patter away, her boots clacking against the marble. He follows, but when he rounds the corner, she has simply vanished. He slows his pace, drawing to a stop. Her cloak lies in the centre of the path.

He stoops and picks it up, his heart pounding. So, this is the game she wishes to play. “Fascinating turn of events, Aur,” he says. “Don’t you think we’re a bit old for such tomfoolery?”

“I don’t think we’re too old for anything. Besides, I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.”

“So, you simply happened to drop things very inconspicuously, in the centre of this very inconspicuous path?”

She laughs, her voice muffled by the surrounding plants. “It must have slipped out of my hands. Why don’t you bring it back to me?”

He chuckles and rises to his feet. “Why don’t you stay in one place so I might have a chance?”

“Call it the spirit of adventure.” She pauses for a moment, falling suspiciously silent. He takes the opportunity to pick up his pace. “Without it, this would not be quite as much fun.”

He bites his tongue, holding onto his response as he rounds the next corner, hoping to catch her—but she is gone again. This time her tunic and trousers lie in a heap, dark against the white and gold tiles. “You do realize this is a public space, yes?” he says, gathering them up.

“And you do realize that we are quite alone, and it’s after hours. Exceedingly after hours.”

I’ve noticed. The ache for her blooms deep within. He can imagine what she must look like now—standing in her underthings, her jewellery shining in the moonlight—and the thought is too alluring to ignore. His breath catches in his throat and he hurries down the path.

“Aye,” he says finally, rounding another corner. “We’re alone.”

She laughs. Is she behind him, or is that her voice echoing? “Come here, then,” she says softly. “Come find me.”

He pauses, trembling with anticipation at the request. “Where are you?” he whispers.

She doesn’t answer.

Thancred turns the last bend and his heart stops.

Aureia sits on the edge of a white bench in a secluded, hidden corner of the arboretum perhaps only she knows about, caught in a pool of blue-green light that flows in through the ornamental stained glass and backlit by the soft glow of blooming heartblooms. Her back is to him, her skin alabaster and luminescent in the light, the arcane marks branded across her shoulder blades faded from red to silver. She has one leg crossed over the other, her foot pointed, her heeled boot extending the line of her leg. Her body is adorned in small pearls and crystals in two parts, the loops criss-crossing over her thighs and around her hips, down her shoulders and across her breasts.

Desire courses through him, warm and hot and heady. She must have been wearing it this entire time, a treasure hidden beneath nondescript clothing. There’s something charming, perhaps even a bit magical, about the lengths to which she has gone to create this moment—and it only makes him want her more.

His breath quickens. He sets down her clothing. “Aureia…”

She glances over her shoulder and puts a finger to her lips, regarding him with dark, liquid eyes. The pearls and crystals rustle with her movements, the sleeves drooping lavishly over her upper arms. She may as well be naked, the adornments leave nothing to the imagination. A fine sheen of sweat clings to her skin, glistening from the arboretum’s humidity. Her necklace lies against her collarbone, the silver pendant shimmering in the light. Her hair remains swept away from her face, save for the one stubborn lock that curls attractively against the column of her throat.

There is something dreamlike about her in this liminal place, at once both quite real and not real enough. Perhaps it’s the gardens, perhaps it’s the light, perhaps it’s the godsdamn lingerie that will be the end of him.

Here, tonight, she may as well be a goddess. And by the gods—whatever now remains of them—he will worship her, body and soul.

Aureia extends a hand.

Thancred takes it and raises it to his lips. His eyes flick up, his gaze trained rapturously on her, and he presses a slow, agonizing kiss to the back of her hand. She holds still, her chest rising and falling with steady breath.

This is a moment to savour.

He turns her hand and presses his mouth to the inside of her wrist, his lips ghosting across her skin as he holds them both here in this moment. She sighs softly, an invitation for more, and he takes it in earnest, trailing slow, aching kisses up the length of her arm. Soon he is standing before her, head bowed, a hand cupping the side of her face. She raises her chin, ruby eyes open and sparkling, the curve of her lips lifted in a gentle smile. The light catches the pearls clinging to her arms and breasts, casting colour across the iridescent sheen. Her chest rises and falls with her breath, dusky nipples peaking out from behind the loops of teardrops.

His thumb brushes her cheek. Together, they breathe. One breath. Two. Something passes between them, something words cannot express.

Her gaze remains locked to his, staring intently as she spreads her legs, the net of pearls and crystals on her lower half tinkling with her movements. He steps between them and leans down, fingers skimming her collarbone as he kisses her. A faint sigh escapes her, muffled against his lips, and his tongue slips inside her mouth, kissing her just as he has hundreds of times before. Hot, liquid desire courses through him and he forces it down, keen not to let this moment pass too quickly.

