#guydelot x sanson

[eemamminy-art]

Happy pride, warriors of light! 🌈✨

(Particularly the miners, paladins, bards, culinarians, and summoners of the realm!)

[nabaath-areng]

Jag ska spela den musiken Som du alltid brukar sjunga Jag ska göra en säng av rosor till dig.

[arianeoftheglade]

Guydelot and Sanson, the bard and the lancer.

[shararan]

Sanson is good on the eyes, no question about it. What is surprising however is the fact that the only people catching Guydelot’s eye these days are all midlanders bearing varying degrees of resemblance to Sanson.

Babys first Guydesan... (very short, but a little something even while I'm on a slight writing break)

[velnica]

Homeward (Orpheus/Eurydice)

A ficlet about Eurydice, Sanson's Ancient self, and Orpheus, Guydelot's Ancient self.

He is here again, with his sweet melody that filled the night air like a thousand nightingales. It is obvious that he is here for me, though I do not know why he would, when he can have his fill of adoring audience with far more enthusiasm elsewhere. Yet for nigh a moon he had greeted me as I leave for home, leaning his tall frame against the stone wall outside the building. His is a striking form under the moonlight; a shining jewel to my tarnished brass.

"Good evening, Eurydice," he says, as per usual.

"Good evening, Orpheus," I reply back, like all of those other days. He smiles back, and nothing else is said; from here on the only sound left will be my footsteps, and a song that follows them until I round over yonder corner. So I walk down the stairs and along the pavement as is routine, but I fail to shake the feeling that something is different tonight.

I look up at the moon, seeking answers. Is it his looks? No, Orpheus has always looked the same; confident and bright, as is his right as one of Altima's protégé. Is it his smile? No, it is always gentle and sincere; a smile just for me, he'd said once, and I could not find the lie in those words.

I crane my ears back towards him when it hits me: Orpheus's melody has a different lilt, imperceptible perhaps to those who have not listened to it near nightly, but it is there—half a note deeper and half a breath slower, as if it is waiting for something to happen, something to rouse it back to its usual tempo.

The book against my chest feels inadequate to contain the sudden swell of heat that blooms within. It's an absurd proposition, that someone like Orpheus could be waiting for someone like me; Eurydice; a plain-faced clerk with far too serious a furrow between my brows and minuscule talent for nothing else except recording history.

And yet...

I stop at the far end of the path, where the pavement's patterns meld to a different design. He is still leaning against the pillar; playing, waiting. The wind takes that exact moment to change, and with it, so do I.

"Your melody is different tonight, perchance you can explain its intricacies as I walk home?" I ask, before blushing several shades deep. By the Star, that sounded far too bold—

Orpheus's melody suddenly shifts, this time rising up to a trill, akin to a flight of birds looping through the air. He near jogs to catch up, not breaking even a single note, then stops next to me.

"I've one better. Let me play you a new composition, and you may tell me your opinion of it."

"You know I'm no good critique. I know little and less about techniques," I confess. Instead of chastisement, Orpheus just grins.

"Pah, I've no shortage of people raring to tell me that I ought to use a different scale for more sophistication or some such; no, I'd like you to describe to me what you feel when you hear it, just as you have always done."

I colour even more. It is such a simple ask, and I've always opined on his songs—often unprompted—when he barges into my resting spot at lunch; yet tonight it feels like my answer will forever change the course of... of...

Orpheus waits, still with that handsome grin on his face. His beautiful turquoise eyes shine from behind the mask, and I am drawn ever closer as if pulled by an invisible string. The heat returns to my chest and before I can make a fool of myself, I nod.

His grin bursts into stars. "Come then, let us begin," he says as he lifts his harp and starts walking, in sync with his new melody.

I fall into step with him and listen to this new song, to Orpheus's voice, to the plucking of strings against his fingertips and I let myself feel. The melody tugs at the corner of my lips and before I realise it, I am grinning wide, heart light and aflutter.

I look up at the sky again and send up a wish—to the Star and the Moon, may this feeling never, ever fade.

Continued in Invitation.

