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furymint · 14 days ago

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I was trying to find the story you wrote about Brucemont being Nol's mentor, but the link's broken! Do you still have it posted up by any chance?

hmmM I don't remember writing a story like that im sorry anon!! i'll explain more abt my brucemont instead.

so he's a v complicated figure to nolanel. in a word, he's nol's abuser. his job is to craft bespoke traumas to turn people Worse, and it's not making his own traumas any Better. in my writing, he flipflops and occasionally pursues what's interesting to him over what he should actually be doing. basically that whole reconciliation bit at the end of ghost blood? ME WHEN IM LYING. that's fodder to gaslight nol later. does this stop nol from worshiping him as a mentor, friend, and leader? absolutely fucking not. bruce wants elliot dead and nol wants bruce to be his best man. nol is several steps from reality at any given point and brucemont is the reason why.

more about why i characterize him like this (tldr retconned levequests):

first off, the lorebook drives me mad with all its impossibilities and typos, so i dont go there—or at least i dont treat it as fully accurate. it says that heustienne was taken in by the house of brucemont, but her father is montorgains de vimaroix. and either brucemont stands there silent bc he has extreme daddy issues while montorgains fawns over his beloved daughter and gives her the treasured family weapon, or that's not true.

he appears in the quests for the player to obtain the drachen mail and hates them on sight for being some upstart foreigner that thinks they can do what he can. king. i think its lame that he accepts us but also the game is allergic to insulting the player. so.

since his in-game appearances are limited, i characterize him most from the levequests written in his name. unfortunately, a lot of ishgardian levequests were rewritten to remove much of their violence or unfairness, creating a less horrible place to live in, and im not here to sanitize brucemont but to make him worse lol:

Exploiting the Adroit

Children orphaned by the jagged maws of Dravanians make fine candidates for the dragoons, as theirs is a special contempt which cannot be found in the hearts of ordinary men. The commanders oft know their story, and thus seek to train and nurture their hatred while suppressing their innate fear. Not all will prove fit to serve, hence we must make use of breeches tough enough to withstand the training, but expendable enough should the candidate crack from the pressure.

FROM

Children who lose their fathers to the jagged maws of Dravanians make fine candidates for the ranks of the dragoons, for theirs is a special contempt which cannot be found in the hearts of ordinary men. The commanders can oft tell who they are, and thus seek to nurture that hatred through painful sessions which force them to relive their nightmares. The ranks will be thinned out sure enough, hence we must make use of breeches tough enough to withstand the grazing of sharp teeth, but expendable enough for those who crack from the pressure.

Rage against the Scream

As their training forces the Knights Dragoon to adopt a fighting posture as soon as the screams of dragons are heard, the candidates prefer to use sallets of titanium. Rumor has it that not only is the headpiece as light as a feather, but the wind blowing through can carry sounds from great distances so the wearer will know when the enemy approaches.

FROM

As their training forces the Knights Dragoon to respond violently to the screams of dragons, the candidates to join the ranks prefer to use sallets of titanium. Rumor has it that not only is the headpiece as light as a feather, but as the wind blows through the crevices, it mimics such a wail and allows the wearer's hatred to course through their veins tenfold at the mere sound.

Raising the Dragoons

At last, the final trials for the Knights Dragoon are upon us, and this year's candidates have proven to be the most promising in quite a long time. They call the trial a “mock battle,” yet the only thing mocking about it is that their adversary is not a full-grown wyrm. The birth of a dragoon merits the use of proper armor, that they may be given full rein to demonstrate their skills as they would in the field.

FROM

At last, the final trials for the knights dragoon are upon us, and this year's candidates have proven to be the most propitious in quite a long time—all from fine bloodlines, all burning with acrimony towards their scaly adversaries. They call the trial a "mock battle," yet the only thing mocking about it is that their adversary is not a full-grown wyrm. They will have full reign to demonstrate their skills, thus the birth of a dragoon merits celebratory armor for use in the test.

More Than One Way

A true dragoon knows whence his foe's vulnerabilities lie—a darkened spot, a bent plate, or if one is lucky, a barren patch. Given the growing roster of youngbloods looking to join the dragoons' ranks, I have decided to thin out the crop through a trial demonstrating knowledge of a dragon's weakness. If the candidates fail to destroy chosen spots on targets wrapped in scaleskin, they are to relinquish their weapon and pursue another vocation. I am in need of dragon scales of decent quality for the targets, and it may be swiftest to obtain them from biasts in the Churning Mists.

