#Myst :3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hythlodaes · 2 months

Text

prince of the pride

emile/leofard - 9.6k words contains mature content, pls don't read if you're under 18!

Leofard leans back in his seat, raising his cup to his chin as he studies him. Brown eyes blink back at him, guarded but curious, and Leofard thinks about how quiet he was outside, he thinks about the way his mouth pulled into a frown beneath his helmet, what was visible when the rest of him was hidden. “I'd bet you're looking for a distraction.” The way Emile's brows raise tell him he's right, but then he nods. "Aye." “Well, hero,” he says, and he shifts closer until their knees touch. “I just so happen to make an excellent distraction.”

It begins with three shots cutting through the quiet afternoon, and the hard line of the Warrior of Light's mouth.

More importantly, it begins with a hell of a ship.

The sail stretches into the sky, stark white against blue, sleek and powerful and everything Leofard was told it would be. He's tracked down every rumor of it he could, ever since someone first said to him, You should see what the Ironworks cooked up for the Warrior of Light.

It doesn’t disappoint.

He knows more about the ship than the man himself, and without it, he isn’t sure that he would recognize the dragoon. Lance in hand, face hidden by his helm, he stands protective between the trembling merchant and the three so-called pirates on the ground, so it seems about right.

Leofard can feel his attention on him, but he can't read his expression like this. Still, he invites him back to the Parrock, throwing on a cocky grin despite the way it unnerves him.

He doesn't like it when he isn't holding all the cards, but the promise of adventure far outweighs the unknown.

—

A pistol is a good weapon, but a sharp tongue is better. Leofard has a knack for knowing the right thing to say, for knowing the right kind of smile to charm someone. He has a plan to appeal to Emile's good heart, the one thing he knows about him—the hero that can't help but be a hero.

But then Emile takes his helmet off.

Leofard's half distracted by the way his armor clatters as he sets into motion, but then his attention catches on the way his hair falls to his chin as he shakes his head a little. Deep brown eyes settle on Leofard, something guarded and cautious in them. Leofard's gaze sticks on him, taking in the line of his nose, the slight pout of his lips, freckles dotted along his cheeks, and two scars on either side of his face.

For a moment, he's caught off guard by how attractive he is.

Leofard lets his gaze travel down the rest of his body, intentionally roaming over the expanse of each long limb before returning to Emile's eyes that were, until this moment, steady on him. He watches Emile turn his head away quickly, ears burning the perfect shade of red as he blushes.

Okay, Leofard thinks. Gotcha.

Appealing to his bleeding heart would’ve been the wrong move. He can see it all over him. Leofard crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back with a grin on his face. "You want an adventure."

—

The answer, of course, is yes.

—

The landing strip is full of noise—the sound of airships whirring to life, scraps of conversation, but mostly his crew yelling over each other as they prepare the ships for their upcoming trek. Leofard is on his way to the Raimille when he spots the Warrior of Light standing alone at the edge of the landing strip, helmet in hand.

Leofard's steps take him closer before he can think better of it.

"Couldn't help but notice you starin' at me pistol."

"Excuse me?" Emile turns towards him, brows raised.

“I wasn't showin' off for you earlier," he says, dropping his hand to his holster, "but if it had that effect, then I can't say I'm displeased."

The wind pushes Emile's hair into his eyes, which remain fixed on Leofard as his mouth parts for a long moment before he asks, "Are you always like this?"

Leofard grins. “It’s all part of the charm.”

"Aye, well, you're not a bad shot, I'll give you that."

"That's putting it lightly," he says with a grin. "What about you, hero?”

Emile shakes his head. "I've never shot a gun."

Leofard takes a step closer. It has the unfortunate effect of forcing him to tilt his head back. "I could teach you, if you'd like."

He seems to consider it, and Leofard feels a familiar rush of heat as Emile lets his gaze skim low down his body before meeting his eyes again. It's an answer to a different question, one that wasn't given a voice but asked all the same.

An answer that Leofard is very interested in hearing.

"Mayhap I'll take you up on that," Emile says, and he takes a step even closer. "For now, let's find your ghost ship."

—

If there's one thing he learns on the ark, it's that Emile throws himself mercilessly at danger.

One would think he didn't care whether he lived or died, given the way he dives headfirst into it, lance whirling around him as he streams through the air. Each blow rips into their enemies, leaving a mess of voidsent for Leofard and his crew to trail, pistols in hand.

A certain thrill buzzes through his bones the entire time, eyes roaming over the mass of the ship as he instructs his crew to grab what they can. It's more than riches, more than just a trophy—it's a way to say, Look at what I survived.

It's another story to tell.

And Leofard thinks he'll enjoy telling this one, even as they're running for their lives, as he grabs the odd little cat by the scruff and takes him with him in the Raimille.

After all, a daring adventure isn't complete without a daring escape.

—

The story unravels, plans are made, and yet Emile lingers behind after everyone else leaves Leofard's chambers.

“Something I can do for you, hero?” Leofard asks. He stands, drawn like a magnet closer to him. They came straight here so Emile’s still in his armor, watching him with a certain kind of exhaustion in his posture.

“I wanted to take you up on your offer,” he starts, and clears his throat. “Mayhap at a time when I’m not covered in bile.”

Leofard raises a brow. “Remind me what that was again? Drinks and takin' each other's clothes off?”

Emile rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. “Teach me to shoot, Redbill.”

And if hearing that isn’t its own kind of rush...

“Stop by tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll show you everything.”

—

Emile comes back the following evening. They fly down to an empty island, where Leofard sets up a few targets, talking through the basics while he does. Emile looks so much softer in a loose white shirt instead of his armor, and Leofard doesn’t bother hiding the way his gaze catches on the way his collar hangs open, exposing his long neck, his collarbones, the top of his pecs. Emile merely raises a brow when he catches him looking.