[sangrefae]

slides in here with another bunch of misc bard doodles. there are so many more where that came from i just have to split them into diff posts

[dragons-bones]

*slides you some monopoly money* Please would you tell us if you have any headcanons for how Rereha dealt with the Disaster Gay Couple (Sanson and Guydelot) during the Bard questline?

So Rereha knows you cannot force things when it comes to romance and/or sexual tension. You can poke and prod and nudge and encourage, but you cannot be forceful. It spooks the idiots morons individuals involved.

Sanson and Guydelot drove her fucking spare. Worse than Synnove and Aymeric, because that was a when and not an if.

Guydelot, like Rere, is a ho, but he's the kind of ho who doesn't immediately pick up on anything less than blatant attraction from the other party. Sanson I see as a flavor of demi with a hefty dose of hyperfixated on his goals, so he wouldn't recognize having a crush if it punched him in the stomach. Put these two together and you have constant sniping and growling and teasing and incredible amounts of sexual tension that neither are aware of.

Rere spent a number of nights flopped on the ground in Grandpa Jehantel's camp, staring up at the canopy while Jehantel strummed his harp or tuned her violin for her, and whined incessantly about how fucking stupid the pair were with zero indication either of them understood what hints she kept dropping. Jehantel just laughed at her.

She definitely screeched "FINALLY" at full volume when they finally got a clue and had their first sloppy makeout after defeating the Siren.

[headcanons-n-shit]

could i ask for some headcanons of sanson and guydelot with an m!viera wol?? i need to be self-indulgent, fluff or smut or anything you want is fine i am just 👀🥺

ngl it's my personal headcanon that viera aren't actually all that rare in Gridania, they're just reclusive. A lot of refugees and diaspora who sought a home in the relative familiarity of The Black Shroud and Abalathia's Spine. You'll be lucky to see one once in a blue moon, but they are there.

The thing is that Sanson saw you once, and that's really all it took. There is something to be said about a viera's lance technique, that easy smoothness that is the envy of any self-respecting Wood Wailer, and you are going to teach him how to do that if he has to chase you to the ends of the planet.

But what started out as pestering you for lance lessons eventually becomes daydreams about. Ahem. "Lance lessons". Sanson can't help it! You're just. So tall. So graceful. And your ears look so soft. And Sanson just. Urgh. He's so down bad.

He thinks his partner would be jealous, but really Guydelot just laughs. Guydelot knows Sanson's type, and it's not like they havent been toying with the idea of a third for a while now. And if Guydelot had to pick someone, well... He clearly has a thing for lancers, and Sanson wants to be able to keep looking Ywain in the eye, and you are the kind of looker that any self-respecting bard writes songs about.

Guydelot wants to court you like any proper elezen would, and Sanson wants to just ignore it because he values your friendship and he doesn't want to ruin it. But also every time you touch he feels like he's going to burn up, and every time you get sweaty during training and have to shed your shirt his soul leaves his body. Worse, Guydelot keeps taunting him with you, and. Well.

Guydelot is a bard. He definitely knows how to spin a thread about all the things you could do with your hands, you mouth, your coc--

At some point it comes to a head. Morning is leaning into hot, heavy afternoon in a quiet, private glade where you prefer to train, and Guydelot has given up all pretense of practicing his songs in favor of watching the two of you spar. He's getting good, enough that he can take you off guard, taking your legs out from under you as he takes you to the ground. Except you twist as you land, so that he is beneath you when you hit the dirt, and your thick thigh is angled just so, and--

Sanson is hard and hot in his loose pants, and he whines so pretty when you accidentally grind against him.

You raise an eyebrow as you glance at Guydelot, who looks oh so much like the cat who's caught the cream.

"Don't stop on my account," he purrs, even as Sanson squirms underneath you. "I've heard such flattering things about your lance technique."

[theferalscion]

My friend and I talked about our headcanons for Sanson and Guydelot's chocobos

Sanson's is very yellow and he is named Chief. He's got the fancy Adder barding and he's a very serious bird. Well trained and follows orders from his master without hesitation.

