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redwayfarers · 6 months

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(you) restless son

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Nika/Artoirel Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL), Artoirel de Fortemps, Minfilia Warde (mentioned) Rating: Mature (direct references to sex, though the scene is fade to black) Words: 1795 Spoilers: Heavensward spoilers read on ao3

Nika’s visits to Ishgard have been few and far between recently, but every time he does go there, he makes sure to go straight to the Fortemps manor. It’s become something of a home, if you can count the presence of the few people he’s bonded with in this whole frozen hellhole. He hasn’t had a home in a long while, least of all in a person. It’s a strange feeling and something entirely too tender for Nika’s harsh hands, but it settled under his skin and it’s not going anywhere.

He can’t complain all that much, really, when it affords him unlimited access to Artoirel. He likes Emmanellain just fine, and Edmont makes for a nice dinner buddy when he isn’t being a horrible parent to his sons. But Artoirel is the heart of that whole oversized house for Nika; it’s his face rising amidst everyone else that makes his shoulders relax and his jaw unclench. When did he clench his jaw so much anyway? And more importantly, why is he noticing that?

No matter. What matters is that time after he settles in his room, after he eats dinner, or lunch, or whenever he happened to burst upon their door like a cannonball, when he and Artoirel go to the grand salon with the big piano, drinks in hand, and find comfortable places on one of the couches. What matters is the way Artoirel loosens his collar, opens his throat up a little, and Nika can’t help but look at the way it bobs ever so slightly under his gaze.

“Do I have something on my… throat?” Artoirel asks, confused, red in the face, and Nika looks at the glass in his hand.

“No,” he says and rubs the side of his neck. “I just think you look better without the cravat.”

“Such are the fashions of Ishgard, Nika.”

“Fuck the fashions of Ishgard, Artoirel.” Nika looks at his own shirt, open at the front, and the length of his white boots. Artoirel follows suit; his eyes linger on the exposed skin of Nika’s chest. “Some of them, anyway.”

“Not all of us can make that shirt look good,” Artoirel comments quietly. “You and Lord Stephanivien, perhaps. As for myself? The cravates are that much presentable.”

“Bah, you’re too prim and proper.” Nika puts a foot down. The heels echo in the otherwise silent room like a battle trumpet. It may be the drink he’s had, but his next words come out offensively shamelessly. “I like the way your collarbones look.”

Artoirel huffs amicably and shakes his head. “You may look at them as you please, then,” he replies, though his voice is colored by something Nika doesn’t dare name.

“Thank you for the permission.” Nika says as he downs the rest of his drink and pours himself another glass. “I will now proceed to indulge myself. At the grand piano, of course. Why would we go in the grand salon if not to play the fucking piano?”

“I did want to show you a composition I have been working on in my leisure time,” Artoirel says. He sounds almost uncertain, half the size he usually is on the battlefield, or in the political arena of Ishgard. “What?”

“You’re afraid I’m gonna hate it or something? Is that why you sound like you’re a kid meeting your idol for the first time?”

Artoirel laughs in disbelief. “Nika, do you realize even an inkling of what weight your opinion carries? You are the Warrior of Light, the slayer of Nidhogg. You rode into Ishgard on a dragon - the first individual to have done so in history. You are one of Eorzea’s best living bards. Compared to you, I am but playing pretend.”

Nika blinks. “Didn’t wanna be that hero you bring up,” he says. “If it was up to me, I’d be playing my little lute and singing about other people. But no, Minfilia had to use my arrow shooting prowess to kill a primal or two and now here I am.” The thought sticks to his skin even though he vehemently tries shaking it away. His heart aches for Minfilia still; the love he’s nursed for her feeds into his bloodstream. His knees will forever ache from kneeling at her feet, and the memories of her soft voice and gentle smiles and kind eyes will nurse them back to health.

But recently, in the midst of all the grief he wears around his neck like a collar, he’s found it in himself to be angry at her. Angry she didn’t stop sending him when he asked her to. Angry she kissed his tears away only to send him off to his potential death afterwards. Angry she never told him, no, stop loving me, not until she fucking died and stayed in the aether, and he had to go see fucking Hydaelyn herself just so he could hear it.

Artoirel does nothing of the sort. If anything, Nika feels like he’s stringing him along, pulling at his heart that wants nothing more than Nika’s presence. Artoirel never asked him to be the hero. Everything since he’s arrived in Ishgard has been Nika’s choice. Any hurt he feels about that shit he can lay at his own feet and use it to cut open his heart again.

Nika drowns the entirety of his glass in one chug. “You give yourself too little credit,” he says. “Too fucking little.” He curls a hand around Artoirel’s slender shoulders to run his fingers over those biteable collarbones.

“Nika,” Artoirel goes to stand up just as Nika’s hand bends around his shoulders, and the height difference makes Nika take a step forward and his hand slides down to Artoirel’s waist. He holds it anyway.