“Okay hero, watch an' learn,” Leofard starts. One deep breath before he takes out his pistol, his focus shifts to the painted target in the setting sun's light. He squares his shoulders back as he raises his arm, eyes narrowed through his goggles, then one more breath before he pulls the trigger.

The sound crashes through the silence, loud and sharp and violent—Leofard's favorite kind. The bullet strikes straight through the center of the target, and he looks over at Emile, who doesn't seem particularly impressed. His gaze is intent though, studying Leofard in a way that's decidedly more focused on learning from him.

After all, he supposes, that's why they're here.

He spins the pistol around to hold out the handle for Emile to take. "Your turn."

Emile hesitates just a moment before he steps into Leofard's spot. The pistol is a little small for him, his finger sits cramped around the trigger, but he follows suit. One deep breath, he squares his shoulders back as he holds the same position. Leofard likes the focus in his eyes, that deadly precision, the warrior out of his element but no less dangerous.

He pulls the trigger.

It swings left.

“Lift your shoulder a little higher," Leofard offers, and this time when he studies his body, he's merely looking at his posture.

It misses again.

“It’s your bearing, hero,” he says, and he steps closer. Emile doesn’t shake him off, and if he wanted to—well, he’s the one holding the gun. Leofard places one hand on Emile’s extended arm, raising it the slightest, and the other on his back. “Here.”

He pulls at him, straightening his posture as his hand presses into the warmth of his body. Once Emile has the right angle, Leofard lets his fingers slide down into the small of his back—just to touch, just to linger long enough to make his intentions clear.

Emile’s breath hitches, a soft sound to break the quiet evening, and Leofard can’t help a crooked grin as he takes a step back. This time, when Emile pulls the trigger, it hits the mark.

“I think,” Emile says, his gaze still fixed on their makeshift target. “You should show me again.”

—

Leofard can think of worse ways to pass the evening than to watch a beautiful man shoot a beautiful gun.

Once Emile consistently hits close to the center of the target, they move it further away, and then further still. Each time he misses, Leofard is there to help him aim again, cool fingers against his warm body, his breath ghosting below his collar as he stands too close.

“I think you’re getting the hang of it,” Leofard says once he hits the center of a target twenty yalms away.

“Well, I have a good teacher.”

“Aye, and a handsome one at that,” he says, despite the way his thoughts stutter to a stop at how earnest it sounds. He winks at him. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me, hero.”

Emile's quiet for a long moment, and then just as quietly: “You don’t have to call me that, you know.”

“It’s true, ain’t it?”

The setting sun barely reaches them, but it doesn't hide the way Emile’s expression falters when he turns his head back towards their makeshift target range, shoulders dropping the slightest bit as the quiet stretches on. Leofard feels his brows lower as he watches, but after a moment, Emile returns his gaze and holds out the pistol for him. “Did you want to show off again?”

Their fingers brush as Leofard takes it back, but he can't help but stare at the downturn of his lips. "Depends on what I'm showin' off."

"You're an arse," Emile returns, but it softens his expression as he shakes his head a little. “Is this how you treat all your little birds?”

Leofard raises a brow.

“I find it hard to believe there’s anything little about you,” he returns, and Emile’s laugh comes so suddenly it seems to shock him as well. Leofard lets his mouth quirk into a grin, spinning his pistol back into the holster. “How about that drink, hero?”

—

There's a different kind of anticipation that buzzes through his blood as they return to the Parrock. It isn't quite like rushing into danger, but it's the same thrill of the unknown. Emile is a step behind him as he opens the door to his chambers, and his heart beats a little faster in his chest, uncertain but hopeful about what's to come.

Leofard pours them both a drink, pausing to watch Emile wander around his room. He takes a closer look at the myriad of treasures laid out in the open, and he doesn't touch anything, but he comes close a couple times, lifting a hand before pulling it away. He looks up at the portrait of Raimille for a long moment before he turns back to Leofard, who offers him a cup before he can ask.

They talk into the night. Or rather, Leofard talks, telling story after story. He loves the attention, loves the way Emile’s eyes watch him carefully, how amusement creeps in at the edges of his expression. The lamp light softens the edges of him, and Leofard finds himself trailing off as they stare at each other, his body warm from the drink.

He clears his throat.

“What about you, hero?”

Emile raises a brow. “What about me?”

“I'm sure you’ve got a thousand stories to tell,” he says. “What's it like bein' the Warrior of Light?”

A small frown forms between Emile’s brows. “It isn’t as romantic as you’d think.”

“A life filled with fame and adventure—doesn't sound too bad to me," Leofard returns. "You could always trade it in for a pirate's life, it comes with plenty of riches."

"Don't tempt me."

"’Tis all I've been tryin' to do, here."

Emile lets out a quiet laugh. “How can you be so shameless?”

“The way I see it—'tis the only way to get what you want,” he answers. “Ain't no point in hidin' it, after all, everyone wants something.”

“So what do I want, then?”

“I'd bet you're looking for a distraction.”

The way Emile's brows raise tell him he's right, but then he nods. "Aye."

“Well, hero,” he says, and he shifts closer until their knees touch. “I just so happen to make an excellent distraction.”

Emile bites his lip. “You’re trouble”

“And I reckon you like trouble.”

“Only your kind,” he murmurs. He reaches over to pull Leofard's goggles off, fingertips brushing against his skin, and a small smile crosses his lips. “You have pretty eyes.”

If there’s anything Leofard’s ashamed of, it’s the warmth that spreads through his chest at that. He shakes his head. "Come here."

They're close enough that Leofard just has to lean up a little to kiss him, letting his lips settle against the warmth of his mouth. Emile hesitates a moment before he returns it, slow until it's certain, leaving him without question that this is where they both wanted the night to go.

