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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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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...

[ The edge of the tub is a cold seat, the lukewarm waters around Zephirin's ankles steadily cooler. Exposed to the air, matching gooseflesh prickles along his skin; like Francel, he shivers, and Francel's body heat is not unwelcome as it blankets his thighs and shoulders.

They will finish what they began.

First, Zephirin's hands follow the lines of Francel's form, roaming from his neck downward, over his chest, to his waist. They rub warmth across the tiny bumps raised upon the younger knight's skin.

Zephirin's eyes are closed once more when his fingers hover near Francel's arousal, when he takes it into his hands. ]

Mmm...

[francel is sensitive. he squirms pleasantly as zephirin's warm hands roll over his cool skin; he is soft and slippery as a minnow. his arms move from their position over zephirin's shoulders. they slip beneath the man's arms, crossing the wide expanse of zephirin's back as francel pulls him into a close embrace.

they could be lovers, and not merely brothers-in-arms — they look like lovers now.]

Yes...

[ Francel drew upon illicit dreams; Zephirin's heart had no room for such things. Searching it now uncovers at the least a glimmer of something to substitute for desire, a hunger of his own to bring about Francel's completion unmatched.

At first, Zephirin merely holds Francel, considering how to proceed. Heat pulses between his palms. In his inexperience, it falls to Francel to guide his commander, and as Zephirin slides his hands up and down Francel's length, stroking him experimentally, he listens intently for the young knight's reaction. ]

[in some ways, it is almost enough for francel to merely be as he is — in the arms of his beloved commander, skin against skin, close enough that he can pretend he is loved — but zephirin's uncertain fingers stoke the hunger in his belly. zephirin's hesitation implies that francel is his first, which is sacred to him in ways he cannot explain; it makes francel shudder, swallow hard against his tongue, his throat bobbing in his slender neck.

he leans forward to whisper in zephirin's unadorned ear.]

Yes... just — just like that — and squeeze me, hold me tightly, with your fingers — tighter —

[the temptation to suckle zephirin's earlobe claims the better of his self-restraint. francel leans forward an ilm more, and his lips find their purchase; his tongue trails along the little corner of zephirin's ear that he has claimed.]

[ Involuntarily, Zephirin's ears twitch. A quiet sigh is surrendered to Francel.

Enfolded in Francel's embrace, not only does he hear the young knight react — he feels every shudder, every shift in Francel's breathing, and he understands the pull of this sin. It seems its own cure, another's salvation held in one's hands.

At Francel's behest, Zephirin's fingers move with increasing surety, pumping, caressing, neglecting not an ilm, instilled with the confidence that their approach takes the desired course. Francel is Zephirin's first such encounter, but Zephirin rises to the challenge, their intimacy almost a continuation of liberating Francel from his chainmail shirt's clasp. ]

[sheer pleasure, heady and all-encompassing, conquers the whole of francel's mind; it leaves him helpless, pliant, gasping quietly for more in between licks and kisses to zephirin's ear. all thoughts of the fury and his fear of hell have left him. in their place, francel thinks only of zephirin — of zephirin's hands and his touch and the scent of his hair and the taste of his skin...]

Yes — yes — just like that — mmmnh, Zephirin —

[francel's soft moans give way to sweet humming, a humming that increases in pitch and intensity with every generous jerk of zephirin's wrists. he is close; perhaps the older knight can tell as much from the twitching and flexing of his belly, from the quivering of his thighs...]

I love you... please, I love you — I love you, I l-love —

[francel finds release like that — in his fantasy of being loved and in love.]

[ In this moment, Francel is permitted his fantasy. They are lovers, and Zephirin's hands cradle Francel's shaft from base to tip without recoiling when rapture delivers Francel at last, and Zephirin's lips claim Francel's to hush him with tender care, though he tastes himself in the kiss. Zephirin holds their embrace while Francel trembles in his lap; he splays his fingers against Francel's sides.

Strange satisfaction glows warm within his breast. ]

[exhaustion rushes in after the high. francel kisses his commander dreamily, lazily, pressing his soft lips against zephirin's again and again. his rhythm is slower even than that of a gently beating heart.

the ward's thirteenth is a simple knight once more; the beast locked in his heart has been put to bed. yet he continues to dream, lost in his fantasy, kissing zephirin as if he might taste salvation on the archimandrite's lips. at last his eyes flutter open, but he sees without seeing, or at least he sees only the face of the man he loves — the man he tells himself he has always loved...]

...love you...

Edited 2017-07-28 04:53 (UTC)

[ Their faces are close a moment more, warm breath mingling, and then Zephirin leans back, and he opens his eyes. The bath hall is quiet, the water is cold.

One hand yet holds Francel steady astride his commander's legs, patiently allowing him to recover and return from his waking dream at his body's leisure — within reason. Smeared between them is the cooling evidence of their deed, and they cannot leave while they both look damningly disheveled, but each passing second stretches this visit to the baths into an unusual length.

Zephirin's rank works to their advantage, for no one is like to intrude unannounced to find them. ]

[at last zephirin pulls away, taking his warmth with him, and francel is forced to wake. the water is cold against his skin, but his spilled seed is sickly warm.

he looks at zephirin properly. the man's expression is stoic as ever, with his lips set in their usual line, but his mouth is red and swollen from their kisses; a touch of pink graces the left ear that was plied with francel's attention. zephirin's golden hair is mussed and dripping with water, stray strands curled against his cheek. francel has never before seen his commander so disheveled — and it is his fault, his fault.

but they are knights, and not lovers — and zephirin, understandably, does not say that he loves francel, too.

slowly, francel withdraws his arms from around zephirin's waist. he pulls them into his lap; he is still seated upon zephirin's thighs. he wears no particular expression; he is the ward's thirteenth once more, and once more, he withdraws into himself.]