Guydelot's is a bright blue, and she is named Kazoo. She's a nudist and walks with an odd sassy strut at times like she's trying to sway her hips. She also attempts to 'sing' along with Guydelot's music at times, but can't carry a tune to save her life. Guydelot still encourages her. Sanson wishes he wouldn't.

Both birds were present for the HW events, during which Chief ignored Kazoo and Kazoo found him boring and not worth her time. However at one point Chief rescued her from some wolves when she went wandering off and she became smitten. Sanson and Guydelot were both amazed and bewildered when they witnessed Kazoo doing mating displays for Chief constantly, which is rather backwards, but Kazoo said fuck your gender norms apparently.

https://youtu.be/CEQuDyuQFKE

(basically this video)

Chief seemed mortified by these constant dances and tried to ignore them but by the end of the trip he had apparently been won over judging by the egg Guydelot found Kazoo proudly sitting on their first night back in Gridania.

Chief has declined to comment.

[jaetopus]

My boys! My darling delightful boys~~~~~~

Please obsess over bards whenever you like, op. I'll come along for the ride. Then everyone else can obsess with us.

at some point i suddenly started obsessing over bards and sure drew a lot within a short time lmao they are silly good boys i love them

[swishysword]

Sunday Munday

LAST SONG: IXxuSmw2HFNWXLUyJFO7xKIT3E7diFUSa86wgFiMI413xtfZga5hClZ/AgdzP33dhpj+0qc1d5sK2jyH5EqK6g== (no, really)

CURRENTLY WATCHING: Catching up on Frieren

THREE SHIPS: all ffxiv ships: Alis/Miyuki (gotta love OC x OC), Sanson/Guydelot (my idiot sons from BRD quest), Hilda/M'naago (I just think they're neat)

FAVORITE COLOR: Jade

CURRENTLY CONSUMING: teriyaki steak sandwich

FIRST SHIP: Oh goodness I can't organize my memory that well, I'm just going to pick one that feels far enough back that it feels close enough. Nao/Morrighan. You know, from Mabinogi. I played that a lot when I was young...

PLACE OF BIRTH: Somewhere. Sorry, I'm one of those people that likes to keep my irl separate from my online life 😔

CURRENT LOCATION: See above

RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Been with my partner for 6 going on 7 years now c:

LAST MOVIE: Glass Onion, I hadn't watched it or Knives Out, and a bunch of friends wanted me to, so we marathoned both of them.

CURRENTLY WORKING ON: Gotta get prepared for my Lancer games this week, I've got two back to back to run. Tiring, but fun, and maybe related to the song I've got up there 😉(I'd go into more detail, but at least one of my players follows this blog and I'd hate to spoil the fun early)

Tagged by @corsair-kovacs Give them a look at, big roegadyn appreciation hours ♥ Tagging: @awful-creature, @agenderagent, @luck-and-larceny, @matzahstein, @gundurr, @tbonechessor, @traveleorzea, @lizarddiary, @gatheredfates and honestly anyone else who sees this and wants in ♥

obviously, no need to respond if you don't want to, but throwing out some tags since what's the point of doing tag games if I don't spread the love?~

[ecosystem-administrator]

Friable

Timeline: end of 4.0

Guydelot has had a scare, and his tension with Sanson is reaching a breaking point.

Anyone who fought with bow or spear or staff in Gridania, sooner or later, would find themselves on the receiving end of one of Timbermaster Beatin's infectiously-passionate lectures about wood and its qualities - the grain and density, the way the shape of it reflected the tree's growth, and above all the sturdy resilience of the material. Guydelot had always, perhaps even unconsciously, associated Sanson with the stiff, sturdy wood used in spear hafts, unyielding enough to drive a point deep without turning aside while still retaining just enough give not to shatter in the process. Wholly unlike the supple wood of a bow, designed to bend again and again without weakening or splintering.

They served different purposes, played their roles well; but never once had Guydelot considered Sanson vulnerable. Not until these last few heart-wrenching, guilt-soaked days where he'd been kept prisoner, hostage, with his own superiors only too willing to see him wasted as a sacrifice.