Emile's kiss is as warm as his eyes, as soft as his voice. It’s the same heady rush of danger, like watching him tear through that ghost ship. There are things about Emile that make sense on their own but are hard to reconcile in the same man. Kissing him is a moment of understanding. Their mouths move together and they don’t move away.

It builds—rough but honest, and it’s too close, too much, too good.

Emile’s hand comes down onto Leofard’s thigh, big enough to span the width of it, and any semblance of restraint Leofard thought he had blanks out as it drifts upwards, as his fingers grasp at his hip and pull him closer. Leofard goes willingly, his body on fire as he shifts onto Emile's lap and parts his mouth against his.

Emile below him, Emile surrounding him. Emile with that same question in his eyes, only this time he pulls back to ask, "Do you want to?"

"Aye," he breathes out, pointlessly, given the way he rolls his hips down against him, given the way his hands tease at the hem of his shirt. The word barely has a chance to escape his lips before they're kissing again, but then Emile stands, hauling him up with him, and Leofard lets out a very dignified, very masculine yelp at how effortlessly he's carried to the bed.

He thinks this might be the most genuine smile he's seen on him yet.

"Okay, Captain?" Emile asks, but Leofard doesn't miss the strain in his voice, something low and stretched out before he bends to kiss along Leofard's jaw.

"Oh I'm fine," he returns, groaning as his tongue licks over his neck, hands moving lower to tug at his shirt. "Just thinkin' how you're far more fun than you let on."

Emile makes a short sound that could almost be a laugh, but any further conversation is spoken through touch. The room begins to blur as Emile settles his weight over him, as they grind hip to hip, as their heavy breaths overlap and color the quiet. Leofard's heart races as Emile leans back to pull his shirt off, the distant candlelight glowing against warm skin, shadows pulling at thick muscle as he looks down at him, his gaze open and wanting.

“Shit," Leofard breathes out.

They don't take their time.

Emile's moans are just as soft as his voice—something delicate but needy, something addictive and overwhelming all the same. Leofard opens his mouth against his, swallowing each sound and choking out his own. His body comes alive beneath his touch, their hands meet between them, and everything else fades into the rush.

Later, they lay beside each other, Emile’s leg draped over his as he catches his breath, and yet—when Leofard looks over at him, he doesn't wear a matching grin. Instead he merely blinks at the ceiling, expression blank, and he only looks away when Leofard clears his throat.

A static kind of smile finds his lips, but he reaches over to brush his fingers through Leofard’s hair.

“All right?” he asks.

Leofard laughs. “Yeah, hero, more than all right.”

A tiny, more genuine smile crosses his lips, and Leofard stares at it for a moment too long. Of all the words he's heard used to describe the Warrior of Light, cute was not among them.

He gets up a moment later, and Leofard rolls over, face half buried in the pillow as he watches Emile dress.

"You know, I ain’t opposed to you stopping by again before our next adventure," he says, and Emile pauses for a moment before he continues to button up his shirt.

“Mayhap I will,” he returns, his voice casual, but the look in his eyes is a promise of its own.

Leofard hopes he intends to keep it.

—

The days drift by after that, and life goes back to normal aside from Cait Sith’s presence on the Parrock. Every so often Emile will stop by, and it's always How about a drink? or Let's go shoot, before they're back in his bed.

They get to know each other through touch first, but conversation comes easily, filling the spaces in between. Both of them are upfront about wanting something easy, something that doesn't mean anything more, and saying goodbye feels just as uncomplicated—no lingering kisses, no lingering feelings.

It's fun.

Leofard traces down a rumor about an old fortress of ruins, of a party that went to explore them and never returned. He and Stacia fly there as soon as they can, but it’s obvious when they get there that it's already been picked over. Whatever happened though, it doesn’t look like it ended well. They keep alert, keeping quiet as they sort through what’s left.

There’s a pistol among the relics they recover. Leofard reaches for it automatically—it’s beautiful, inlaid with a gold carving of a dragon, and its tail curves around the handle. Immediately he thinks of his pistol in Emile’s hand, long fingers cramped around the trigger.

Mayhap…

“A little big for you, eh Captain?”

Leofard’s attention snaps up to Stacia watching him with a question in her eye, lips caught in a teasing grin.

“Insubordination,” he says, but he looks down at the pistol again. “I think it’s just about right”

He takes it back to his quarters, leaving it out among his other treasures for a moment before he decides to lock it away in a spare chest. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it yet, feeling oddly indecisive. He could give it to Emile—just a taste of this life—but it feels too much like, I think of you when you're not here.

It’s on the back of his mind when Emile stops by later, but he still hasn’t mentioned it by the time they make their way to the bed. When Emile’s hand winds around his neck to turn his head into his kiss, chest pressed along his back, the pistol is the furthest thing from his mind.

—

The days drift by like that, except the damned cat keeps getting on his nerves.

It's the same argument with Cait Sith, again and again, Radlia's name in his mouth as if that isn't the last thing that will convince Leofard to listen. He knows Stacia is getting annoyed with them, but that's on the furball. If he actually put his time and effort into useful ideas, then maybe they'd be getting somewhere by now.

It's no different today. They're in Leofard's chambers, Cait Sith once again insisting that joining forces with the Talons would be the best move. Leofard’s heard enough. He steps outside to clear his head, to get a breath of the free sky, and that's when he sees the sail of the manacutter fly overhead.

Leofard leans over the railing, casting his gaze down at the landing strip, where Emile climbs out of his ship. Stacia is there to greet him, and the two of them stand warm in the sun for a moment before Emile glances up at him, catching him watching.

His lips pull into a smile.

Leofard smiles back.

—

It isn’t that he cares about Radlia. He doesn't.

He half-considered it as they took off for the ruins after her and the Talons, but the promise of adventure and treasure outweighs anything else for him.