He drags a hand down her chest, slipping it through the beads of pearls, and cups her breast. The moan he coaxes from her now is more urgent than before. She breaks the kiss, head tilting back, a loose curl brushing the column of her throat. Dark lashes flutter against pale skin as he runs a thumb over her nipple, caressing it to a peak. Trembling, she opens her eyes and breathes a sigh into the warm, humid air.

She reaches for him, her fingertips brushing first the tattoos on his neck, then the white choker around his throat. Even after all these years, he still wears it.

Her gaze finds his.

She hooks a finger beneath the choker and pulls him down, crushing her mouth to his. He groans and leans into her, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other squeezing her breast. His knees quake, his lips still pressed to hers in a raw and open kiss, and he sinks before her to kneel between her legs.

A growl rumbles in the back of his throat and he drags his lips from the corner of her mouth and along her jaw, down the column of her throat to her collarbone. When he presses a long, sucking kiss to the hollow of her throat, she grips the edge of the bench and holds herself still. Her leg hooks around him, pulling him closer, her heel pressed against his back, and she bites her lower lip to muffle a moan. The sound sends a pleasurable shiver rolling down his spine.

Heat flushes through him from his core, his head spinning with the haze of desire.

A light touch now. He slips down her body, his nose grazing the beads that fall in a line down her breastbone, his hands roaming across the strings of pearls. It doesn’t take much to push them apart, to loop them back and out of the way. He falls against her, hands now locked around her waist, holding her securely as he presses his face to her breasts. His tongue flicks across her nipple and she inhales a sharp breath. He chuckles huskily and teases her with his tongue, pressing one sucking kiss after another until she is trembling in his arms.

The ghost of his name murmurs on her lips, lost in the sound of the arboretum’s rippling water and rustling leaves.

He moves further down, the stubble on his chin scratching her skin as he presses kiss after kiss to the soft curves of her belly. Her head tilts back, her sighs now fading into the gentle quiet of this lush and private place. Her foot slips, her heel grazing the floor, and she shifts her weight, arcing her hips towards him. He grins and slides a hand beneath her thigh, the other falling to her hip. He toys with the pearls there, twining the strands between his fingers.

He kisses above her navel.

She trembles. Her foot digs into his rear, pushing him closer. A moment later, her fingers thread in his hair, pulling gently as she leads him down to all the places she wants to be touched. Blood pulses in his veins, desire pooling deep within at the command. He groans, the sound muffled against her stomach, the yearning for her—to caress, to kiss, to feel, to explore every part of her—clouds his mind, everything else all but forgotten.

He kisses further down, coming to rest above the apex of her thighs. She breathes his name and he chances a glance upwards, gazing at her, entranced. In these few precious seconds, he takes her all in—the dark of her hair, the curve of her lips, the strength of her arms, the alluring gleam of those damn pearls wrapped around her breasts. Such beautiful sensuality that only makes him crave her more.

She is here. With him. For him. This exquisite moment a creation of her design.

He bows his head and presses his mouth to the scintillating heat between her legs.

The scent and taste of her is intoxicating. Breathing deep, he drinks her up, lapping at her clit. She gasps, her breath hitching, and drags her fingers through his hair, firmer this time. He groans, his own desire pushing tight against his trousers, and for a moment he basks in the memory of her hand around his cock, stroking him to sweet release. He coasts on the tender desire, letting it swell and bloom even as his mouth works her into a mewling mess. She pants above him, eyes closed, chest heaving, her hair unravelling even more now.

He shifts his weight, his knees aching where they press against the marble tile, and turns his head, sweeping his tongue through her folds. Up, down, licking and sucking, some movements long and languid, others fast and fervent. A pause so as not to overstimulate, to leave the sensitive nub yearning for more while he attends to other parts of her. He strokes downward with the flat of his tongue and slides it into the heady heat of her cunt, thrusting in deep. He has always been good with his mouth. The way she tenses and relaxes under his ministrations, the scent and taste of her, the small sounds she makes, the view of her from between her legs. How could this not be the way to make love to her?

Pleasure pulses within him, hot and bright.

He grips her hips, one hand slipping below the drooping pearls to squeeze her ass. She tenses, her pleasure mounting, her fingers running again and again through his hair as the foot hooked around his waist holds him tight.

With a smirk, he drags his mouth upward, pulls her clit into his mouth, and sucks.