“Let’s go play the piano,” Nika says. His voice is gruff, stuffed to the brim with need and anger and yearning and the drunkenness of the whiskey and the warmth of Artoirel’s skin. “Let’s go play the fucking piano or I’m pinning you down on these overpriced floor covers.”

Artoirel’s mouth opens and the tips of his ears burn bright red. His hand folds in a fist and he tries to look down, avoid Nika’s eyes, but the fact he’s tall as all fuck bites him in the ass so hard that he just ends up looking where he didn’t want to. Or did he want to? He shifts his body closer to Nika’s, hip to waist, and Nika’s fingers play over his shirt.

“There’s a story,” he says. “I know of someone who supposedly had sex with her lovers in her grand salon and over the piano, specifically. That poor piano, I’d thought. Of course, I don’t normally follow that kind of rumor, but I’d overheard it and it stayed with me.”

“Piano sex? What happened to walls, floors, or even good old fashioned beds?” Nika feels his face burn. Must be the drink, he thinks, even if he has to admit that Artoirel’s words are only making whatever need that’s already been here stronger. He doesn’t even know what Artoirel’s lips feel like, but he does know he wants to kiss them, and that Artoirel wants to kiss him too.

It’s just never been this direct! Nika blames the whiskey, the open shirt, those delicious looking collarbones, Minfilia’s memory, Ishgard itself. He knows what it feels like - Estinien’s hands on his skin are a refreshed memory - but this is Artoirel; his Artoirel, the way Minfilia was never his, his to spend time with, his to kiss, his to enjoy, his to listen to him laugh. His to make Nika’s heart beat and warm up faster than any fire would.

“I suppose she has had enough of those options by that point,” Artoirel shrugs, but his cheeks are still red, his hair’s in disarray, his lips are slightly parted, thin and pink, and those fucking collarbones are still taunting Nika like it’s their one job.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Nika replies, as if that makes any sense to the prior conversation. “And I want to kiss you so, so badly.”

“I would very much like to kiss you too,” Artoirel replies, holding onto the edges of his self-control. Nika can feel his fingers ghost over the skin of his jaw and takes a deep breath not to groan from the way it sends sparks down his spine. The knowledge Artoirel wants him just as badly, right now, makes his belly tighten. “May I?”

“Yes,” Nika breathes and Artoirel’s facing him, tall, relaxed, hair a dark halo around his head. His eyes are impossibly wide, impossibly big, and Nika rises on his tip toes and wraps himself around Artoirel’s body, like he was made to be here. Maybe he was. Maybe he was made to share breath with Artoirel de Fortemps for torturously long moments before their lips meet, maybe he was made to bury his fingers in his hair and pull him down on the couch. His body soars and he’s shaking with need and his heart beats wildly in his chest.

And when their tongues touch, Nika claws at Artoirel’s back. I’m going to fuck this man tonight, he thinks, and it feels brash and crude but he can’t help himself. Artoirel moans into the kiss, and it only serves to make Nika’s skin even tighter.

“I wanna fuck you,” Nika says between kisses, pulls on Artoirel’s hair. “Stop me if you need to, fuck, Artoirel, I want to bite your chest, and I want to make you feel good, I want–”

“Yes,” Artoirel breathes out. His body’s shaking beneath Nika’s touch and Nika peppers his face with small kisses. “I want that too–”

“Glad we agree,” Nika replies and steals the rest of his sentence in a deep kiss. Artoirel’s hand wraps around Nika’s waist but Nika uses the leverage to drag him beneath him and settle on his hips. From this angle, he looks even better. A prim and proper lord, commander of men, count de Fortemps, beneath him, already hard, messy from kisses, and Nika can’t help but groan. It’s not like he’s any better himself. He then leans down and kisses him softly, the way he never got to kiss Minfilia.

But she isn’t here, is she? It’s just him and Artoirel, alive, in the flesh. And it’s an aching flesh, and Nika wants to kiss it senseless, and he wants to keep him close, keep him warm, safe, wants to make him happy and make him laugh.

“Artoirel,” Nika says, because he can’t say anything else. And Artoirel kisses him back, presses his hands against Nika’s back, and somehow, he feels like he got the message just fine.

Just like that, the rest of the world falls away.

#ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nika perseis #artoirel de fortemps #wolship #wol x artoirel #wol #warrior of light #hyur wol #ffxiv fic #ffxiv fanfic #now that housekeeping is done:#baby's first non-fluff is out to public pls be kind to me #this isn't smut but it's close #these two have eaten my braincells so this came to be #also not me posting at weird times. sad #heavensward spoilers #nika x artoirel #wolartoirel

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queenieartuna · 3 months

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"My darkness sang his own a lullaby."