It comes to mind again as he looks down his barrel at the arch of the voidsent’s scythe looming over her. It's the first time he's seen real fear in her eyes, but it quickly turns to anger when she realizes that Leofard's pointing his gun at her.

In the end, it doesn't matter. The voidsent plays right into his hand anyway.

And if there's anything Leofard loves, it's a good trick.

—

Emile is on him the moment they're alone again, kissing him with open urgency. He’s still in his armor, and Leofard gasps into his kiss as his gloved hands dig into his ass, sharper than he expected.

“Not that I’m complaining, hero,” he says between rough kisses. “But why the sudden interest?”

Emile pulls back enough to catch his breath. “Do you have any idea how good you looked standing down that voidsent?”

A grin curves along Leofard’s lips. “I can be a bit of a hero, too.”

“You’re a bastard,” Emile says, and he leans in to kiss the smile off his face. Against his mouth, he murmurs, “You’re more heroic than you know.”

“Please.”

“Radlia won’t admit it,” he continues, “but I saw it in her eyes.”

Leofard scoffs, trying to remember the heat of anger on her face instead of her defeat. For as long as they've been rivals, she's never given up on fighting back, and there's no other way he'd prefer it between them. He lets his fingers catch at Emile’s armor. “You know, I’d rather not think of her right now. How do you take this off?”

Emile releases a gauntlet. Leofard's mouth goes dry.

There's something different about sleeping with Emile. There's a raw power in him that's impossible to ignore—as much as he downplays being the Warrior of Light, it seeps through everything he does. He is all strength, all consuming, all brightness. Leofard can't hide from it, doesn’t want to hide from it. He likes the way that, for a just moment, part of it belongs to him too.

All he ever does is want more than he should.

Their hands are still tangled together as they lay beside each other tonight. Leofard's body is heavy with exhaustion, but he gives into the feeling, letting it sink into all of his limbs, his mind still hazy and slow as he catches his breath.

Emile gets up for just a moment before returning to clean them up, but where he usually leaves to dress, tonight he lays back down beside him.

"Leo?"

His voice sounds hesitant enough to get Leofard to blink his eyes back open. "Aye?"

“Would it be alright if I stay until Cait Sith deciphers the tome?” he asks quietly. “I don’t have any other pressing matters, and I could help out around the Parrock.”

Leofard pauses to consider it. He never has anyone stay the night—this is his space, and the simple truth is that he doesn’t trust anyone enough to share it. The even simpler truth is that he sleeps better on his own, but he looks over at Emile, at the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair a tangled mess, nerves transparent in his gaze, and finds himself saying, “So long as you don’t hog the blankets.”

Emile lets out a soft sound that could almost be a laugh. “I can't make any such promise.”

“I'll wrestle 'em back, hero.”

"I don't mind."

Leofard feels himself smile as he pulls the blanket over them both, not quite touching but close enough that it wouldn't make a difference if they were. He lets his gaze travel along the broad line of Emile's shoulders, and for a second, for just the briefest moment, all he can think is, This feels safe.

'Tis merely who he is, he reminds himself. Hero of Eorzea, and here he is, tucked into bed, eyes falling shut as he lets out a deep breath and snuggles his face into the pillow.

Maybe it’s dangerous to let him in like this, but Leofard has never been one to say no to a risk.

—

The days drift by like that.

Emile warns him that he rises early, but Leofard wakes up next to him each morning, and Emile's body is heavy with sleep. Some days Leofard reaches out to touch, waking him with fingertips exploring what seems like yalms of golden skin, and other times he leaves bed to work on the Raimille, an unexpected warmth in his chest every time Emile finds him, sleep rumpled and soft.

Emile drinks tea every day, he hits his head against the doorframe every time he goes into the toolshed, and he hums to himself when he thinks no one's listening. He makes himself a place among the Redbills, something not quite home but still fitting all the same. Leofard watches how his crew takes interest in him, equally shy and eager to approach the Warrior of Light. A few of them come to Leofard to ask what he's like, and he's quick to brag about him. It's an easy thing to do.

Emile can be quiet, though. More than once, Leofard finds him leaning on the railing outside, the wind pulling at his hair as he stares out at the emptiness of the sky. Leofard usually interrupts him, trying to bring a smile back to his face, but he never asks why.

They explore the Sea of Clouds, taking their ships to some of Leofard's favorite sights, mapping out the landscape as an excuse to fly. They find a pool where they strip down and dive into water like ice, curses spilling from both of their lips as they rush to get out. Other times they follow leads on relics nearby, and Leofard likes showing off for Emile, giving him a taste of what this life is like.

But the night is when they have the most fun.

They're made of hunger, of heat that stirs to life with simple touch. Skin on skin, their bodies learn how to move together, and he begins to know Emile in this way.

There’s a certain kind of pleasure to be found in each little discovery—mouth along his ear and he'll gasp, trace up the seam of his trousers and his voice will falter. He sounds so sweet when he sighs out Leofard's name, and that small cry in the back of his throat only grows louder as they grow more comfortable with each other.

There are few highs quite like watching his big eyes slam shut, when he tenses because he's so close, and closer, and then he loses that last bit of control, hips falling out of rhythm as he comes apart.

Even less highs like his mouth at Leofard's collar, or his teeth digging into his shoulder, and none quite like his hand wrapping around Leofard’s own after he murmurs, touch yourself, in his ear.

Leofard won't call it routine, but he thinks could get used to life like this.

“Let’s do somethin’ fun,” he says one evening. They’ve finished dinner and they’re listening to the orchestrion. Leofard’s legs lay draped across Emile’s lap, and Emile keeps tapping along to the rhythm against his knee, something inconsistent and distracting.

Emile raises a brow. “Like what?”

“Let’s fly.”

