joy has touched him some
Nov. 24th, 2025 09:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: joy has touched him some
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion Lesage, D/T
Rating: M, for a dick
Word Count: 1503
Notes: For the gamma themeset on![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
1character , fifty sentences for Dion Lesage. #23 is inspired by this art.
-
#01 - Snow: Winter slumps over Drake’s Head and thaws into cold, muddy pools; holiness is reserved Dion finds only where the dirt and the poor can’t touch him.
#02 - Child: His father’s indiscretions with a courtesan far gone tickle at Dion’s collar where Terence’s calloused fingers brush against old fears.
#03 - Brick: Twinside’s walls fall to Bahamut without a stone thrown, and Dion roars his deliverance of the Empire over a country that does not love him.
#04 - Judgment: While his father’s sceptre lays balefully on Dion’s pauldrons, he considers when it began that he must always bow down to earn his confidence and generosity.
#05 - Powder: Smoke and debris fill the air as trebuchets launch over the heads of men lying still below; Bahamut miraculously intercepts on the field, stone and magic ricocheting off his scales like fireworks.
#06 - Grim: The farmers’ fields are churned black with flame and silver spear shafts that pierce the earth with some men still groaning sluggishly on the ends; Dion grits his teeth and lengthens his stride through the slaughter to uncover what complicity yields.
#07 - Trap: Anabella’s smile is frigid with civil hostility; Dion presses closer to watch it fade.
#08 - Star: Metia shines for the heretic’s pleasure and joy alone; what do his father’s augurs know of stars when they cannot parse what miracles happen at their feet?
#09 - Possession: Fresh hope seizes Dion with new title; My Prince hangs in his heart like a call to arms or a kiss.
#10 - Bandage: Dion thumbs at the fine puckering of his skin and watches the curse gather courage to torture him; today, tomorrow, or next season, he may blow to ash for the honor of the Empire who’s future he’s promised but never secured.
#11 - Pearl: Oriflamme’s high shops were once thick with jewels and silks and shipments of pleasure, but the harbor grows empty and yawns as ships depart and disburse in pieces along Waloed’s jagged, hissing shores.
#12 - Glass: Greagor’s solemn figure in the church’s modest windows shines clean with pale sunlight; far from the grandeur of Oriflamme’s cathedral and jettisoned towers spearheading the heavens, Dion senses there are two kinds of devotion to Her name.
#13 - Classified: Dion removes himself from the court with rage that threatens toppled champagne flutes to castle towers; what his father conceals and omits will only hurt them both.
#14 - Buttons: The thick coat is lined and warm; pacing along the outcrop in the autumn’s biting wind, Dion thumbs and marvels at normal miseries.
#15 - Closet: The chest is lined with velvet and holds his mail, his robes, and finery, but nothing of merit; Dion keeps firm before him what fate most tempts him to chance.
#16 - Ash: Will he die like a son or a dog; one is a man, the other a cousin to his disease that he conceals, but Dion runs through trivialities, red prick as heavy as his grievances, and into Terence’s attentive hands.
#17 - Definition: The emperor’s eyes are dry as Sanbreque bleeds out to new coldness; Dion had thought good men were infallible.
#18 - Staircase: It had always seemed that every step forward may cut through the resistance that bowed him back, but Dion finds this climb has no end.
#19 - Nail: For knights who did not die in pieces they might know the weight of the earth above them; Dion looks out at all who lay transfixed below the evening sky like a bad birth and knows they must leave a coffin to the crows.
#20 - Prey: Aether curls beneath his skin like cold water, luminescent and cold, illuminating his quarry moving fast — when the thrill of the chase passes, Dion loathes the lightheaded joy it wrought.
#21 - Backwards: Twinside’s floating city of transients is a far cry from Oriflamme’s eternal grandeur, but Dion cannot defend egalitarian policies from Greagor’s judgments beyond the line he rigidly holds in the sands.
#22 - Trouble: The Dhalmeks pace like coeurls in sage brush and behind red, painted rocks; the sun scorns him, the sand chafes him, but Dion watches diligently for what pillars may fail him first.
#23 - Little: Dragonets hiss and chirp their greetings and drive their handlers to endless frustration, but Dion likes how the infants curl their reptilian bodies against his blunt fingers for warmth.