Fortunately he'd earned enough goodwill among the people who did actual fighting to earn a rescue regardless. And what a rescue it had been - the moment he was freed, Sanson had gone right back to trying to negotiate with his own captor, holding to the ideals he'd chosen right to the last. So maybe it was Guydelot who was the brittle one, still feeling fragile and out of sorts after the near loss of his companion and rival and friend. And leader, technically.

At least Sanson wasn't yet up to moving at his usual purposeful pace, though he was certainly trying anyway. "Slow down, you bugger! I told them I was gonna keep you from tearing any stitches, and I meant it. Just because you're back in uniform doesn't mean you're healed up."

"I appreciate the concern, Guydelot, but there are things that need doing. I can't afford to sit around and neglect the needs of my unit-"

"The unit can look after its own swivin' self for a few days! It's not like they're going to send you on any missions for a bit, and the front line's half a continent away." What was it about Sanson that always set him to arguing? A skilled bard should be able to get along with any audience, but this particular lancer goaded him in ways he couldn't endure.

At least Sanson was slowing down finally. He came to a halt before Guydelot and looked down, expression troubled but still as determined as ever. "It's not about that. It's...after what just happened, I want to ensure that they're not having doubts. About our leaders...about my fitness for command. I did just walk myself right into an enemy trap, after all."

"Bloody fool." Guydelot felt just a little calmer when Sanson wasn't actively escaping his presence. "If they blame anyone for that, they'll blame me. I knew it was a trap when Mayhem decided to walk into it, but I still just let you go off without a pause." He shook his head, still disgusted with himself. "It was stupid, an obvious twist any storyteller worth his salt should have seen coming."

"We trusted in Mayhem's presence," Sanson sighed. "And they've certainly earned that trust, but this has been a hard lesson in being more self-reliant."

Any other day, any day before this one, Guydelot would have cracked a joke to lighten Sanson's mood, something to get the lancer to yell at him. To restore the wall of tension that made up the difference between stiff and flexible, and kept them both on their parallel paths beside each other. But that wall was crumbling again, the tension changing, and today Guydelot simply didn't have the will to rebuild it.

"You really gave me a scare, y'know," he said instead, a little quietly. "All's well that ends well and all, but it doesn't change that you almost died out there, and I... Look, will you just take a few days off? For the sake of my guilty conscience?"

For all his stubbornness, Sanson wasn't entirely insensitive. He looked up at Guydelot, a little surprised, and stepped forward, narrowing the distance between them further. "It's not your fault," he insisted. "I said that I took on the burdens of choice, as our leader, and that includes the choice to follow Mayhem into what we knew was a trap. The fact that it was a bad choice still rests on my shoulders."

"I don't care!" Guydelot's hands were on Sanson's shoulders before he knew what he was doing, shaking the smaller man gently. "Don't you understand? I don't know what I'd do with myself if you went and got killed!" And that was the plain truth. As much as they argued, they worked together too well to be apart, and the idea of not having that stern presence to needle and push against was unbearable.

Sanson's eyes were wide, and Guydelot realized suddenly that he might have gone too far, said too much. But a moment later, Sanson's callused hands, small and warm, came up to cover his own. "I'm sorry, Guydelot," he said quietly. "I didn't think… I haven't really had time to come to terms with…" Suddenly, Guydelot realized the hands on top of his were trembling, and shifted his grip to catch Sanson's hands in his own larger ones.

"Easy, easy. Let's sit down." There were plenty of little alcoves and out of the way nooks in peaceful Gridania, and Guydelot had never been more grateful for it, or for the way Sanson immediately leaned into his side when they sat, all the usual tension seeming to drain from his body. "I didn't mean to shout… You just have a way of getting me all riled up without my even meaning it."

"At least it's mutual," Sanson muttered. "Honestly, though...thank you, Guydelot. I-I...I'm sure it would have come to me in the dead of night, how close I truly was… I'd rather be here with you right now than alone."

