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033 » they bowed to us like kings

[even the thirteen most powerful men in ishgard need to hone their skills from time to time.

ordinarily, the knights of the heavens' ward are given their partners. zephirin and vellguine plan assignments in advance, pairing the members of their ward according to their strengths and what weaknesses need to be addressed. last week, vellguine correctly surmised that francel found it difficult to evade spells; he spent bells dodging haumeric's conjured icicles and boulders, and still has bruises where the conjurer's volley found its mark.

today, however, practice is lax. the knights have been given free reign to choose their partners as they please; unsurprisingly, they all fall back upon old friendships. ser ignasse gravitates towards ser vellguine like a dog to its master; sers grinnaux and paulecrain pair off against one another, and fill the air with their deep-throated shouts. sers adelphel and janlenoux, as always, clash swords and dart around the room as elegantly as lovers engaged in dance (francel has long suspected that janlenoux would place higher than the eleventh seat if only he could bring himself to unleash his full fury upon adelphel). surprisingly, ser hermenost seeks out ser guerrique, perhaps hoping to imbue some calm and wisdom upon the younger axe-bearer. their mages congregate in a corner, heatedly debating the finer points of magickal theory.

that leaves ser francel with ser zephirin — the thirteenth and the first.

upon reflection, they make for an excellent match. both are shieldless swordsmen, unlike adelphel and janlenoux, but where zephirin wields a two-handed greatsword, francel prefers a one-handed rapier. francel holds it before him, drawing his fingers slowly along the dull edge of the blade.]

It would seem we are both unencumbered.

[it is a delicate jab towards their shieldlessness.]

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[kissing zephirin, and being in his embrace... two of francel's imagined sins have now been given to him. but his hunger only seems to intensify, and there is a third sin he yet desires — and, after that, there will be a fourth and fifth and sixth.

the ward's thirteenth is emboldened by the strangely soothing sensation of zephirin's thumb ruffling the ends of his hair. greedy for more of his commander's approval, francel throws his arms around zephirin's shoulders; he initiates another kiss, wetter this time, more open-mouthed, less innocent.

after a moment, he pulls back, his eyes roving over zephirin's gaunt cheekbones, his freshly reddened lips. because of me, francel thinks, and then — wanton arousal.]

Do you... like this...?

[francel's aggressive behavior during practice was merely his desire to please, given a different form. this desire rears its head again... this time in the bucking of his hips. none too subtly, francel rubs and slides and grinds his throbbing erection against zephirin's thigh — charmingly, obscenely eager.]

[ Francel tastes subtly of the scent of his soap, clean. The deep blue of his eyes evokes a clear night sky over Ishgard, but in place of peace, Zephirin finds the same ardour blazing in Francel's gaze that he saw when they crossed blades. It suits the young knight.

This does not leave Zephirin a marble statue, wholly unaffected. Below the waist, his body begins to stir, one consequence which he cannot honestly claim to enjoy, for the response is involuntary.

But he breathes an answer low against Francel's ear, holding him in place with a press of his palm to the small of Francel's back. ]

...Halone forgive me.

[ His whisper's tone sounds less repentant than the words themselves. ]

[zephirin's low voice makes francel shiver — but his penitence simply makes the young knight laugh. temptation has pushed francel beyond his fear of sin and the seven hells: now, in this moment, divine retribution seems like nothing in comparison to the torture of hating his desires every waking moment of every single day.

zephirin's hand halts the bucking of francel's hips, but the young knight leans forward, whispering into his commander's ear.]

Fury forfend, that Fury doth not forgive...

[there is something of the preacher's voice in francel's sultry whisper; he punctuates his sentences with little kisses to zephirin's earlobe.]

If She doth not forgive, then let these sins be mine... and by thy grace, may all my sins be purged...

[ Zephirin's voice contradicts his penitence uttered, but Francel's murmuring injects a lewdness into words to speak with humility, mock-pious and strangely, sharply becoming. The effect is heightened by the fresh memory of his needy search for his equivalent of water to wet a parched throat — for deliverance. Francel's breath caresses Zephirin's ear between the kisses he sprinkles upon the sensitive skin his lips have made their focus.

Around their legs, the water's chill is forgotten, receding with the heat gathered at their thighs, the weight of Francel's arms looped about Zephirin's shoulders.

A shiver travels the length of Zephirin's spine. Again his fingers twitch, curling, uncurling, strands of Francel's hair caught in tufts between the gaps until he pulls back, taking his hand to the crown of Francel's head.

Lips stained redder, hair tousled, Francel stripped of his fears seems the embodiment of temptation. ]

[zephirin's hand rests atop francel's head; francel smiles, sweet and pure, as if all this is only innocent fun — but the flush to his skin belies his sin, his arousal.

a momentary draft sends his wet skin prickling. it reminds the young knight of their location, forcing him to press his body even closer against zephirin's for warmth. as a knight of the ward, francel is no less built than his commander — but he is smaller, his frame more delicate, and for a moment he finds himself lost in the sheer tactile sensation of hard muscle against every ilm of his chest. longing for more, francel draws his loosely looped arms more tightly around zephirin's neck — a gentle squeeze.]