#24 - Collar: The invisible noose once felt like a promise of absolution to come, but Dion feels now the burn of derision and dishonesty and steels himself to cut the rope.
#25 - Circle: The dragoons draw rank around Dion, shielding him from the judgment of men and them from the blood wet on his mouth.
#26 - Hands: Knights are pale, sun-starved men that age only along their chafed necks and exposed faces; Dion touches the velvety creases by Terence’s eyes with new pleasure.
#27 - Freedom: There’s security and relief in the command of another, but barred from protesting what doubts stir, Dion feels the chains that bind him bite deeper.
#28 - Last: Restraint snaps loose from him like a dam broken or an arrow shot; Dion had thought he’d be the final pillar to fall before the empire, not a demagogue.
#29 - Scab: Dion drags blunt fingernails over his sleeve until he registers he doesn’t feel it at all.
#30 - Crown: Before the vanity and the half-full bowl of water, Dion watches his reflection dip into itself, scattering light and calm that bestows him with his namesake, but not the faith of a court.
#31 - Time: The statue of Greagor and the small wyrm at her feet feels closer to a premonition as the curse encroaches from elbow to palm.
#32 - Rice: Every sheath of wheat rots in the granaries of Twinside while Dion watches from afar refugees scrape their bowls with cracked fingers and return for hope.
#33 - Worn: His chipped armaments and stained white garb do not make Dion less than what he upholds, but Terence tuts and undresses him and makes anew his buffer to shield him.
#34 - Paint: Twinside’s court transforms with the Emperor’s direction; the stink of oil and new plaster cannot mask the still sore losses fresh in Dion’s throat and body.
#35 - Ache: Terence distracts him with all manner of talk, and Dion thinks he’s awake half the night not from pain, but the pleasure of his warm speech.
#36 - Cherry: Sodden with blood, the fields are as churned and mottled as bruised fruit that suck, thirsty for one more, at Dion’s boots.
#37 - Library: Dion misses music and verse and the joy of ladling new measures from old tomes; all pleasures feel exhumed from his spirit and excised with the ceaseless ingenuity of Greagor’s command.
#38 - Win: Their banner stands high on parade and the knights dragoon ring out their proud and joyous defiance to live with their fists pounding against their swollen chests.
#39 - Loss: Dion slings water from his eyes and marches through the evening gloom, turning and stacking numbers mutely in his mind, and nearly collides with Terence’s sharp demand that he pause.
#40 - Fold: Exhilaration burns through Dion’s blood, sharp and joyous and sweeping as he wrestles Terence, laughing and cursing, into the first deep swell of the sea and throws himself after.
#41 - Music: The bard’s strumming lulls in his ear like Bennumere’s opaque siren promises, but Dion resists inviting further misery and rows unsteadily across its cautionary expanse.
#42 - Bell: There’s no church or servicemen remaining to mark the dawning of the new hour for the living — the world is given to greater consequences — but duty demands Dion spare himself the temptation of testing faith.
#43 - Sleep: Within the despairing lens that Bahamut had observed the world and measured it, Dion feels his mask slip.
#44 - Contact: Dion gropes for Terence’s skin beneath stained leathers, scrapes his body indelicately with callused palms, and presses flared legs flossed with thick embroidery against his own; a broken moan stirs his hair, then settles grievously against his mouth.
#45 - Electricity: To put to right that which he made wrong, Dion lurches to his feet, whispering courage, prayer, and gratitude, and commands himself pitilessly to order.
#46 - Milk: Mothers and pilgrims walk the crystal road with some children smaller than a goblet; Dion and his dragoons march past, dull-eyed, through abandoned possessions and materials that dot the blighted passage like a scourge.
#47 - Wild: Greagor always has a hold on his world that Dion leans into even as others disappear, but litanies leave him aching and sore; the cool metal of his lance points him true.
#48 - Expectation: If it is the end of vigilance and sense, then Dion can spare one; mercilessly, Terence walks.
#49 - Mechanism: Bahamut’s Mercy falls from his fingers into Clive’s cradled palm, the ruby facing away, and relieves Dion of its inlaid burden and responsibility to return.