Guydelot stroked his back thoughtfully, soothingly, heart beating fast with the knowledge of what his next move had to be. And then, a little hesitantly, he took one of Sanson's hands in his own and twined their fingers together. He waited for the little lancer to protest, draw away, freeze up, anything to suggest reluctance...but Sanson only tightened his grip, sighing a quiet agreement.

That would be enough for now. He held Sanson close against his side as they breathed together, letting the peace of the forest sink into whatever this new moment was. He'd write something properly poetic later, they would have all the time they needed to discuss this change, but for now...for now they would sit, entwined and no longer parallel.

[sezja]

Companion to this

If he’s not going to be thrown out, he’s in no hurry to leave.

Not even bothering to get dressed just yet - his clothes are still somewhere on the other side of the room, discarded sometime yesterday afternoon and not so much as glanced at since - Guydelot settles back into the bed, stretching like a preening, self-satisfied coeurl. Given half a stroke, he might even purr.

But Sanson’s preoccupied, staring into his half-empty coffee mug, without so much as a glance in his direction. Fine. Guydelot props himself up on one elbow, content for the moment simply to look, to admire: Sanson’s beautiful in the morning light - the way the golden sunrise picks out the deep rich tones in his dark hair, spilling unbound across his shoulders; the way his skin seems to glow, making dark constellations of all the little marks Guydelot left scattered across Sanson’s neck and collarbones... 

Desire stirs again. Desire, and something else: something both gentle and fierce, something less familiar, something more than a little dangerous... like a banked flame, waiting to burst into an inferno if he looks at it too long. Guydelot doesn’t want to call it what it is, what he knows it is... or at least what it might become, given enough time. Given enough encouragement.

Looking at Sanson like this, tender and quietly hungry, feels a little like encouragement.

But Sanson could be a statue carved by a master, sitting there with the blankets puddled around his waist, still as stone - his eyes linger on the mug in his hands, the smallest of frowns tugging at his swollen and kiss-bruised lips... and all at once, Guydelot’s heart tightens unexpectedly, clenched in a vice.

Oh hells, don’t say you regret it.

Wouldn’t hardly be the first time someone had slept with him and regretted it in the morning, and he and Sanson Smyth were as unlikely a pair as could be - not too long ago, they’d not even been on speaking terms, never mind civil speaking terms. The spark that ignited between them was unlooked-for. Small wonder if it’d burned itself out somewhere between last night’s explorative fervor and the gentle, drowsy morning sex. Now Sanson’s properly awake, and has a chance to look back at the night before, and... what? Question it? Regret it?

Sanson’s trembling, Guydelot belatedly realizes: nearly imperceptibly, visible only by the ripples in the coffee cup, and the faintest tremor in the bed.

Don’t say you regret it.

“Cold?” Unable to sit still, Guydelot instead shifts to sit behind Sanson, winding his arms around his still-silent lover. He waits for a flinch, waits for Sanson to withdraw, waits for I’m sorry, this was a mistake... but instead Sanson releases a shuddery breath, as though he’d been holding his breath, and relaxes - only a fraction, but relaxes nonetheless - into Guydelot’s embrace.

Not regret, then.

Guydelot could sing.

He settles for humming, resting his cheek against the top of Sanson’s head, strands of tousled dark hair tickling his lips. It surfaces again, that thing that isn’t just desire, lurking somewhere just out of sight, ready to tangle his heart up, and he wonders if it might not be so bad. He could tumble headlong into it - into love, or at least something like it - with Sanson; why not? He’s been reckless with every other part of himself. Why not his heart? Why shouldn’t he hand his heart over into the keeping of this fussy, bossy, pompous little son of a bitch? He likes the idea, warms to it.

“What is this? What are we doing?”

Love, Guydelot doesn’t say, but he thinks it, and he smiles against the top of Sanson’s head. “How do you mean?”

“This.” A hesitation. “Us.”

Us. He likes the sound of that. Simple, clean, uncomplicated. Sums it all up even better than “love,” which comes with a lot of nasty strings attached, a lot of weight he’s not ready to carry, not yet. Someday, maybe. Someday. For now, though, he thinks us will do just fine. He just needs to persuade Sanson of that. And he thinks maybe, just maybe, he can.