She cries out, trembling and shaking as he pushes her past her peak. Her leg slips from its position, sliding over his ass to hit the floor, the sound of her heel striking the marble tile echoing through the gallery. Her hands move from his hair to his jaw, cradling his face as she the last waves of pleasure fade, and at last she stills, her faint, shallow breaths resounding in his ears. He draws back and sinks to the floor, his head resting against her thigh, and covers her hand with his. Their fingers twine together, holding tight.

They sit, her perched on the bench, him on the floor, and breathe as one in a pool of blue-green light. His heart thunders in his chest, so loud he is certain she can hear it.

He closes his eyes.

Fingers rest against his chin, gently turning his head up. Heels clicking on the floor. Pearls rustling by him.

When he opens his eyes, he finds her standing before him, a mischievous smile on her face. She takes his hand and pulls him up, leaning in to capture his mouth with hers. His lips part for her and she kisses him deeply, drawing him in so deep he thinks nothing of what she is doing until he finds himself turned, his back now to the bench, the backs of his calves pressed against it. She breaks the kiss and glances up at him, gazing at him from under dark lashes.

She slips a hand between his legs, palming the hardened bulge.

Pleasure strikes through him, warm and wanting.

She presses her body against his and undoes his trousers, pulling his cock free.

His chest rises, his breath caught in his throat.

She places her hands on his shoulders.

His knees buckle. He stares at her, captivated, and allows her to push him down onto the bench. He sits, watching as if spellbound as she sinks to her knees. She places her hands on his thighs, her touch featherlight even as she pushes his legs apart, her gaze still trained on his. Desire throbs within him, his cock flushed and erect, and this moment of pause driving him mad. He has never wanted her to touch him more.

Please. The plead lies voiceless on the tip of his tongue.

She smiles, running her hands along the inside of his thighs. The light reflects off the loops of pearls, shimmering bright.

Then she bends, bowing her head, and takes him in her mouth.

His chest heaves, a sharp intake of breath flooding his lung, and pleasure courses through him as her tongue sweeps across the tip of his cock. He blinks, his vision dark and hazy with lust, time slowing to a halt as he gazes at the person between his legs. His lips part, mouth half-open in a sloppy, stunned smile, a moan rumbling in his throat as she takes him deeper.

Her hand slides between his thighs and cups him gently.

He curses, his hips arcing in response. His teeth scrape his lower lip and he clings desperately to the sensation, wanting more and yet fearing it will end too soon. Groaning, he shifts his weight and reaches for her, running his fingers through her hair. Her bun loosens, more strands coming undone and falling against her collarbone. The sight of her—the dishevelled hair now at odds with the precise exquisiteness of the pearl lingerie, kneeling between his legs with her mouth and hands around his cock—sends coiling heat rushing through him.

Her eyes flick up, meeting his. A small, playful smirk brightens her eyes.

She presses her lips around the tip of his cock and sucks, lavishing him with her tongue.

His fingers grip her hair, holding her close, his moan echoing through the empty gallery. He trembles, the need to move, the desire to thrust upwards making his head spin, but he holds still for her. She draws out one stroke after another, faster and faster, sucking and sucking until at last he cannot hold himself back. He gasps, trembling as he spills into her mouth. She takes it calmly and in control, steady where he is shaking, and at last pulls back and releases him with a wet pop.

She sits back on her haunches and looks up at him with a satisfied grin, gently wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

He stares back in wonder, his hands still in her hair, and leans down, resting his forehead against hers. The air around them swirls, warm with the scent of sweat and sex. The glow of heartblooms gleams in his peripheral vision, their luminous petals flushed a golden pink.

He cradles her and kisses her cheek. Her jaw. Her ear. Her lips. Her neck. They should be done and over, but he wants nothing more than to draw her into him, to feel every part of her.

He takes her hands and draws her up.

She stands before him, radiant in the hazy light, hair unravelling, ruby eyes shining. Her gaze sweeps over him and she reaches out, pressing a palm to his chest, right over his heart. She pauses, feeling the beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, brimming with life and joy. She leans in, brushing her fingers across his cheek, and kisses him.

He groans against her lips, surprised by the gentleness of her touch. Drawing back, he meets her eyes, a question in his gaze as his hands drift to her hips. She smiles, her laughter soft, and nods, kissing him again in confirmation.

He grins.

Gripping her hips, he turns her around. His gaze flicks up, looking her up and down, admiring the strength of her back, the shape of her ass, the way the pearl straps loop around her curves. Exhaling a breath, he pulls her eagerly into his lap, her familiar weight leaving him flushed and aroused. He kisses her shoulder, dragging his lips up to the crook of her neck. He kisses her deeply, sucking at the delicate skin, one hand wrapping around her waist. His touch is featherlight, teasing her with faint brushes against her inner thighs, drawing out the moment.