Archimandrite.

[he breathes every last syllable, shaping the word into a seductive melody.]

...What do you desire?

[ Lyrical on Francel's tongue, the respectful form of address is softened then, erotic. Zephirin's lips part a sliver as Francel's insistent embrace eliminates all space, bringing their hips together and interlocking their bodies like their blades, but soon his mouth closes again into a sealed seam.

The time they have to satiate Francel's imagination is limited.

Zephirin smooths down the young knight's hair, knuckles brushing against Francel's ear on his way to stroking the curve of a full cheek before his fingertips follow Francel's jawline back to his chin. He traces the shape of Francel's mouth a third time.

Beneath the love he bears Ishgard, the dedication to a higher cause, Zephirin, too, is a man bound to an earthly vessel, and his priorities do not make him unfeeling.

At length, he gives his reply. ]

The last of your torment ended.

[still smiling serenely, francel closes his eyes, tipping his head to one side to better allow zephirin access to his cheek, his jaw. the touch to his lip sparks his avarice once more; he takes hold of zephirin's hand, gently dotting his palm and wrist with worshipful kisses.]

So virtuous... so selfless...

[francel's torment seizes him. it claims some dark part of his soul, one that speaks now, spurred by what he sees as zephirin's acquiescence.]

But I... I see your virtue and I want to ruin it. I want to make you moan, Zephirin; I want to make you beg. I want to see you relinquish every last bit of your self-control and take me wildly...

...Do you understand now what kind of man I am?

[ Zephirin yields his hand to Francel for the nonce; his self-control is kept in his grip, though that grip was loosened several times and now seems tenuous for it. What began as Francel's relatively innocuous fantasy has roused a hunger not so easily sated, a starved beast set free from restraints already brittle. A shade of it wakes within Zephirin, provoked into being by Francel's words.

Sound echoes in these halls, and they linger in the baths overlong.

Zephirin's other hand trails from Francel's back to the jut of his hipbone. Their contact is searing, but he does not abandon the man Francel was desperate to banish. ]

You set yourself a considerable task. Are there others you would see ruined?

[ser francel — or perhaps the man that was ser francel — or perhaps this is ser francel, and the shy, sweet young knight from before only a mask —

francel giggles, leaning in once more to plant kisses on zephirin's neck; his grip on zephirin's wrist loosens, leaving the archimandrite free reign to touch anywhere he pleases.]

Only you, Ser Zephirin. Only you...

[regardless of whether or not that is true, francel wraps his arms around his commander's waist, then proceeds to dot kisses down the knight's body, tracing a path with his lips from zephirin's neck to his collarbones, moving lower and lower...]

[ Truth or falsehood, it matters not. There are men and women alike who would lap up a promise that makes them another's sole object of desire, and Zephirin wonders to what extent Francel plays a role to appease the unfettered beast of his wants. What does he envisage in return as he pushes ever onward, taking bolder steps much like the move that brought their final match to its close? ]

I see. And how will you proceed?

[ The young knight explores untrodden terrain; his commander, voice silken, carefully unperturbed, arranges sections of Francel's hair still damp and in disarray, smoothing stray strands into place around one ear. ]

[francel lingers for a moment at the center juncture of zephirin's chest, perhaps to listen for any kind of beating heart (if only, if only for a moment zephirin's shattered heart could be whole!) — but his barrage of kisses is ceaseless and he carves a path over sweetly vulnerable waist and chiseled abdomen, ever lower, ever lower until francel's soft chin bumps against the burgeoning axis of zephirin's involuntary responses.

it makes no difference to francel whether zephirin is flaccid or hard. holding his own hardness in his hands, moving his wrist quietly in the cooling waters, he takes his kisses to zephirin's tip, his shaft; his small pink tongue flits out again, this time to forge long unending paths up and down zephirin's length, then over and into the cleft at his tip. his mouth is wonderfully warm.]

[ With a surprisingly purposeful deftness, Francel demonstrates his planned course, and Zephirin's heart beats a newly rapid rhythm, perhaps remade a trapped bird fluttering its wings in vain. Yet he reacts quietly, neither moaning nor begging: his fingers wind themselves tightly into Francel's hair as if to anchor himself, his teeth catch his lip, restraining sharper breaths. In the water, his toes curl against the bottom of the tub.

Through half-lidded eyes, Zephirin watches Francel work unburdened by the shame of his unbidden thoughts and dreams, strive toward his commander's pleasure without hesitation. Francel's pretty mouth and tongue seem undaunted even as their thorough touches spur Zephirin to full hardness and fluid beads at his tip to trickle into Francel's path. ]

— Ser Francel...