FROM

A dragon's natural armor may seem impenetrable to an untrained eye, but a true dragoon knows well whence the vulnerabilities lie - a darkened spot, a bent plate, or if one is lucky, a barren patch. These days, too many youngbloods sign up for the training to join our noble ranks without showing a shred of decent talent, hence I have decided to thin out the crop through a trial. If the men can identify and destroy the spots on targets wrapped in scaleskin, they may continue their training. If they fail, they are to relinquish their weapon and accept pursuit of a less virtuous craft.

We can also see his snark, arrogance, and genuine goal of creating effective and deferential killers:

Puppet Show

We dragoons are a proud sort who often charge into the heat of battle, but that is not to say discretion is without merit.

Dragoon Drop Rate

I have noticed an increase in lowborn candidates for the dragoons [...] Sense it does not make to give candidates quality armor from the start—they have a nasty habit of dropping.

Look Before You Leap

Among the aspiring Knights Dragoon are a talented few [...] Alas, one such youth [...]

Patience, Young Grasshopper

A handful boast themselves invincible [...]. I have warned them [..] yet they heed me not. Very well then, the fools will know their folly once removed from the lists due to shattered ankles.

Starting Off on the Wrong Foot

Even should they pass through the fires of their rigorous training, some candidates are ill prepared for the final test. It is not a matter of skill but familiarity, as they are unaccustomed to the weight of the traditional plate [...]

Don't Sweat the Small Fry

Feh. How generous naivety is that they would sooner piss themselves upon encountering a formidable wyrm of Nidhogg's choosing.

It's All in the Wrists

Oh, how I do enjoy putting fresh-faced dragoon hopefuls in their place─especially those who come with ornate helms [...] They will learn soon enough as their training proceeds, so I would commission you for sets of dragonskin bands in preparation for their rude awakening.

Someone Put Dung in My Helmet

The candidates for the Knights Dragoon are always under intense pressure that leaves their heads pounding by the end of a training session, leading some to forget even the most common of sense.

#some of the other leves couldve been changed but ive thrown out all my lore references at this point #they changed one (not bruce related) that was babbling abt how women dont always make it as soldiers #and thats okay bc they're much better as wives and cooks! i miss the misogyny i miss the corruption #who a society scapegoats says a lot abt what it values. and what it values is men like brucemont #which also influences the way nolanel idolizes him + has been shaped in his twisted image #about nolanel #brucemont #beloved blueberry! when someone finally snaps and kills him halone will laugh

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furymint · 15 days ago

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💔 2

a kiss when it’s not allowed.

((content warning: hypothermia, gore, drug use, torture, nudity, suggestive content))

Snow drifts, as always, across the highest points of the Pillars. Lords and Ladies scurry through the streets after the afternoon's service, eager to peruse the shops and stalls for the fanciest of foreign goods. And through the crowd, a woman weaves her way home. Her armour is soaked through, the warm blue-dyed wool drenched far more thoroughly than it should have been even from days in the snowdrifts.

She reaches the doorway to a modest manor, shivering and huddling beneath the balcony as she fumbles and knocks at the door.

It swings open a few moments later, and Morgane Sejois blinks at the guest.

"Azette? Gods, what happened?" She steps aside, ushering her in. "Come in, you'll catch your death out there!"

Azette tries to smile, but her teeth chatter too much as she steps into the house. The door is shut behind her, cutting away the infernal wind.

"By Halone, you're soaked to the bone." Morgane moves to try and take Azette's coat, only to realise that would be largely futile. "How did you even get this drenched? Did you fall into a lake?"

"Yes." Azette's reply is quick and quiet.

"...Oh, Azette." Morgane wraps an arm around her, hurrying her into the great hall - to the warm hearths and the fire and away from the cold.

Azette doesn't have the strength or the will to resist being guided. It's nice, really. Not to have to worry about where she's going. She trusts Morgane to guide her there safely.

Sure enough, she's lead to the great hall. Well. Great in name, if not truly in size. To the richer nobles in the city (to Morgane's father), the hall would be little more than a study. Perhaps a nook, or a snug. A reading room, at the very most.