...Ser Zephirin...

Edited 2017-07-29 16:22 (UTC)

[ The heel of Zephirin's palm curves against Francel's hip, still a lover's touch. They are knights, brothers-in-arms, commander and subordinate once more, but Zephirin does not command Francel to rise from their intimate position. Ser Francel returns without verbal prompting, and when he finds himself capable, he will stand of his own accord.

Only time will tell whether the young knight has found peace. Zephirin has the faith to believe in Ishgard's salvation, but he lacks the naivety to think Francel truly, effortlessly saved by his hand. In the moment, perhaps, it seemed at his fingertips; now, their immediate goals attained, he faces Francel's odd non-expression and Francel's mouth debauched.

The young knight's boldness has left him. ]

Ser Francel?

[ Encouraging eye contact, Zephirin gives Francel leave to speak his mind. ]

[francel seems to consider his options for a long time. his hands rest in his lap. semen stains the insides of his thighs, and zephirin's thighs beneath them. his chest is still heaving from the exertion, and again ser janlenoux's advice comes to mind: remember to breathe...

he is afraid that ser zephirin has sinned out of a sense of obligation and nothing more.

nevertheless, he reaches out slowly, planting one of his hands upon zephirin's shoulder to anchor his weight; he leans forward, gently pressing his forehead against zephirin's, and then he smiles, shyly.]

...Thank you.

Edited 2017-07-31 11:50 (UTC)

[ Every sinful desire confessed has been fulfilled, from closeness to pleasure — fulfilled, yet Francel's gratitude is no guarantee that his so-called demons are exorcised. In the ensuing silence, Zephirin holds still, supporting Francel's weight. They are not lovers, but Francel calls forth a sense of responsibility for his welfare in his commander.

Perhaps it is akin to love. Were they not who they are, it could well be love in the making.

Sitting back enough to meet Francel's eyes, Zephirin takes his hand from the younger knight's hip, placing it upon his upper arm. He shakes his head, his gaze searching. ]

...Only the Fury was our witness, and only She watches us now. Speak freely, Ser Francel.

[ser francel's bluff has been called; his half-truth has been seen through. momentarily taken aback, the young knight meets zephirin's gaze with shocked blue eyes, and then bites his pretty bottom lip, hanging his head. his hair is still glossy with moisture.]

I...

[what, exactly, is he supposed to say? i loved it. i love you. did you enjoy it? did you enjoy me? do you love me? please, please just say it — pretend that you love me — no. i'm sorry. i'm sorry.

was it only about sin and redemption, in the end?

all of these thoughts are selfish, and none of them convey the full depth of his emotions: the impossible hypocrisy of coexisting pride and self-hatred, his desire to serve his goddess and country at odds against his bottomless desire to be loved, to feel loved...

francel sits motionless, perched upon zephirin's lap, though he laughs a forced laugh.]

I... I have not the words...

[he clears his throat and fumbles for them. he continues to hang his head in shame.]

...I... wish... we could do this again. But I — I know that we should not. And I cannot, I would not ask you to do aught that you do not desire in turn, but somehow I fear that I already have, and — and...

[ The water has cooled to a numbing temperature around Zephirin's toes, but above its surface, droplets glistening upon his skin are dwindling, and his hair slowly dries to merely damp. The strands left to cling to his cheek make their presence felt with the mild but persistent discomfort of an itch to endure. Reflexively, Zephirin's stained fingers move subtly at his side. ]

We should not.

[ He agrees, with no trace of reproach. They should not do this again, for their intimacy repeated has no selfless, virtuous pretext, but if they have opened a door they cannot shut, the blame lies not with Francel. ]

However, you need not fear that you seduced an innocent man, nor that it was a sacrifice on my part.

...

[the sting of expected rejection is familiar. francel has learned to deal with it; he closes his eyes, wills his face to remain expressionless. he ignores the ache in his chest. he concentrates on the sole action of breathing.

inhale.

exhale.

over and over again, shallow, measured breaths. in this moment, his breaths must be — are — all that matter. this is the way that francel guards his fragile heart.]

...I understand.

[slowly, to avoid slipping on wet tile, francel pushes himself up and off of zephirin's thighs, standing shakily on his own legs.]

[ Zephirin stays seated, waiting until the feeling returns to his legs. His gaze continues to rest on Francel, to track each tell of what he perceives as resigned disappointment.

Does Francel understand?

As the young knight rises, Zephirin withdraws his hand from his arm. It sinks to his lap, no replacement for the warmth now taken away. ]

...Then you understand that I acted knowingly and willingly.

...Yes, I do.

[that, francel understands. he might even believe it. that isn't the issue. this is simply the expected outcome of their actions. just — it wasn't the outcome he wanted.

but he is not and has never been entitled to his wants. even less so, now that he is a knight.

standing in the water, francel turns slightly to one side, bends, and fills his hands with water. he splashes it over his face.

he thinks of breathing.]

[ A heavier silence sets in; as Francel shields himself, Zephirin watches. He breathes quietly, evenly once more, but the remainder of Francel's handiwork is slower to fade. When he eventually crouches to rinse himself clean, it does little for the lingering marks on his lip and ear.

Standing, he climbs out of the tub and turns to his towel and his clothing, and little by little, the sight of Zephirin disheveled is largely erased.

He stops to cast Francel a glance. ]

We should not do this again, but I said nothing of turning you away, Ser Francel.

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