At last, he slips his fingers between her legs.

She is warm and slick, and she trembles in his arms as he runs a finger across her clit. Still sensitive—the lightest stroke has her moaning. A husky chuckle rumbles in the back of his throat and he places a hand against her cheek, turning her head to kiss her. He parts her lips with his tongue and strokes downward with his fingers, pressing them to the entrance of her cunt. She gasps, a faint demand for more murmured on her lips, and he pushes a finger inside, thrusting in and out. Her breath hitches and she arcs her hips, grinding against him as she moves in rhythm to his thrusts.

He bows his head, forehead brushing her shoulder. Desire simmers deep within. She rolls her hips, stoking his arousal, and his cock stiffens, yearning for more. The desire to be within her is too potent for words.

Holding her close, he pulls his fingers free and shimmies her back. She pants, breathless and wild, and plants her heels on the floor. She pushes up and he grips himself, guiding his cock. She moans as he enters her, pushing into the aching, swollen heat.

Finally, he sheathes himself with her.

She pauses, adjusting to the pressure, the moves, pulling him deeper to the sweet spot that has her trembling with pleasure. He clutches her to him, wrapping a hand around her front and slipping it beneath the pearls. He toys with her breast, plucking delicately at her nipple, enjoying the mewls he coaxes from her as he thrusts up into her, slow and deep. She sighs and leans against him, her back pressing into his chest, the clasps of her lingerie catching on his shirt.

Her hand grips his thigh.

His tangles in her hair, unwinding the rest of her bun until her hair falls, wild and free, about her shoulders.

Then she presses up off the floor, taking control of their pace, and rides him with slow, purposeful movements.

His heart thunders, blood rushes in his ears, and all sense of time and space evaporates. He kisses her—shoulders, neck, back, anywhere and everywhere within reach. Her back arches and her hips roll, drawing fervent pleasure from him again and again until he is certain he can hold on no longer.

His hand slips from her breast, his slick palm pressed flat against her stomach, and he reaches around with the other and dips below her navel. One heated stroke of her clit and she is shaking. A second and she is whimpering with bliss. A third and she crashes over her peak, her hand squeezing his thigh as her cunt clenches around his shaft.

Her wordless voice, her panting breath, the frenetic beat of her heart, it is all the sweetest music of recent memory. Here, in this moment of ecstasy, they stare out together at these gardens of blue and green and gold. Here, in this place of her own making, she leads him to rapture.

He comes, his cry muffled against her shoulder, thrusting deep as he spills into her. She moans, her head lolling back, eyes closed, shaking as he strokes her through her climax. Another wave of pleasure crests and crashes, and she is panting and shaking as he brings her to one last end. Finally, he slips free, pleasantly spent, sweat clinging to the inside of his shirt, and does up his trousers. She twists around and curls up in his lap, her legs thrown haphazardly over his and her arms about his shoulders, her face buried in his neck. Her long hair tumbles down her back in a tangle, the red streaks fading into black.

He holds her and at last there is silence. True silence.

“I should have told you sooner,” Thancred says quietly, cradling her in his arms.

“Hm?”

“You are radiant tonight, Aureia darling.”

She snorts, muffling a little giggle with her hand. “A ridiculous idea, this,” she says, plucking at the pearls looped over her arm. “I should never have gotten this thing, and yet… well.”

“Well?”

She brushes his cheek with her thumb, running it across the stubble on his jaw. “I wanted to surprise you. And I rather like the way you look at me when I’m wearing something like this.”

“Is that so? Then you simply must give me more reasons to look.”

“Sweet talker.”

“With you? Always.”

They remain there for a time, surrounded by intimate quiet, caught in the glow of the heartblooms’ fading luminescence. It is rare for them to have such moments to themselves, though they are becoming more common in these halcyon days of their retirement. Moments of bliss and aching passion, tempered by their long years together. In a strange way, he feels they are only now finding the small pleasures that simply were not possible in their youth. Back in a time when they were both shaped by their sense of duty, by promises made to themselves and others, to the fate of nations and the destiny of the star.

Such matters are over now.

Time moves ever onwards. There are new joys to explore, new moments to discover.

Perhaps this is what peace is.

#ffxiv #final fantasy 14 #ff14 #ffxiv fanfiction #wolcred #thancred waters #warrior of light #aureia malathar #oc tag #writing tag #this is a reject prompt from ffxivwrite i thought i'd finish up #i have covid and apparently covid brain = let's write smut! hahaha #most of this was written in a haze on account of being sick

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