Villain Queenie and Artoirel look pretty great if you ask me.

#ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #elezen #ffxiv elezen #woltoirel #gposers #ffxiv gpose #ffxiv screenshots #ffxiv screenies #artoirel de fortemps #wol x artoirel

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yzeltia · 5 months

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For the first kiss prompt, howsabout 18: to shut someone up, for Jannie & Artoirel.

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #final fantasy 14 #ff14 #ffxiv oc #ff xiv #artoirel de fortemps #wol x artoirel #jannie eyradoux #kylnt gothaywn

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morganali-writes · 1 year

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Out of Reach

Despite the strained nature of their relationship, the household had never been so sombre than it was now that he was gone. Haurchefant had been better than all of them, and it had taken Artoirel far too long to appreciate that – appreciate the brother he wished he had accepted long ago, in spite of his mother’s wishes. Maybe still, his brother would have stepped in front of the bolt meant for the Warrior of Light, and maybe still he’d despair at words left unsaid – but for the chance to share words with him again all the same... but these were idle musings born of regret and helplessness.

Artoirel leaned his brow against the cold windowpane and exhaled in a huff. Ishgard was in a right state between the downfall of the late archbishop, and the revelation about the true origins of their thousand-year war. They had barely even begun to put the city-state back on its feet. Were it not for the Lord Commander’s tireless efforts to maintain order, he would scarce know where to begin.

Sighing again, Artoirel hauled himself upright and aimlessly followed the hallway towards the library. As he walked, he was brought out of his own musings by a plaintive voice. Curious, he drew closer, though hesitated at the threshold.

“Miette, please come down. Come now, sweetheart – I shall catch you.” There she stood, the Warrior of Light herself – far above her on the highest shelf, a black cat wailed pitifully. “I cannot fetch you by myself, Miette, please...” she all but begged, then hung her head with a loud sniff. Cursing quietly under her breath, she pushed a palm to her eye.

“Cessalie?” her name was across his lips before he could think better of it, and she startled as if guilty. He made his was over to her and she hurriedly wiped at her eyes. “That is to say – are you well?”

“Oh, quite well, never better!” she said, the forced smile she wore not reaching her eyes.

“Your furred companion seems to have gotten herself stuck,” said Artoirel, eyes flicking briefly to the stranded cat. Cessalie averted her gaze and grimaced.

“She has long had a dreadful habit of climbing higher than she can comfortably descend from herself,” she replied, crossing her arms. “Usually rescuing her is not terribly troublesome, but today...” Cessalie squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. “I find she is out of my reach.” Looking between her and the cat, understanding dawned on him.

It was hardly the first time the cat had gotten stuck up on the high shelves – in truth, it was a near weekly occurrence. And for all those times Miette had found herself so far out of reach, it had been his brother who was ever on hand to mount a rescue. Many a time he had watched, bemused, as Cessalie had all but scrambled up his brother in a manner not unlike climbing a ladder. Theirs had been an easy camaraderie, and for the few months since the Warrior of Light and her comrades had been taken in as wards, house Fortemps was the liveliest it had ever been.

“Forgive me – I understand you were quite close to my brother.” Cessalie shook her head sadly, eyes downcast.

“He was—He was family,” she all but whispered, before glancing up at him, brows knit in concern. “I should be the one to be sorry, he is your brother, after all.”

“I—thank you. I regret that I was not closer to him.” She nodded sympathetically. Moments stretched between them as they cast about for words to say. After a while, Artoirel found his eyes drawn back to the cat, whose cries for help were growing more insistent. He cleared his throat.

“Perhaps I may be of assistance?” he asked tentatively. She looked up in genuine surprise.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you–“

“There is no imposition you could make that would trouble me.”

“I – thank you. You are kind to me.”

“Not at all. What would you have me do?” she looked thoughtful for a moment, then climbed up onto a low table.

“Kneel here, if you please.” Artoirel took a knee by the table, and she gingerly perched herself on his shoulder. Instinctively he brought his arm around her skirts to steady her, and she reached for his other hand for balance.

How is she so small? He wondered absently as she settled herself. That the same woman as had laid low a half-dozen Primals was now sitting upon his shoulder like a sparrow beggared belief.

“Is this alright?” she murmured, and he found himself squeezing her hand in reply.

“Perfectly so.” With a grunt, he hoisted himself upright again.

“Let us be about it then,” he said, walking them carefully back over to the shelf. It took some cajoling and manoeuvring to retrieve the wayward cat – Miette was decidedly unconvinced by Cessalie’s new assistant. Eventually, with Cessalie balancing precariously on one of his hands like a step, and his other bracing her from falling, she managed to lay hands on the cat directly – scooping her up in one practiced motion.