But it's more than enough for the needs of the Sejois family, and as Azette is gently lowered into the armchair closest to the fire, she finds herself grateful the room isn't any larger.

"I'm going to ruin the chair, my Lady," Azette manages to say, but makes no attempts to move.

"Oh, it's been through worse." Morgane shrugs. "And besides. What are chairs for, if not to support us when we cannot support ourselves?"

Azette smiles, a little. "I suppose that is literally what chairs are for, yes."

"Pre-cise-ly." She enunciates her words clearly, grinning with each one. "Now. Let's get you out of those wet clothes, yes? You must be freezing."

Azette nods, eyes drifting closed as she settles in her chair. She feels like there's something she should be asking, something missing from the house, someone missing from the house, but she's too exhausted to remember.

Morgane starts with her gauntlets, raising each one and unfastening the buckles in turn before slipping them from Azette's fingers. Her hands are wet, fingers flexing in the warm air. Morgane's thumb brushes over the long scar on Azette's palm for a few long moments, lingering there.

But before Azette can open her eyes or question it, she's moved on. Unfastening her coat, a buckle at a time. Her fingers are quick, dextrous, experienced, even with this sodden coat.

"So, you fell into a lake, hm?" Morgane asks, shifting her hands before Azette's shoulders to tug her forwards. Then she's pulling the coat free of Azette's frame, tossing it the few fulms away she can manage with it being about twice its normal weight from the amount of water it's carrying. "That seems careless of you, oh daring inquisitor."

She's trying to keep her talking, to make sure she doesn't pass out. That would be bad, given her likely hypothermia. To keep her awake. It's a transparent attempt. That doesn't mean it's not effective, though. "It's less that I fell, and more that I was tackled into it, my Lady," Azette corrects.

Morgane pauses. She rarely gets to hear about what happens to Azette when she goes out into the Highlands, hunting. She makes no move to interrupt, not even to correct Azette's insistence on calling her that.

"I was caught off guard. It was careless of me, I'll admit. After I climbed out of the water, I knew I needed to come home. There was no way I could stay out there like this." In truth, her hunt had been done. She'd have found a way to deal with it, if she'd had to. She always does.

"Foolish of them, to try and drown you." Morgane resumes her work, tugging Azette's boots off. She places the first down on its side, and a deluge of water pours out on to the rug. Oh. Whoops. She leaves the other one upright, resting it carefully near the fire. She'll empty that out later.

"Mm. Fools, the lot of them."

Morgane nods. Unbuckles Azette's belt and starts to hitch her trousers downward. Azette's hips move with her, shifting and rising to help make it easier. If she feels any embarrassment about being stripped, she doesn't show it.

Azette is still shuddering, skin soaked and arms moving across her chest protectively.

Morgane's fingers move to rest on the arms of her shirt. "You really are soaked through. This is ludicrous."

"Reminds me of going swimming as a child."

Morgane smiles sadly at that, as she pulls Azette's arms away from her chest slowly. She raises them up, and lowers her own hands to the bottom of Azette's undershirt. Azette hisses a little, and Morgane tugs the shirt up and off as quickly and smoothly as she can manage.

There's an ugly bruise against her stomach, next to her hip. Morgane winces, resting her fingertips against the edges of the bruise to trace over it.

"I should have liked to have seen the old Sejois home," she says, in lieu of commenting on the bruise.

"It's not really much to look at, any more. I get to pass by it sometimes, it's...half buried in snow, at this point." Azette's teeth still chatter as she speaks.

"Well, perhaps when the winter ends," Morgane smiles, shrugs. She knows most people believe this winter will never end. That their haven is permanently shifted towards ice and snow. But she chooses to believe. The snows only grew two ilms last year in the western highlands. In the Central, they've been steady. She's hoping they might recede next year.

"Perhaps. Just don't ask me to take you swimming." Azette smirks as if she's joking, but her fingers tighten as she says it. Her thumb brushes over the scar on her palm. One of so many scars.

Now that Azette is in naught but her underclothes, Morgane can't help but look at the marks covering her body. The scars, the old bruises. Abruptly, she finds herself with the need to memorise them all. Everything from the callouses on her fingertips, to the cuts on her arm, to the tiny scar between two ribs, to the birth mark on her hip. She wants to know every single one.