[ For the first time, the syllables sound distinctly less composed, rougher in Zephirin's throat. ]

Yes...?

[the word is breathed, as if through some dreamy filter that distorts the sound of francel's voice into something dark and dangerous. the young knight opens his mouth, hovering tantalizingly over zephirin's hardness — its darling little bead of fluid just for him — but his parted lips only make brief flashes of contact as he turns his head this way and that, teasing zephirin with his proximity, with the warmth of his breath. the wet inside of his mouth catches briefly against zephirin's skin, but then he pulls away.

all in ishgard praise ser francel for his piety and purity.

that same ser francel mouths sweetly over his commander's cock — determined, it seems, to test the man's patience.]

What is it, Ser Zephirin?

[ Unexpected from a man praised for his piety and his purity, Ser Francel expertly plays a wicked game. His touches become coy promises rescinded, strategically distributed or withheld — pleasurable torture.

Zephirin's eyes close fully as he steels himself against an unfamiliar mounting ache. Unfurling within him, spreading outward from below his navel like a swiftly growing flame, it awaits Francel's every move with hungry anticipation. Zephirin swallows around his breaths. His eyelids flutter open.

Francel seems well aware of the outcome he seeks, his pace deliberate. ]

...You have yet to persuade me to yield.

[ With some effort, Zephirin smooths away the strain from his tone, deciding against his intended question. ]

[the subtle shifts in zephirin's breathing, the roughness in his voice that vanishes just as suddenly as it comes — all of these things spur francel's desperation on. his wrist jerks faster in the water; he shudders with pleasure, then slows his movements, drawing it out.]

All in good time, Your Holiness...

[ser francel's adherence to clergy etiquette seems designed to taunt the very reverend archimandrite with his depravity, but at last he lowers his mouth — that wet, pleading, promising, hot, hungry mouth — and seals his lips firmly around zephirin's girth.

the young knight uses every single one of his senses to enjoy the moment. he lowers his eyes, lashes brushing against his soft cheeks. visibly, he takes a moment to taste zephirin, rolling his tongue in a tantalizingly slow circle around the shape of him, the size; by the look on his face, he enjoys every bit of this. he takes a deep, slow breath, as if to engrave the scent of zephirin's soap and skin into his memory — and then, slowly, he begins to bob his head, challenging himself, trying to take more and more of zephirin's length with every push forward.]

[ The teachings would condemn their actions as depravity indeed; a pure heart committed to serving the Fury abstains from any pursuit of carnal pleasure, it is impervious to temptation. It needs no solace in a strife-ridden world but the knowledge of the Fury's ultimate reward.

By that definition, they are sullied souls, the Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward, and the Ward's thirteenth, but Ser Francel, who wept, full of anguish, who blushed and stammered with shame, looks serenely blissful from Zephirin's vantage point.

Their hearts remain pure. They know where their loyalties lie.

Zephirin's senses, however, are submerged in Francel without warning. Engulfed in the warmth of the young knight's mouth, his body welcomes the shifts in texture from Francel's lips to the inside of his cheek, and the rougher surface of his tongue. The fingers twined in Francel's hair slip to the nape of his neck and press against soft skin, and at last Francel's movements coax a gasp from Zephirin closer in sound to a groan.

The fingers of his other hand seize Francel's shoulder to keep himself still and steady on his feet, countering a sudden jerk of his hips. ]

Edited 2017-07-17 00:20 (UTC)

[that gasp of zephirin's — almost strangled, almost a moan, rich and wonderfully deep — that gasp of zephirin's ignites something in francel, something that courses through his body like molten lava in his bloodstream. the young knight's cheeks remain apple-round and apple-red as they hollow; francel sucks eagerly, lovingly, thinking only of the taste of sweet surrender dribbling against his tongue. the hand against his neck is wonderfully empowering. for a moment, francel feels as though he finally has his beloved ser zephirin cornered.

his eagerness, however, does not make up for his lack of experience. francel can breathe, but his breaths are too shallow, his body too tense. the need for air supersedes his desire to see his commander spent and undone — so francel is forced to cut zephirin's pleasure short as he pulls up and off the older knight, panting quietly.]

...

...You can... you can sit on the edge of the tub...

Edited 2017-07-17 11:46 (UTC)

[ The pause grants Zephirin a moment's reprieve from his senses, clarity to collect himself and escape the eddies of need and pleasure. Still they pull at his limbs; his heartbeat is caught in the current. He does not move, hands kept where they are.

Eventually, the one on Francel's shoulder squeezes it. The one at the back of Francel's neck brushes its knuckles across his skin. ]

Pray remember to breathe, Ser Francel.