Tucking the cat into the crook of her neck with one hand, she reached for his shoulder for balance again as she eased herself back to a sitting position. Dainty fingers dragged momentarily against the skin of his neck as she righted herself, and he drew in a quiet, surprised breath. After a moment, he walked them back over to the low table, and she hopped down from his shoulder.

“Miette,” she said, directing her attention wholly on the troublesome kitten. “I have told you not to climb so high, you little menace.” The cat chirruped indignantly in response. “Many times I have told you, don’t argue.” More chirping came in response, and Cessalie butted her forehead against that of her furred companion. “Silly thing. You’ll never learn.”

Artoirel could not help the soft smile that crossed his face as he watched them. It was a side of Cessalie he had only observed from afar. There was a softness usually held fast beneath a calculated façade, though around his brother she had let her guard slip. Haurchefant’s congenial demeanour tended to bring that out in people. Would that he possessed the same talent for putting others at ease, but instead he wore solemnity like a shroud – for ever had he been burdened with the lofty expectations of their House.

Belatedly, he realised that Cessalie had been staring back at him. Startled, he blinked and averted his gaze from hers. Had she been blushing? He ought not to consider it. He heard her quietly clear her throat, and he looked to her once more – only to find that she had lifted the little, black cat up to his eyeline.

“Oh!” Miette meowed loudly in consternation.

“Miette would formally like to apologise for the trouble she has caused this evening, if you can find it in your heart to forgive her.” Artoirel huffed a surprised laugh.

“There is nothing to forgive, save the grief you’ve caused your mistress,” he said with a smile, leaning in for Miette’s inspection. She sniffed the air about his face for a few moments, then tentatively licked the tip of his nose. The rough texture of her tongue caused him to scrunch up his face, and he laughed again. “Very well Miette, you may have my forgiveness – but see that you are better behaved in future.”

Miette made a puzzled sounding chirp. Cessalie lowered her once more, tucking the cat against her chest. Artoirel reached down absently to gently scratch under Miette’s chin.

“Mrrp!” the cat’s eyes closed in contentment. Not taking her eyes away from Miette, Cessalie smiled.

“Oh, I think you’ve quite won her over,” she said. He smiled at that.

“Glad I am to hear it.” The moments stretched in silence. He took a breath.

“I should… I have some matters that I must attend to,” he murmured, excusing himself. “But should you again require assistance, please do not hesitate to seek me.”

She looked up at him with her solemn, black eyes. She was silent for a moment, brow knit with some inscrutable expression. A small smile stole across her lips, and she nodded.

“Thank you, Artoirel. I will,” she said.

#cessalie sombreterre #artoirel de fortemps #ffxiv #this has been sitting on my desktop for a month and I forgot about it #it's post Thordan but pre vault solo duty #everyone is still in grief mode #now that there is a moment's peace to grieve #it's 1.30am and I have not edited this enjoy 😵#wol x artoirel #wolartoirel #pre relationship

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vyllbrand · 1 year

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[ fluffvember ] flowers

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dearastrologian · 1 year

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Just a little PDA don’t mind them.

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #wol x artoirel #elezen #artoirel de fortemps #og cont #adriel wrynn

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7marichan714 · 1 year

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A gift for @/NoireNocturne (twittah) 💗💋 Noirel OTP 💗☺️

MY COMMISSIONS INFO

https://ko-fi.com/7marichan7

https://www.etsy.com/es/shop/7marichan7

#my artwork #final fantasy #ffxiv #ff14 #final fantasy xiv #wol x artoirel #artoirel #artoirel de fortemps #noir #elezen

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morganali-art · 1 month

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OC x Canon Week - Day 5 Getting Into Trouble

Please stop flirting you're making everyone uncomfortable with how sweet and earnest you are 🤢

(crops under read more)

#oc x canon week #ocxcanonweek #ffxiv #artoirel de fortemps #cessalie sombreterre #wol x artoirel #99% of this is my desire for emmanellain to have a calvin & hobbes-esque face journey ngl

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reikatsukihana · 10 months

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Send 💕 to see them with someone they care about.

She won't admit it, but it's true. 👀

... At least, not yet.

Thanks @starrysnowdrop UwU I can guess why you asked that particular one xD I hope that was the answer you were looking for…😉

#ffxiv oc #reika tsukihana #ship: beyond their duty #ffxiv ask meme #screenshot ask game #wol x artoirel

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redwayfarers · 3 months

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AFFRONT

Fandom: FFXIV Ship: Nika/Artoirel Characters: Nika Perseis (WoL), Artoirel de Fortemps, Lucretia Fiore, Mina Fiore Rating: Gen Word count: 1696 Spoilers: minor StB spoilers. part 2 - read on ao3 divider by @saradika

He’d been warned, of course, how difficult this would be. Nika is far from an easy man to get along with on the best of days, let alone in what appears to be the worst state he’s found himself in as of recent history, mentally and physically. He’d been warned, yet he’d insisted, because he couldn’t simply watch as they organised the transport to Ishgard and not offer to help. He couldn’t watch as they carted Nika, fragile and unconscious, away to the hands of Ishgardian chirurgeons, and away from his vigilant eye.