She swallows the urge down, breathing a little unsteady as she moves to cover Azette in a warm, dry towel. When did she get that? Azette is so woozy from the hypothermia that she didn't even notice. She snuggles into the towel as Morgane works to dry her out a little, making the job extra-difficult. In her defence, it's warm and it smells like home.

"You are impossible, Azette." Morgane rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"I aim to surprise, my Lady." And even like this, Azette is infuriating. The words are muttered absently, and Morgane resists the urge to flick her cheek.

"We'll work on that." Morgane rubs the towel over her arms, moving closer. She doesn't know when she started shifting closer, but she did. She's practically in Azette's lap as she works to warm her up.

"Which part?" There's a hint of a smile on Azette's lips.

"Both parts." The words are breathed against Azette's skin.

She shudders as the warm air caresses her neck. Her eyes flutter open, dilated and disoriented. Trying to focus. "Morgane..." she says, and doesn't know what else there is to say.

"That's much better," she replies, and kisses her. Their lips press against each other, and gods, Azette is still so cold. Lips like ice cubes, she has. Or perhaps Morgane's are just too much like fire. She always did run warm. Azette's arms slip free of the towel, pulling Morgane the last ilms to settle her in her lap.

Morgane knots a hand in her hair, shuddering and biting at Azette's bottom lip. Desperate, eager. Eager for what they've both been dancing around for all of these years. And why? Why have they been dancing around, when they could have this?

They curve together like two pieces of a puzzle. Like they were built to be together. Like this was their fate, written in the stars the astrologians read. Having Morgane this close is a heady rush, all mild perfume and ruffled dresses and curling raven-black hair cascading everywhere, getting in the way.

Azette laughs, and pulls back from the kiss.

And the face in front of her isn't Morgane.

It's a face split in two by an ice skate, the flesh of her grin curving inhumanly. Muscle and sinew and bone exposed to the open air with every movement.

Azette's joy vanishes as the woman's hands settle around her throat. She struggles, scrabbles at the woman's arms, tries to get away. But she is unarmed and unarmoured, naked and tired and pinned down by her own meek submission.

She yells for help, screaming Morgane's name--and water fills her lungs.

_ _ _

She awakens as a bucket of freezing water is tossed over her. She cries out, struggling against her restraints, and her eyes open to search frantically around her cell. Looking for the dead woman who dragged her down.

But she's nowhere to be found. There is simply a guard, and an inquisitor. Despite her situation, despite the guard holding the empty bucket and her sworn for smirking at her, she relaxes. This, at least, she can manage. She cannot fight the dead.

Lord Greavaut Luiviere stands at the other side of the cell, a cruel smirk on his lips. "Did you have a pleasant rest, Lady Azette?"

She shivers, biting her lip hard to stop herself from speaking. To stop herself from speaking unholy profanity and curses, from telling him she should have cut him down when she had the chance. That her mercy was the worst decision of her life.

Greavaut pulls a vial of liquid from his pocket, shaking it in his grasp. "This is truly an interesting alchemical compound, is it not? You just tasted its effects for yourself. One of the few advantages of opening our gates to outside trade, I feel."

She stares as he places it down next to a syringe on the table between them.

"You are a resilient woman. Resistant to fire, and blades, and all manner of things we would ordinarily use to learn the truth and gain confession." He lifts the syringe, pushing the needle into the cap of the vial and slowly drawing the drug. "But this is from the Alchemist's guild of Ul'dah, and is something rather new. It forces those who take it to live amongst their darkest guilt. Eventually, even the strongest of men will scream confession of the sins which he is forced to relive again and again."

Regret? She and Morgane have never...

Oh. Of course. The guilt of desire.

"I'm sorry to say, Lord Greavaut, that your compound does not work quite as you had hoped." She sneers at him, tugging at her restraints. "My dreams had naught to do with any real sin I have committed. It was an imagined scene. Any confession from that would be a confession of a fantasy, nothing more."

Lord Greavaut seems to consider Azette's words for a few moments. He tilts his head this way and that. Then, he raises the syringe and takes a step towards her. "Perhaps," he says. "But whether or not the sins you are reliving are real or not is really of no consequence to me. It will break you all the same."

The needle pierces her skin, and the world distorts. "When I get out of here, my Lord, I am going to cut your skin from your--"

The door swings open, and Morgane Sejois blinks at her guest.