"You always want to fly," he says, and he lets his eyes fall closed as he tips his head onto Leofard’s shoulder. "I'm too tired, I think I'd crash."

“Then come with me in the Raimille. You'd just have to sit pretty.”

Emile is quiet for a moment, and then lifts his head to look at him. “Utata said you named her after your first love."

They both pause, eyes fixed on each other. They don’t talk about things like that, and Leofard thinks this is why he doesn’t usually let his guard down, because it catches him off guard enough that he doesn’t have a quip ready at the tongue.

It's a blend of good and bad memories both. The stories, the adventure, the dark, the sick. It hits too close to his heart, and he resists the pull to look at her portrait, a habit he's long since had to break. It’s her voice always in the back of his mind—

Be free, my little bird.

He can’t bring himself to joke about it, but he feels his stomach turn as Emile’s brows pinch together the longer they sit in the quiet. Leofard pastes on a smile. “Actually, I changed me mind. We’ll take your ship.”

“Mine?”

“I’ve had my eye on her longer than I did on you," he returns, which is true, anyway. Emile's gaze remains too fixed on him, like he's trying to understand without asking, so Leofard gets up. “Are you coming or not, hero?”

Whatever he may see, he doesn't push for more. That isn't what they are.

“Sure, Captain.”

—

In the dark, they soar.

They sit together in the pilot's seat, Leofard practically in his lap. Emile winds his arms around his middle, and he tightens his grip as they speed up, ripping through the nothingness until the sea of islands blur below them.

The manacutter handles smoother than the Raimille, faster than her too, but she lacks personality. He can feel it in each shift of the gear, but there's even more power hidden in there, and he thinks if he just pushed a little faster they could probably reach the stars.

Cold air strikes his face, and when they reach a wide open stretch, he flies the manacutter as fast as it’ll go. His heart beats wildly in his chest, the rush of danger alive in his blood as their speed sweeps through his stomach and brings him new life.

He hears Emile laugh over the whipping wind. It’s loud and rich and full. It’s unguarded, it’s unfamiliar. It makes him laugh too, and there’s something so perfectly absurd about it: the two of them cutting through the sky, the sound of their laughter spilling behind them.

When they return to the Parrock, Emile lays back as Leofard rides him. He arches into it, stretching out the endless line of his torso as his hands tighten around his hips. Leofard watches with a certain satisfaction, a point of pride each time he rolls his hips against him, even as his own pleasure builds.

The room around him glitters with all of his treasure—it's everything he’s ever wanted.

Like this, he’s king.

—

Emile continues to be an exception to the rule.

They find a crashed airship one afternoon and salvage it for parts. It ends up taking longer than either of them expect—hours pass doing backbreaking work, and by the time they get back to the Parrock, both of them are too tired to do anything more.

They drink too much wine over dinner, and Leofard feels a little silly and a little blurry. He thinks if his body didn’t ache so much then he’d kiss Emile, slow and dirty until they couldn't resist pushing further. As it is, they crawl into bed together. Leofard doesn't usually like to cuddle, but tonight he fits easily into Emile’s side, the Warrior of Light curled around him with a heavy arm draped over his waist.

“Alright hero, what's the first thing we're doing at the Gold Saucer?" Leofard asks against his chest.

Emile is quiet for a moment, but then: "Monster toss?"

"Wrong."

"I thought it was my choice."

Leofard tilts his head back to look at him, and wide eyes meet his in the dark. He lets one corner of his lips raise. "Nay, there's a right answer."

"Cuff-a-Cur?"

"Wrong again," he says, and he pauses as he thinks about it. "Do they even let you play? Seems like cheatin', to me."

"I'm not that strong," Emile says with a laugh. "Just tell me the answer."

"We win big in Triple Triad, cash in all our money, and then play all the silly little games we want."

Emile hums to himself before he lets his eyes fall closed again, settling his cheek against the pillow. "Fine. Will you win me a prize from one of those claw machines?"

"Those things are rigged."

"They aren't," he argues. "Or are you telling me the great Redbill Leofard can't win a stuffed moogle?"

"Believe it or not, I don't need one," he returns.

“Hush,” he says, but he can’t keep the smile off his lips. "Everyone does.”

Leofard's gaze lingers on his mouth, his grin softening. Sometimes it's hard not to stare, sometimes its hard not to lean in and kiss him, just to feel his lips against his. He lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Fine, hero. I’ll win you the biggest moogle there is.”

They're quiet for a moment, breathing together in the dark. Leofard feels himself begin to drift off, lulled in by the steadiness of Emile beside him, his warmth surrounding him, his hand in his hair, thumb massaging little circles behind his ear.

Too much, he tells himself, but intimacy comes easy.

"Do you ever get tired of this life?" Emile asks quietly.

“Nay.” The answer is immediate, but it’s honest. Leofard opens his eyes to look at him. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted. I’m happy, hero.”

Emile returns his gaze before looking somewhere over his shoulder. His thumb still worries against him. “What if you changed your mind? What if you weren’t happy anymore—what would you do?”

“I don’t know,” he says this time, just as honest. “I reckon I’d fly until I felt free again.”

—

Leofard sits at the table of his chambers, his pistol laid out in parts before him. He loves how methodical it is to polish it, to take it apart and clean it, to piece it back together again. It’s just about the most patience he has when it comes to anything.

He finds his gaze drawn to Emile on the bed, reading a letter that came earlier in the day. There's something inside Leofard that always wants to bother him, to get his attention, and it's difficult to ignore, especially when he's stretched out and relaxed like that.

He doesn’t resist, leaving his pistol at the table to meet him on the bed, climbing onto him and kissing him long enough to get him to chase his lips when he pulls away.

Emile meets his gaze, something soft but distant in his eyes. The hovering candlelight paints gold over the shadows of his face, and Leofard can't help but push his hair back from his forehead, fingertips lingering against his brow before they draw down along his cheek, freckles echoing beneath his touch in tiny constellations made of warmth and light.