So he bartered. He told his father it was securing Eorzea’s future if he stayed in Ishgard, by Nika’s side, overseeing his recovery. Maybe he even expected pride in his father's eye for the foresight. He found agreement, but little else.

Artoirel knows it’s not becoming of him anymore. He knows, yet finds it necessary to justify his actions to his father. Securing Eorzea’s future seems to matter more than the heart of one’s son almost breaking at his lover almost dying. His father has even taken upon himself to bring Nika’s mothers from Limsa, as an additional pair of eyes.

It’s taken Artoirel a moment to realise how much of a mercy this is. He doesn’t dare interpret it as a sign of care, not quite yet, but he’s grateful nevertheless. Said mothers did warn him about the difficulty of his choice, but he did see the relief in their eyes, knowing that their son has someone steadfast by his side.

He wonders if his own father would share the same relief. For Haurchefant, certainly. For Emmanellain, perhaps. But for Artoirel? The fact he has to wonder at all speaks much more than any answer could.

But he has bigger things to worry about, such as the hurt in his chest at Nika’s shame-fueled anger that had nowhere to go but to Artoirel. He knows it’s not personal, he even understands the impulse, and yet, his eyes prickle with tears he can’t shed. Relief comes when Nika’s mother rushes in, looks between them and just signals for Artoirel to go.

Ordinarily, he would’ve been insulted. As it stands, he takes the direction and leaves, though he stops to watch Nika stifle a scream in his mother’s neck. Artoirel hardly remembers what his mother’s hugs felt like. He cannot seem to recall a recent one from his father, either.

If his insides were a battlefield, they would signal a lost battle.

Artoirel turns away and walks briskly to his office. He contains any sniffling, and his eyes burn with the effort of holding back tears, but the few gazes he does notice linger. It makes shame burn bright - he’s their lord now - so he picks up the pace and closes the door loudly behind him. Only then does he crumple, halfway across the room to his desk, and the stain of tears follows him as he sits and hides his face in his palms.

And he cries. He cries, and cries, and cries, cries even as his pride begs him to stop and reason demands he does. It all hits him like bricks, one at the time: Nika’s harsh words, barely audible through tears, that sickening feeling of emptiness and resentment when he thinks of his father, the sight of Nika crying in his mother’s arms and the absence of his own. He feels his hands shake and realizes he’s shaking from head to toe, and cries even harder, because he’s failing his duty.

Halone save him, he’s failing his duty. He’s responsible for Nika now, and he should be there, in that fucking room, take the yelling with grace, and he should be grateful he’s alive at all to scream at him, not run away–

The door slides open and Artoirel’s blood runs cold.

“I came to– oh, you’re crying,” a female voice says and he raises his eyes. She sounds genuinely empathetic, which makes him dig his nails into his palms.

“Madam, I apologize you had to–” he starts, but he hates how his shaken voice sounds. The woman huffs. “If you could just wait for a moment–”

“That kind of crying isn’t about to disappear in a moment,” she says quietly and Artoirel slumps in his chair. “It’s all good, though. Crying’s normal. Didn’t know you Ishgardians are so uppity about it.”

He wipes his eyes and looks at her. She’s tall enough to be a Highlander, and her hair is dark and short. She’s dressed in an oversized, woolen coat, and in the dim light of the room, her eyes appear to be two smothering pools of darkness. He suddenly recalls where he knows her from. It’s one of Nika’s mothers.

“Madam Perseis, I do not.. I do not ordinarily cry before guests,” he says by way of apology.

“Ain’t a Perseis. Nor a madam.” Great. Now he feels incompetent, ashamed and stupid. “Name’s Lucretia Fiore. I hope my own son’s mentioned me once or twice.”

“Once or twice,” Artoirel cautiously replies and sniffles. “Shamefully little. He’s never mentioned that your surname is Fiore.”

Lucretia sighs. “Gods know how little he told you about anything else, then.”

“I still don’t know what happened to his father, if it’s any consolation, and we have been courting for months now, and have been friends for longer.”

Lucretia stares. “When he’s less likely to bite my head off, I will have a word with him about it.” She walks over and uncrosses her hands from her chest. “You’re a lord or something, yeah? Is it okay if I skip the titles and just call you what your name is?”

“A count,” he corrects and throws his head back against the chair. Not that he’s worthy of the title in this state, anyway. “But please, do not refer to me as such. It’s hardly earned.”

“That’s how aristocracy works, I think.”

“It is not a just system, necessarily. Artoirel is enough.” He shrugs. “It is my name.”