[ Unintentionally, nigh breathless himself, Zephirin echoes the advice offered Francel by Ser Janlenoux, though the others had no cause to predict this day's events. Taking a seat brackets his arousal between his thighs. ]

[arousal throbs through francel's core, pulsing painfully between his legs, but the young knight thinks only of zephirin's pleasure as he shuffles forward on his knees to accommodate their shift in position. the ward's thirteenth licks his lips like a cat eyeing prey.]

But I love you...

[whether or not ser francel truly loves zephirin is a matter for debate. he says it as though he believes it, however, and there is an uncommon tenderness in the way he bends his head to kiss zephirin's inner thigh, alternating between left and right as he works his way closer to where he was — his loving kisses, left, right, left, right —

— then he takes zephirin into his mouth once more, shivering with lust, bobbing almost too quickly, this time all the more eager to service his commander.]

Nevertheless...

[ Love is not necessarily desire's companion, and Francel's declaration has the sound of a new role, another facet of his private fantasies, wherein love is a primary need and eclipses all else, even air. Perhaps his passion is born of love in some form, perhaps not. Regardless, the young knight single-mindedly pursues his goal.

His momentum pulls Zephirin under, into ripples and rolling waves of sensation that soon crest higher and higher. As the pounding of his pulse and heartbeat swells to a crescendo, as pleasure soars to its highest peak, Zephirin arches against Francel, bends forward over the fair head bowed above his lap, the tip of his nose pressed to Francel's ear. His hands quest for purchase on Francel's upper back. His feet, sliding against slick tiles, catch upon Francel's legs.

He is cornered then, and release unmistakably wrests a moan from him, ineffectually constrained by his teeth and lips. Biting down, he breaks skin. Blood wells up there to coat his tongue. ]

[this — this is the moment francel has been chasing.

he relishes every precious second of it. the rush of warmth that hits his tongue is at the forefront of francel's mind; the ticklish sensation of zephirin's hands against his skin rest somewhere in the back. the young knight keeps his head still, but he does not cease the lapping movements of his tongue until at last the tension in zephirin's body goes slack and the thirteenth knows that his commander has descended from on high.

ser francel failed to climax, himself, but that matters little in comparison to the more pressing issue at hand. he pulls back just enough to bespy the pretty flecks of ruby red against zephirin's lips — then, smiling, with a wicked pride roaring in his chest, ser francel leans in once more, his throat quite close to zephirin's ear, and swallows audibly, liquid pulsing in his throat, so that zephirin can hear.]

Have I received of you your blessing, Your Holiness...?

Edited 2017-07-19 20:32 (UTC)

[ Zephirin reaches pleasure's very summit buried deep in the concentrated heat of Francel's diligent mouth, filling it despite a vague sense that its capacity is not limitless. When he slips from that mouth, emptied, jolting shudders ebbing with the tension that drains from every muscle pulled taut, he is wrapped in a comfortable haze so overpowering that his head lolls to lean against the crook of Francel's neck. His thighs, framing Francel, relax. The stinging at his lip is dulled, but the sound of Francel's swallowing loudly announces the young knight's triumph.

Lifting his head, Zephirin swipes his thumb over the delicate skin of Francel's throat; a dim recollection surfaces of meeting Francel's touch, pushing deeper. His gaze wanders to Francel's lips, pausing there before it drops lower and lower to Francel's own need ignored. ]

You have... your endeavours achieved. [ Slowly, his breaths begin to grow even. ] It seems I am bested.

[still smiling, francel bares his slender neck, like a well-trained cat eager to be petted for its good work. he twitches subtly at the contact; a slightly unsteady edge to his breathing mars his otherwise perfect smugness.

he would kiss zephirin if not for the fact that he feels vaguely as though his mouth yet remains sullied. he is afraid to spoil his commander's perfection. nevertheless, francel reaches for the back of zephirin's head, stroking the knight's fine blond hair as if trying to soothe him to sleep.]

Bested... but not beaten, I hope.

[ Zephirin glances up. His fingertips join his thumb, placed over the pulse throbbing below Francel's jaw. His mouth curves slightly with the beginnings of a smile.

With his other hand's thumb, he wipes away the traces of blood clinging to his lips. ]

...And you, Ser Francel? Do you require assistance?

[the young knight nods demurely, as if he is merely requesting assistance with his breastplate and not with achieving sweet release — but the subtle curve of what might be zephirin's smile spurs francel on. he shivers (not only with arousal, for he has been sitting in lukewarm water for some time now) and pulls himself out of the water; the skin on his arms is all raised gooseflesh.

nevertheless, francel carefully rearranges himself so that he is straddling zephirin's lap, with his arms resting across the man's shoulders. his thighs are splayed wide so that zephirin can see every red, throbbing ilm between his legs; he is remarkably slender where the lines of his waist converge at his hips.

and francel's voice is pleading, cooing:]

Please...

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