Don’t make it more complicated than it needs to be, Sanson the Stiff.

[junieberrylatte]

Oh hey I forgot I did a Sanson and Guydelot gpose cause I love them so much!!!

[velnica]

Invitation (Orpheus/Eurydice)

A continuation of Homeward. Eurydice is Sanson's Ancient self, and Orpheus is Guydelot's

We arrive at the entrance to her apartment building and she waits wordlessly, patiently, until I finish my song. One last pluck of string and I let the note ring clear through the cool night air; a sweet chord to close the day with a positive mood. On impulse I amplify the sound with a little aether, aiming it like soft tendrils of wind towards her.

Eurydice notices—she always does—and her smile deepens with amusement. We play this game well, me with the grandiose display and her with the affectionate mirth. But this is where it always ends, right at the towering front door that will soon separate us.

On another impulse I extend my aethersong further, to curve gently along the lobes of her ears. She shivers.

So do I.

It has been two full moons since we've started this new tradition. I would wait for her outside the Ploutonion, harp at the ready to match the tempo of her steps. She would dust herself and walk out the door, greeting me as if we just coincidentally met. We'd grin conspiratorially, then we would fall into step together, at first to the beat of my song, but now, more often than not, we would walk to the cadence of her voice as she regales me with the stories of particularly interesting individuals that she had chronicled that day.

Once I had turned a woman's lifestory into a ballad. Eurydice didn't admit it, but I could tell that tears pooled under her mask. Another night I had sung a ditty about a researcher with concepts so outlandish that they beggar belief, and the soft giggles that followed had haunted my every dream since.

She always tells me that she is unremarkable; how could she ever compete against all of these people she chronicles, with their monumental accomplishments and indelible marks upon the star?

I always tell her that she is wrong; how could she not see how her sincerity and gentleness had helped a great many custodians find that one last spark of joy that they may enter the aetherial sea unburdened by doubts?

How could she not see that her candour, her insightful opinions and her steadfast encouragement as I sat next to her on the grass with tangled compositions on my tongue, had set my soul afire?

"Thank you as always, Orpheus, for your song," she says softly, breaking my reverie.

I smile back at her, "Thank you for listening, Eurydice, as always."

With flourish I bow in front of her, a theatric gesture that she enjoys greatly. Caught by yet another impulse—a common occurrence when she is near—I reach for her hand and bring it up to my lips to plant a whisper of a kiss on her knuckles. Another shiver runs through her, through me. When I rise back up I catch her gaze. Her golden glows sweep from behind the mask over my form; observing, scrutinising. I hope that one day she deems me worthy of being chronicled into the pages of history.

She opens her mouth to say her goodbye, but nothing comes out. How unusual. I seek out her aether through our still joined hands, hoping to needle out her feelings for a well-aimed tease, only to be greeted by a jumble of warmth and… and affection—

Oh.

Eurydice realises what I’d done and her face combusts. So does mine.

We stand breathlessly for a moment before another emotion radiates out of her; a small spark of something bright, something confident.

“Would you—would you like to have some tea before you leave?” she asks. Her face is turned away from me but I know, even without my empathy, that she is smiling.

“Not milk and honey, as you oft do before bed?” I tease back, remembering her preference for the sweet drink.

She giggles, that selfsame sound that haunts my sleep. “I can make two cups, if you’d like.”

I seize that sound with my heart. “How can I refuse such an offer? Lead the way.”

Eurydice beams, and she pulls me by my hand through the great double doors, towards the elevator at the back. As the contraption speeds up towards her floor she slips her fingers between mine, a wordless invitation into her life.��

A melody suddenly forms deep within my chest. Eurydice always tells me that she is unremarkable. I always tell her that she is wrong… and that's where my mistake lies. Words won’t suffice to show her what she means to the star, what she means to me. 

I grip my harp tightly as the elevator stops and opens its door. Tonight I will sing her a song, her song.

And I hope she will sing it with me.

[sangrefae]

blasts you all w my bard triad beam