“Good.” Lucretia points towards a nearby seat and he nods. “Just came to say sorry on Nika’s behalf and that he’ll come around. It’s not your fault he almost got himself killed. You didn’t deserve the anger he poured on you earlier.”

“I am responsible for him now,” Artoirel replies. “For the time being, I should say. For his care. I have seen people.. Do unjust things in their rage, and there should be someone there to listen to that rage.” He pauses. “Not a.. superior. A caretaker.”

“Very noble of you,” Lucretia says. “But what happens when caretakers get overwhelmed? Taking care of people is hard. Taking care of Nika is even harder. Give yourself a breather when you need it.”

He simply sucks air in and massages his hands. His head feels full of lead, a heavy pull that drags down to his chest. There is no ‘breather’ when you are responsible. There is no ‘breather’ when you have a duty, towards one’s country, one’s family, and one’s lover. A part of him notes that Nika’s failed in honoring the one he has towards his family.

But when has Nika ever cared for such things? He disapproves, of course, but Nika’s offense feels lesser than his own. In fact, he might as well have not had a single bad thought in his entire life. It’s a lie, of course. But Artoirel has no strength to grapple with moral qualms right now.

“He will come around,” Lucretia repeats. “He’s like his mother, says shit he doesn’t mean, does shit he doesn’t mean. He also has her tendency of running away, but something tells me he won’t run away from this one. I won’t let him.”

“He does resemble her,” Artoirel whispers. The image of them, side by side, comes into sharp focus; the same dark skin, black hair, the same full lips, the same prominent nose. Nika looks so alike to his mother that there is no question that they share blood. But she lacks the scar, and her eyes are the same brown and warm, whereas his are mismatched and sharp.

There was no sharpness when he crumpled in her arms, though, only anguish. Artoirel recalls his own mother and wonders if his features keep anything from hers anymore or he’s entirely Edmont’s son. He’d been told that he had his mother’s face as a child. But since then he’s grown, and the fullness of his cheeks has been replaced by sharpness.

But round though it may have been, his mother’s face could still be as cold as his father’s. Cold enough to whisper in his ear that he should reject Haurchefant, cold enough to convince him of it. Cold enough to leave an emptiness when she died. She was only ever truly happy when she played music.

But both she and Haurchefant are dead. Her hatred does not matter anymore. Artoirel blinks tears away. Lucretia is watching him, gentle, and it makes him want to cry even more.

“Do you need a hug?” she asks, and her voice is low and akin to a soft wave. She places a tentative hand on his arm. Artoirel doesn’t recall his parents’ hugs.

His pride rebels, naturally. But this whole situation is ridiculous enough as is and his head feels as if it’s about to burst from the pressure of recent events. He thinks of Nika in the other room, his sharp words play in Artoirel’s head in a loop, but he cannot find it in him to be angry. He thinks of his father calling Aymeric his son, without a word in Artoirel’s direction, but he cannot find it in him to be angry about this, either.

All he can do is endure and hope it goes away, like any duty-bound son of Ishgard would.

“I do, actually,” he says at last, and Lucretia shuffles until she wraps her arms around him, and Artoirel melts against her and this time, he doesn’t bother to hide his tears.

Because all he can do is endure, and maybe, enduring does not have to mean being strong at all times.

What an odd notion. He’ll take it anyway.

#ffxiv #inspo birb has come to town #nero plays ffxiv #nika perseis #artoirel de fortemps #nika x artoirel #wolartoirel #wol x artoirel #ffxiv writing #ffxiv fic #ffxiv wol #stormblood spoilers #house keeping done: please look at my little art study #do note that half of the relationships here are my hcs and interpretations #i find him so fascinating though. and squenix isn't feeding me #so i make my own lore #this is too niche-y i'd say but hey it's out

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queenieartuna · 1 month

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If you have ten billion boop notifications from me I'm about half sorry lol I want the fancy boop badge Enjoy a goofy Queenie and Artoirel outtake for payment

#ffxiv #elezen #ffxiv elezen #final fantasy xiv #april fool's day #woltoirel #wol x artoirel #artoirel de fortemps

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yzeltia · 2 months

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Febhyurary 2024 Day 15: Group [Violet]

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #final fantasy 14 #ff14 #ffxiv oc #ff xiv #febhyurary #febhyurary 2024 #violet fisher #jannie eyradoux #artoirel de fortemps #wol x artoirel #riol forrest #wol x riol

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morganali-writes · 1 year

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Domestic Impropriety

Evening was settling quickly over Ishgard by the time Artoirel arrived at the Fortemps manor, and glad he was to be, at last, out of the blizzard that was beginning to pick up in earnest. Once divested of his knight’s attire, he made a point to head directly to the parlour – given the weather, he had hopes he would find a certain person there.

And there indeed she was. With one of the chaise lounges pulled up close to the fire and a blanket wrapped around her, Cessalie lounged with her feet tucked beneath her, a needle and garment in hand.