"I like your nose," he murmurs absently, and he moves to touch the bump on his bridge, smiling at the way Emile's eyes crinkle in response.

"Why?" Emile asks. "'Tis crooked."

"Don't get modest on me now, hero," he returns. His hand traces lower, thumb brushing along his lower lip, and time slows as Emile parts his mouth, brown eyes now wide and fixed on him. Blood rushes through Leofard's ears, his voice breathless as he says, "I have impeccable taste."

Leofard lets his hand drop as he leans in to kiss him again, picking at the buttons of his shirt until it hangs open. Emile shifts to return the gesture but Leofard shakes his head.

“Just lay back,” he says as he finishes pulling Emile’s shirt off. Emile watches him for a moment before settling down again, and Leofard kisses his jaw, his neck—gentle this time, so as not to leave a mark.

He can hear the change in Emile’s breathing, and feels him move his hips, already half hard and seeking friction against him. Leofard kisses lower, across the broad expanse of his pecs, dragging his tongue over his nipple, before he sits back to admire his affect on him.

Emile’s chest rises and falls in a rush, brows pushed together, and a whine builds in his throat when Leofard skims his hands over the delta of scars that cross his skin. Both deep and shallow lines mark him—some are still pink, many are faded white.

“You do get yourself in trouble, hero,” he says, tracing each scar with his fingertips. One looks more recent than the rest, a burn stretched across his side, still harsh and angry despite the way it's healed over.

Emile’s hand closes around his wrist before he can touch it. His grip is too firm, and it surprises Leofard enough to look up at him with a question in his eyes.

"I’m sorry, I—" Emile starts, but the words drift off. His fingers slowly loosen from Leofard's wrist until he lets go completely, and he lays his head back, breathing out long and slow. Leofard shakes his head.

Stay with me.

"'S'alright," he murmurs. His gaze lingers on the scar but his touch moves beneath it, smoothing lower down his stomach until he meets the line of his hip. He presses a kiss to a freckle that sits on the other side of his ribs, one lone little thing, and against his skin he murmurs, "I have an idea."

“Oh?” Emile lets out, and his breath hitches as Leofard trails kisses down to another lonely freckle that sits beside his belly button. "Sounds like trouble."

“We already agreed that I’m trouble,” Leofard says, pulling at the ties of his breeches as his mouth moves even lower. Emile's skin is warm against his lips, and he can feel the way each muscle jumps and trembles in anticipation. He grins, and he shifts his gaze to look up at him, meeting brown eyes made warmer by the waning light. “Isn’t that why you stuck around, baby?”

Emile gasps as his hips shift against him, searching. Desire is such a transparent thing.

Leofard raises a brow. “You like that?”

“Bastard,” he sighs.

But Leofard’s desire is transparent too, and it burns inside of him as his touch turns greedy. He leans back enough to pull Emile's breeches off, and then he's back on him, hands tracing up his thighs, teasing at him until his breath grows shallow, until the only words left on his tongue are, Leo, please.

“Turn over,” Leofard says, looking up to meet the question in Emile's eyes. He lets his lips pull into a lazy smile, only pretending to be unaffected as he watches understanding settle in. His hands move lower, making his intent obvious. "If you think you can handle me, hero.”

A small laugh escapes Emile's throat as he sits up, leaning forward to leave a kiss against Leofard's lips before he turns onto his stomach. Leofard has to take a steadying breath at the stretch of golden skin before him, hands reaching out before he's even aware of it. He's careful to skim around where the scar at his side curves onto his back, the memory of Emile's fingers around his wrist already half-forgotten.

After all, he promised to be a good distraction.

He's just keeping his word.

—

But there’s only so long it can last like this.

—

It's sharing a bed that's difficult.

Most nights Emile turns restlessly, awake for what must be hours without staying still. Other times he jerks violently in his sleep, a small cry in the back of his throat from whatever nightmare has a hold on him. Sometimes he gets up and keeps himself busy, often across the room writing letters by candlelight.

You got a sweetheart you ain't tellin' me about?

Merely a few friends that are worried about me.

No matter how he looks at it, Emile can't get much sleep beyond the few hours he dozes in the morning, and not a night passes without him waking Leofard up. Usually he'll just nudge him or put a hand on his back, but he doesn’t say anything—it doesn’t feel like his place to.

Not until he wakes that night to find Emile sitting up at the edge of the bed. He faces away from Leofard, hands braced on his knees, moonlight casting pale lines along the shadows of his back. He takes deep breaths, constant and careful and even, but he can’t seem to stop the way each one shakes on the exhale.

“Emile,” Leofard calls as softly as he can.

Emile's head turns towards him, and for a moment he’s completely visible. In the dark of the room, in the dark of his eyes, Leofard thinks he sees Emile for who he really is. It’s there in his expression, and it translates easily into his pain, his hurt, the things he doesn't say aloud but what follows him regardless. It makes him look young.

Of course Leofard knows that he isn’t okay, that he hasn't been okay this whole time, but confronting it feels like something else, like something that doesn't belong to him.

“Forgive me,” Emile murmurs. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

Leofard just sighs. “Let’s go outside."

They throw on their jackets and boots, bracing for the chilled air that meets them as soon as they step outside of Leofard’s chambers. It feels like early morning but the sky is still pitch black, stars dotted around them through the slight haze of the clouds. Leofard leads them around the corner where they’ll be blocked off from the worst of the wind, and they sit on top of a couple of stacked crates, shoulder to shoulder.

The night is deathly quiet. The minutes pass. Emile tucks his long legs up against his chest, leaning his chin down to rest on his knee as he blinks out at the sky. Leofard has seen the same look in his eyes before, but he doesn't have it in him to try and distract him.