#50 - Finale: Without a mantle to shame him or cajole his spirits, Dion allows himself to belong entirely to principle, rectitude, and chagrin; joy, he thinks, heart throbbing, has touched him some.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion Lesage, D/T
Rating: M, for a dick
Word Count: 1503
Notes: For the gamma themeset on
1character , fifty sentences for Dion Lesage. #23 is inspired by this art.-
#01 - Snow: Winter slumps over Drake’s Head and thaws into cold, muddy pools; holiness is reserved Dion finds only where the dirt and the poor can’t touch him.
#02 - Child: His father’s indiscretions with a courtesan far gone tickle at Dion’s collar where Terence’s calloused fingers brush against old fears.
#03 - Brick: Twinside’s walls fall to Bahamut without a stone thrown, and Dion roars his deliverance of the Empire over a country that does not love him.
#04 - Judgment: While his father’s sceptre lays balefully on Dion’s pauldrons, he considers when it began that he must always bow down to earn his confidence and generosity.
#05 - Powder: Smoke and debris fill the air as trebuchets launch over the heads of men lying still below; Bahamut miraculously intercepts on the field, stone and magic ricocheting off his scales like fireworks.
#06 - Grim: The farmers’ fields are churned black with flame and silver spear shafts that pierce the earth with some men still groaning sluggishly on the ends; Dion grits his teeth and lengthens his stride through the slaughter to uncover what complicity yields.
#07 - Trap: Anabella’s smile is frigid with civil hostility; Dion presses closer to watch it fade.
#08 - Star: Metia shines for the heretic’s pleasure and joy alone; what do his father’s augurs know of stars when they cannot parse what miracles happen at their feet?
#09 - Possession: Fresh hope seizes Dion with new title; My Prince hangs in his heart like a call to arms or a kiss.
#10 - Bandage: Dion thumbs at the fine puckering of his skin and watches the curse gather courage to torture him; today, tomorrow, or next season, he may blow to ash for the honor of the Empire who’s future he’s promised but never secured.
#11 - Pearl: Oriflamme’s high shops were once thick with jewels and silks and shipments of pleasure, but the harbor grows empty and yawns as ships depart and disburse in pieces along Waloed’s jagged, hissing shores.
#12 - Glass: Greagor’s solemn figure in the church’s modest windows shines clean with pale sunlight; far from the grandeur of Oriflamme’s cathedral and jettisoned towers spearheading the heavens, Dion senses there are two kinds of devotion to Her name.
#13 - Classified: Dion removes himself from the court with rage that threatens toppled champagne flutes to castle towers; what his father conceals and omits will only hurt them both.
#14 - Buttons: The thick coat is lined and warm; pacing along the outcrop in the autumn’s biting wind, Dion thumbs and marvels at normal miseries.
#15 - Closet: The chest is lined with velvet and holds his mail, his robes, and finery, but nothing of merit; Dion keeps firm before him what fate most tempts him to chance.
#16 - Ash: Will he die like a son or a dog; one is a man, the other a cousin to his disease that he conceals, but Dion runs through trivialities, red prick as heavy as his grievances, and into Terence’s attentive hands.
#17 - Definition: The emperor’s eyes are dry as Sanbreque bleeds out to new coldness; Dion had thought good men were infallible.
#18 - Staircase: It had always seemed that every step forward may cut through the resistance that bowed him back, but Dion finds this climb has no end.
#19 - Nail: For knights who did not die in pieces they might know the weight of the earth above them; Dion looks out at all who lay transfixed below the evening sky like a bad birth and knows they must leave a coffin to the crows.
#20 - Prey: Aether curls beneath his skin like cold water, luminescent and cold, illuminating his quarry moving fast — when the thrill of the chase passes, Dion loathes the lightheaded joy it wrought.
#21 - Backwards: Twinside’s floating city of transients is a far cry from Oriflamme’s eternal grandeur, but Dion cannot defend egalitarian policies from Greagor’s judgments beyond the line he rigidly holds in the sands.
#22 - Trouble: The Dhalmeks pace like coeurls in sage brush and behind red, painted rocks; the sun scorns him, the sand chafes him, but Dion watches diligently for what pillars may fail him first.
#23 - Little: Dragonets hiss and chirp their greetings and drive their handlers to endless frustration, but Dion likes how the infants curl their reptilian bodies against his blunt fingers for warmth.