“There you are,” she said, a smile brightening her face as she waved with the hand that still held the needle. “Welcome home.” Something warmed in his chest at her words. He felt his own face draw into a lopsided grin of its own accord, and he strode over to where she sat, placing a kiss on the top of her head.

“All is well at Falcon’s Nest, I take it?” flinching, he turned and realised they were hardly as alone has he had assumed. On the opposite side of the room, not quite so close to the fire, his father glanced up at him over the book he was reading.

“It is, the restoration works are progressing well – and Ser Redwald sends his regards,” he replied, lowering himself to the end of the chaise lounge. “Very good.” Lord Edmont nodded and turned back to his book. Artoirel waited a long moment, then turned back to where Cessalie sat in her cocoon of blankets, quietly smiling to herself as she made very quick, practiced stitches.

“What are you about this evening?” he said softly, and though her eyes did not leave her work, she turned herself towards him. “Alas, nothing terribly glamorous – even the Warrior of Light needs to mend her unmentionables,” she said, shooting him a sly look, then sighed. “These garments are quite worn, I truly ought to replace them – but one does not quickly forget poverty, I’m afraid.” “Ah, I see,” he said, floundering for a moment. She pulled tight a knot on the garment she was currently mending (a stocking, it appeared), and clipped the trailing thread.

“Hm, I seem to have all but trapped myself,” she said with a chuckle, as she stretched to reach her next garment. “Would you pass me that chemise, on the top of the pile there?” “It would be my pleasure,” he replied with a laugh, and reached for the garment in question. As he took the chemise in hand, trying not to ponder it overmuch, he found himself instead puzzled by the texture of it. The fabric was worn of course, that much she had said, but there was something about it that didn’t feel quite right. He continued to stare at the garment after handing it over, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.

“Is aught amiss?” Artoirel shook himself. “No, nothing of import, only…” he frowned again, perplexed. “Of what fabric are these garments made?” “Pardon?” said Cessalie, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “I—ah, linen? Hm.” Understanding dawned on him, and he nodded. “Linen. It is of little wonder then that you feel the cold so acutely here – have you any woollen garments?” She hesitated, then averted her gaze. “I am embarrassed to admit it, but no – outer clothes notwithstanding of course. Now I feel quite the fool, but then Ul’dah was never so cold as this.” “No, I imagine not,” Artoirel said with a soft smile, before taking her hand in his. “I fear the tailors and dressmakers of the Crozier will have all ceased trading for the evening, but we shall have to get you some more appropriate garments on the morrow – you will catch your death, otherwise.” She narrowed her eyes at him then, a coy smile crossed her face.

“Artoirel de Fortemps, are you offering to take me shopping for undergarments?” she said, lifting her hand to her lips in mock surprise. Feeling his face grow hot with embarrassment, he grimaced.

“Cessalie.” “Artie.”

He closed his eyes and sighed, defeated. This is my life now, he supposed. “Must you delight in teasing me so?” he said, exasperated, and she gave a soft, little laugh that went some way to softening his mood. “I think I must, you do blush so prettily when you’re flustered.” She said, giving his hand a squeeze.

“Eughhh.” Startled, the both of them turned and noted Emmanellain, who also had evidently been there playing cards with Honoroit for some time. “I pray you, find yourselves a private room, I’m like to be ill.”

With a weary sigh, Edmont closed his book with a decisive thump and stood. “While I do not necessarily disagree with your brother’s sentiment,” he said, levelling a resigned look at Artoirel, “I would prefer it if you were married first. Good night, you two.” He made a slight bow in Cessalie’s direction, then made his way out of the room, summoning an indignant Emmanellain as he went, and leaving them quite alone.

“Fury, take me,” Artoirel said weakly, hiding his burning face in his hands. “O-oh.” He looked to Cessalie through his fingers, who looked sheepishly back. A small smile crept onto her lips, then a grin – before giving way to mirthful laughter. His own mortification yielding to her joyful mien, he helplessly laughed along with her.

Still laughing, she took his hands and pulled him closer, drawing him in for a kiss. He could feel her smile even as she pressed her lips to his. Leaning in further, he pulled her into his arms, blanket and all, delighting in the way she tucked her face into the crook of his neck.

“You must think me terribly improper, I fear I shall never learn,” she said, leaning into his embrace. “Perhaps, but I should not change a thing about you,” he said, placing another kiss on the top of her head. “And I defy anyone to suggest that the Warrior of Light and saviour of Ishgard should be admonished because of her manners.” Her breath tickled his neck as she laughed.