“I’m not much for matters of the heart,” Leofard says eventually, “but we pirates don't let one of our crew go on hurtin' alone.”

Emile tilts his head towards him, eyes still heavy.

“There’s naught to say,” he murmurs, his voice so, so quiet. “I keep failing. That’s all there is.”

Leofard opens his mouth to respond, but what could he say to that? What reassurance could he offer him? He only has the stories that trail after him, each tale that makes him the hero that Leofard keeps calling him. All he could say is, You stopped a whole damn war, but that's only one part of the story, and the rest doesn't belong to him.

It's funny—

He knows the weight of Emile against his chest, knows the curve of Emile's spine as he debates with Cait Sith at the table, the way he tilts his head when something's on his mind, that crooked bottom tooth that isn’t noticeable until he laughs. He knows the warmth of his skin, has mapped out the lines of his body with his hands, with his mouth. He knows the taste of his lips, the drag of his tongue along his, the way he moves inside him, and yet—

Leofard doesn't know him at all.

Neither of them say anything else. Emile leans over and rests his head on his shoulder, far too big to curl into his side but he does anyway, and Leofard reaches around to hold him close. They stay like that until the sky thins to pink, and Leofard must drift off at one point, only really aware of the solid weight of Emile beside him and around him.

When they part, Leofard watches him in the lifting morning light. Big brown eyes blink slowly at him, and Leofard feels the corners of his lips raise as he pushes Emile’s hair behind his ear.

“‘Twas strange,” Emile murmurs, leaning into his touch. “You called me by my name.”

“Did I?”

He just nods.

“Won’t let it happen again, hero,” Leofard says, and he kisses the corner of his mouth, lingering for too long.

The hell are you doing?

“Thank you,” Emile says, and Leofard thinks it might be for more than just that simple promise.

He thinks that what’s happening between them might be more dangerous than it was ever supposed to be.

—

It's only a matter of time before Stacia brings it up. He's been dodging her pointed looks, knowing she's the only person that can wring it out of him, knowing that she knows him better than most. She's never been good at minding her business, and it's saved him a time or two, but he thinks that this might be something he wants to keep to himself.

They're working on her ship together when she finally brings it up.

“You and the Warrior of Light,” she says. It's all she needs to say.

“Been havin’ a bit of fun.”

“Been having a lot of fun.”

“Sure have,” he says, and he shrugs. It takes more effort than it should to pretend not to care. "Somethin' to say about it?"

She doesn't answer right away, focusing back on her hands as she adjusts her propeller. When she's done, she merely gives him a long look before she says, "'Tis the longest anyone's ever stayed."

"'Twasn't a hard record to beat."

She laughs. "You're proud of that."

All he can do is shrug again. “It's just until Cait Sith figures out the Nullstone. Not my fault the little furball takes forever.”

“He's nearly done,” she returns. “Are you ready to say goodbye to Emile?”

Leofard presses his lips together. His first thought goes to Emile's eyes in the morning, when those first rays of light strike them gold. He thinks about the mess of his hair, the heaviness of his arm around him, he thinks about waking up alone. There's a dull ache in his chest, but he makes himself grin. “Of course I am.”

—

And then one day, Cait Sith finishes deciphering the tome.

One moment they’re talking in his chambers, and the next there’s the sound of gunfire. Leofard doesn't hesitate to chase after it, pistol in hand as his heart drops into his stomach. His love for this place runs fierce, and he'd be damned if he let anything happen to it.

But he isn't expecting a demon on the Parrock.

It rushes at him so fast that he doesn't even have the time to draw his pistol, let alone shoot. It knocks him into the air, and his mind blanks out for a moment as he hits the ground, stars behind his eyelids as pain blooms through his arm.

Emile helps him up, worry written open in his expression, but Leofard thinks he's the last thing anyone should be concerned about.

The Nullstone is gone.

And everyone wants to leave him behind.

Frustration builds in his chest as he watches the rest of his crew prepare their ships, as the Talons' beast looms large above the Parrock, waiting to carry them away. It doesn't feel right just standing here when he should be with them, but no one gives him a chance to even argue again, moving quickly around him without sparing a second glance.

And then Emile is there, standing tall above everyone, body clad in his armor once again.

"You look good, hero," Leofard murmurs when he comes close.

"You're moping."

"I don't take kindly to sittin' by while the rest of you risk your lives."

Emile smiles in that soft way he does, bending down to kiss him. "We'll be back soon."

But it doesn't feel right. He takes steadying breaths while he watches each ship take off, until the Raimille is the only one left and the Parrock lays quiet. He can't help but imagine all the ways it could go wrong, all things he could prevent if he could just be there.

—

In the end, it's an easy decision to make.

—

They're alive.

It's what he keeps telling himself. Even when they return to the Parrock, he can't help but see the Raimille burning in the back of his mind. He thinks of the promise he made her in those final days, when all she wanted was for him to fly free. He kept his word...

Emile puts a hand on his shoulder, but Leofard can't look at him, can't meet the concern in his eyes. His chest aches and it isn't his injury. Everyone else will be waiting for him in his chambers, but there's one thing he still needs to do.

"Go on ahead without me," he murmurs. "I won't be long."

Once he's alone, he limps to the empty space on the landing strip where she should be, and bows his head for a long moment.

"I'll rebuild her," he says aloud. It's a new promise, a new vow to keep.

He’ll always make her proud.

—

Emile doesn’t say anything about Raimille.

Leofard half expects him to. He can see the question in his eyes, the way he glances at her portrait again and again, but the question never comes and Leofard's glad for it. He thinks about the two of them in the early morning, curled around each other in the cold, with the truth sitting between them, visible but unexplained. Is that enough to fully see someone?

“I could stay a little longer,” Emile murmurs as he helps Leofard redress his wounds. “Just until you feel better.”