#24 - Collar: The invisible noose once felt like a promise of absolution to come, but Dion feels now the burn of derision and dishonesty and steels himself to cut the rope.
#25 - Circle: The dragoons draw rank around Dion, shielding him from the judgment of men and them from the blood wet on his mouth.
#26 - Hands: Knights are pale, sun-starved men that age only along their chafed necks and exposed faces; Dion touches the velvety creases by Terence’s eyes with new pleasure.
#27 - Freedom: There’s security and relief in the command of another, but barred from protesting what doubts stir, Dion feels the chains that bind him bite deeper.
#28 - Last: Restraint snaps loose from him like a dam broken or an arrow shot; Dion had thought he’d be the final pillar to fall before the empire, not a demagogue.
#29 - Scab: Dion drags blunt fingernails over his sleeve until he registers he doesn’t feel it at all.
#30 - Crown: Before the vanity and the half-full bowl of water, Dion watches his reflection dip into itself, scattering light and calm that bestows him with his namesake, but not the faith of a court.
#31 - Time: The statue of Greagor and the small wyrm at her feet feels closer to a premonition as the curse encroaches from elbow to palm.
#32 - Rice: Every sheath of wheat rots in the granaries of Twinside while Dion watches from afar refugees scrape their bowls with cracked fingers and return for hope.
#33 - Worn: His chipped armaments and stained white garb do not make Dion less than what he upholds, but Terence tuts and undresses him and makes anew his buffer to shield him.
#34 - Paint: Twinside’s court transforms with the Emperor’s direction; the stink of oil and new plaster cannot mask the still sore losses fresh in Dion’s throat and body.
#35 - Ache: Terence distracts him with all manner of talk, and Dion thinks he’s awake half the night not from pain, but the pleasure of his warm speech.
#36 - Cherry: Sodden with blood, the fields are as churned and mottled as bruised fruit that suck, thirsty for one more, at Dion’s boots.
#37 - Library: Dion misses music and verse and the joy of ladling new measures from old tomes; all pleasures feel exhumed from his spirit and excised with the ceaseless ingenuity of Greagor’s command.
#38 - Win: Their banner stands high on parade and the knights dragoon ring out their proud and joyous defiance to live with their fists pounding against their swollen chests.
#39 - Loss: Dion slings water from his eyes and marches through the evening gloom, turning and stacking numbers mutely in his mind, and nearly collides with Terence’s sharp demand that he pause.
#40 - Fold: Exhilaration burns through Dion’s blood, sharp and joyous and sweeping as he wrestles Terence, laughing and cursing, into the first deep swell of the sea and throws himself after.
#41 - Music: The bard’s strumming lulls in his ear like Bennumere’s opaque siren promises, but Dion resists inviting further misery and rows unsteadily across its cautionary expanse.
#42 - Bell: There’s no church or servicemen remaining to mark the dawning of the new hour for the living — the world is given to greater consequences — but duty demands Dion spare himself the temptation of testing faith.
#43 - Sleep: Within the despairing lens that Bahamut had observed the world and measured it, Dion feels his mask slip.
#44 - Contact: Dion gropes for Terence’s skin beneath stained leathers, scrapes his body indelicately with callused palms, and presses flared legs flossed with thick embroidery against his own; a broken moan stirs his hair, then settles grievously against his mouth.
#45 - Electricity: To put to right that which he made wrong, Dion lurches to his feet, whispering courage, prayer, and gratitude, and commands himself pitilessly to order.
#46 - Milk: Mothers and pilgrims walk the crystal road with some children smaller than a goblet; Dion and his dragoons march past, dull-eyed, through abandoned possessions and materials that dot the blighted passage like a scourge.
#47 - Wild: Greagor always has a hold on his world that Dion leans into even as others disappear, but litanies leave him aching and sore; the cool metal of his lance points him true.
#48 - Expectation: If it is the end of vigilance and sense, then Dion can spare one; mercilessly, Terence walks.
#49 - Mechanism: Bahamut’s Mercy falls from his fingers into Clive’s cradled palm, the ruby facing away, and relieves Dion of its inlaid burden and responsibility to return.
#50 - Finale: Without a mantle to shame him or cajole his spirits, Dion allows himself to belong entirely to principle, rectitude, and chagrin; joy, he thinks, heart throbbing, has touched him some.