After a time, she sighed in contentment. “Woollen undergarments may be a pressing concern for the morrow, but I think I’d much rather have you keep me warm instead.” Artoirel inhaled a sharp breath. “I fear we would make quite a scene should I wrap myself about you thus in a more public sphere.” “Hah, true enough,” she admitted. “Might I then ask a favour?” Her voice was less confident this time, almost shy. He glanced down at her. “You may ask me anything.”

“Would you lend me a nightshirt?” she stared up at him with eyes half-lidded, and he felt something catch in his throat. “I… certainly, though I fear you will drown in fabric.” “That’s quite alright, I shall be quite warm then.” “I dare say you will be,” he murmured, unable to quit his gaze from hers. “I think I should like to see that.”

“What if I showed you?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Cessalie…” “Too forward?” “No, but I fear should I see you thus, I might take you in my arms and do something incredibly reckless.” A slow, lazy grin crossed her face, and his heart beat faster in his chest. “Now that I would quite like to see.” Abruptly she stood, one hand catching her blanket around her like a cape, and the other cupping his cheek.

“Come on then,” she said, leaning down to briefly touch her lips to his, and he felt as if he were a fly, caught in her web. “Fetch me a nightshirt whilst I gather my mending and bring it to my chambers.”

“As you command,” he replied, voice atremble. He stood then, bowed slightly to her, then quietly willed himself to leave the room at a sensible and measured pace.

Minutes or perhaps hours later, he stood at her bedroom door, woollen nightshirt in hand. He knocked once, twice, and after an interminably long moment, the door cracked open. With a twinkle in her eye and a mischievous smile on her lips, she took the proffered garment. “Wait here, I’ll be just a moment,” she said, and shut the door again.

The hallway was quiet while he waited. The clock that sat in the main hall was ticking away the seconds – he could feel his own nerves winding tighter and tighter as the minutes passed.

“You can come in, now,” Cessalie called through the closed door, and he all but jumped out of his skin. Looking this way and that, he took a deep breath, then reached for the door handle and slipped into her room.

Not seeing her immediately, he cast his gaze around the room. Books piled on the bedside table, unlabelled potions and tinctures and sheeves of handwritten notes were scattered about the small bureau that sat next to the narrow window. The blanket she had worn before, now tossed upon an unmade bed. There were flowers and pretty trinkets decorating the shelves, as well. Artoirel smiled to see them, and to see how she’d made the space an extension of herself.

“Ahem.” His eyes focused on the sound of her voice, and he saw her standing at the threshold of the adjoining room.

Wearing naught but his nightshirt.

She stretched her arms out, and the sleeves hung over her hands – laughing, she waved about the excess fabric, before doing a little twirl – causing the fabric that hung to her knees to flare slightly as she moved.

“What do you think?” she said, working to roll up the far too long sleeves to a more manageable length. Artoirel took a breath, not realising he had been holding it since she appeared.

“I think…” he trailed off, letting his eyes drift down the vision before him. The neckline was too wide, of course, and was threatening to slip off her shoulder. I adore you, he thought. You are precious. She stared up at him expectantly, her cheeks rosy and flushed.

“I think that…” that I love you, he thought. “You– you what?” her eyes were wide, and he blinked. Had his own lips betrayed his thoughts? Heat crept up his neck. “Oh, Halone… I think that I love you,” he repeated. Slowly she raised her hand to cover her mouth.

“You were right,” she said, her voice a tremulous murmur, “that was incredibly reckless of you.” Her eyes searched his for any sort of deceit or trickery, and he hoped that his sincerity was written plain for her to see. It pained him to see how uncertain she was when it came to genuine affection, and he hoped he might redress the balance going forward.

After a moment, she took a step towards him. “Truthfully?” she said, her brow creased in worry at how he might answer her. He took the hand that hovered near her lips and pressed his lips lightly to her fingers. “On my honour as a knight,” he replied. “I shall never lie to you about such things.” Cessalie’s faced flushed red, and she gave a nervous, little laugh.

“Good. I’m glad.” Drawing closer, she leaned her head on his chest. “Forgive me, you’ve caught me quite by surprise. I need time to sort out how I feel.” Artoirel chuckled and enveloped her in a hug. “There is naught to forgive, I quite surprised myself as well. You do not owe me a response, heartfelt or otherwise.” She relaxed in his arms, and he felt her arms snake around his waist. “Thank you,” she sighed into the fur collar of his coat.

“And here I had thought to seduce you,” she said, rallying her confidence once more, peering up at him with a wistful smile. “You most certainly did, have no fear of that,” he laughed. “Perhaps then, I should take my leave before you can seduce me further. I’ll not invite a scandal this night.” “No, indeed.” She said with a chuckle. “Go and rest, my dear, we can always cause a scandal on the morrow.”

“After all,” she said with a sly grin, “You did offer to take me shopping for undergarments.”

#ffxiv #artoirel de fortemps #cessalie sombreterre #wol x artoirel #wolartoirel #well that got slightly out of hand

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