Leofard wants to say no, that he doesn't need him to, that he'll be okay, but the words never make it to his lips. He isn't sure that it would make a difference, because there's only so much longer it can last, anyway.

Emile has a world to save, and it’s only a matter of time before it comes crawling back to him.

—

Thankfully his injuries don't hold him back too much. He gets used to doing everything with one arm, gets used to everyone chastising him for being up and about when he should be resting, but staying still has never suited him well.

Emile is the one who’s more careful than he needs to be.

He kisses along the edges of where Leofard’s shoulder is still wrapped, nudging him back along the bed and taking his time as he mouths along his collar, down his chest, slow and cautious and watching him for any signs of pain.

“You won’t break me, hero,” Leofard assures him, but it comes out breathless as Emile pulls his thighs over his shoulders, pressing a long kiss against his hip.

“I know.”

He takes his time even as Leofard tries to urge him faster, his good hand threaded through his hair. Emile holds his hips in place to prevent him from bucking against him, working his mouth along him just as achingly slow.

Don’t be soft with me, he wants to say, because it feels too much like something else, like something they aren’t and never will be.

Don’t look at me like that, he wants to say, but he doesn’t. He wants this, and he wants, and he—

When he comes, it’s with brown eyes steady on him.

—

That night, he wakes to Emile turning over.

Leofard blinks at him for a moment, barely awake, but the room is dusk pink with the impending sunrise, and Emile is actually asleep for once. Hair a mess, he breathes in long steady breaths, his face half squished into the pillow. Leofard swears he can feel his heart soften.

He inches closer, his mind too sleep slow to think better of it, and tucks himself against the solid warmth of his chest. In sleep, Emile wraps an arm around him and pulls him that much closer.

There is a question that sits in the back of Leofard's mind, and it sounds a lot like, What if?

It isn’t a question he can let himself answer.

And it isn’t love, cannot be love, but the corners of his lips still pull into a smile as he drifts back to sleep.

—

Later, he wakes to an empty bed.

He doesn’t think anything of it at first, rolling over into the warm spot Emile left behind. He dozes a little longer, until the day brightens in earnest and his thoughts begin to wander.

He dresses, throws on a jacket, and goes outside, where he finds Emile leaning over the railing, looking out at the empty skies. Leofard just stays where he is for a moment, back against the door as he watches the wind pull at his loose shirt, as the cold sun brushes over the edges of him—Warrior of Light indeed.

Leofard knows, at once, that this is over.

He goes to him, and instead of saying anything, he wraps his arms around his middle and drapes himself along his back, pressing his cheek to the space between his shoulders.

Emile's hand finds his and threads their fingers together.

“I received a call,” he murmurs. “I’m to meet the Scions later today, and I don’t know if I can promise that I’ll be back.”

Leofard nods against him. “Wasn’t meant to last forever, hero.”

Emile turns in his arms, and they hold each other close. He can hear each heavy beat of Emile's heart in his chest, what has become a familiar sound to him, and he leans up to kiss him, warm against the cold morning and just as familiar. They stay like that for a while, and like most of their time together, they say what they need to say without words.

Leofard never expected him to stay this long, but the thought of saying goodbye sticks in his throat, even as he walks Emile down to the landing strip. What else is there? He would never ask him to stay, could never ask for another man's freedom, not when he holds his own in such high regard.

And maybe there's something more free about the way Emile smiles at him, brown eyes curved into half moons as he says, "Thank you, for everything."

“No need to thank me, hero,” he murmurs. “I had fun.”

“I did too.” He claps a hand on Leofard’s good shoulder and bends to press one last kiss to the top of his head before he gets in his ship. All Leofard can do is watch, pretending that he's happy to see him off.

Over the sound of the ship, he raises his voice to say, “When the skies spit out some new mystery, you can bet that I'm comin' to find you. After all, there ain't nobody else who handles the unexpected quite like you do."

"I'll be there," Emile calls out. "Goodbye, Leo."

—

And just like that, he's gone.

—

Leofard returns to his chambers afterwards, an odd heaviness in his chest at the silence. He half considers going out flying, just to clear his head, just to distract himself, but he’s tired and his body aches and his ship is gone, and nothing really feels normal, anyway.

He ends up laying back down—at least the the Redbills will be happy he's finally getting some rest. He pulls Emile's pillow into his arms, and with no one to jostle him awake, he sleeps straight through the night.

—

Months later, an Ishgardian noble puts up a notice offering a hefty reward in return for a dagger that had been stolen weeks before. It goes on to mention how long it's been in the family, who it originally belonged to, but Leofard doesn't read much past the sum of gil up for grabs, instantly recognizing the drawing of it as something he may or may not have already stashed away in his room.

The reward is more than it's probably worth, so he doesn't mind parting with it. The only problem is a matter of finding it among his mess of treasures.

He enlists Cait Sith's help, which is probably a bad idea considering the way the Mhachi familiar chastises him for the state of his room. It wouldn't be the first time, so he ignores him, so long as he helps him look.

But then Leofard's eye catches on a familiar chest. He pauses, certain that the dagger isn't there, but he can't help but reach for it anyway.

Inside lays a pistol, a delicate dragon carved into it from barrel to handle. Leofard brushes his fingers along it, memories flooding back, and for a moment he regrets never giving it to him.

“That was somethin’ else, hero,” he murmurs to himself before he locks it away again.

They’ll meet again someday, and maybe then...

#ffxiv #oc: emile jenidaut #leofard myste #yeeting this GOODBYE #ty leofard it was nice knowing you :)#idk i spent three hours working on this afternoon so i need to be done sdjfksdf #i have so much to say but i will be quiet <3 #augh]#aughhhhhh #i'm also shy so dont look at me too hard <3 #my writing #emile/leofard

24 notes · View notes