#THINKING ABT THIS ONE AAUUUHGGGGGGGGH #face split by skate #i like the wet boot also #im shaking azette like a rag doll

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furymint · 16 days ago

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Wuk Lamat but she's tabasqueña! / 01-25

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furymint · 16 days ago

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really funny that many wireless earbud cases are almost the perfect size to go on the end of a watch chain in a waistcoat pocket. hashtag modern fob ideas

#ffxiv characters and their linkpearls

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furymint · 23 days ago

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furymint · 24 days ago

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#LITERALLY NOL IN LRT

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furymint · 24 days ago

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wc: 4,847. | NSFW. tw: internalized homophobia, dysmorphia

It was late and Nolanel did not understand himself. After Mass, he'd walked the streets home, counting the steps between each streetlamp and the glow or fade of Elliot's tie pin in the gaslight. When Elliot turned the key of his door and ushered Nolanel through first, Nolanel had given him a dull, hesitant nod.

And when the entry mat cushioned his steps, he felt that he could not leave it. He stood rigid and blank and knew himself foolish, insufficient, and always the victim of an unreasonable soul.

He stared blankly as he waited for something to thaw in him. The seconds churned in his gut and caught in his throat like gravel. Tomorrow he would resume a life that he kept no personhood in. When the sun rose, any warmth in his soul would depart with the night. In one corner of the room, a fireplace dispersed the late frost.

Remembrance would be his. An hour ago he and Elliot had arrived at the church, abominably and triumphantly late, and stepped into a vestibule humming with the voice of its priest. When the instruction came to offer the sign of peace, Elliot had taken Nolanel’s face in his hands and kissed him. It was a kiss that was not meant to stop the world. Moments later, Nolanel had not hesitated to take the handle of the chapel’s door, and he opened it to evensong and candlelight. He was guiltless as he strode under the gaze of Halone.

The kiss was memory now, and part of him, and he would feel it forever. Thoughts taunted to interpose with the past.

At breakfast, Elliot had thrown grapes at him, and Nolanel hoped he could pick musket balls from the dirt with the same patience.

Nolanel had lifted Elliot into a chocobo saddle with the strength he’d used to pull a dying man from the floor.

He would be sickened by the sharp turn of soldiers to attention now that he had seen how eagerly Elliot answered his whistle.

No—More than memory was needed. Nolanel crushed his eyes shut and inhaled. What he wanted was wordless.

Elliot waited. Confusion tilted one of his thin eyebrows, but he mirrored Nolanel’s silence with easy devotion. There was a question in the way he slipped the door key into his pocket.

Nolanel could never stay. Another bell or two for the moon to raise—then he must descend holy steps for the barrack's disorder. Mayhap, on some faraway day, he could wake to the resonance of church bells instead of reveille. He turned his head to Elliot’s bed. While no vagary inspired him, an ache opened in his heart for more.

Elliot yawned casually and was about to speak.

Nolanel took him by the shoulders. In a willing trance, he skated a hand across Elliot’s back and nape, digging his fingers tightly into Elliot’s collar.

Blood guided him instead of fairness. Nolanel quickened as Elliot’s throat moved with a nervous swallow.

If the war must take him from this doorstep, he could leave Elliot breathless on it.

Nolanel swept a tense, apologetic thumb over Elliot's neck. Remorse almost poisoned his composure, but passion saved him. The shy press of his lips met Elliot’s jaw.

Then he pulled away.

Elliot rushed to persuade him back. “Please, go on.”

How could he speak? The spell would shatter if he gave his longing words.

But Nolanel’s tongue still sought Elliot’s taste and his eyes still pricked with the demands of emotion. Taunt longing started to burn in his chest, yanking him into reality with immortal lust.

Oh, Fury.

Disgust flickered in his mind. What he wanted would not change. He was ablaze with need for Elliot’s quavering breath and the thrill of hands on his body, and that would haunt him until he had it. Paralysis still edged toward his resolve, but it vanished as Elliot’s whisper skimmed his cheek: “Go on.”

Nolanel moved closer, uniting their darting hearts, guiding their lips together. The raw ache in his chest cracked like something real, and rapacious need replaced his every thought and movement. He snared Elliot against the tall window, where glass angels danced in the azure. Gentle light traced Elliot’s body in blue and dyed Nolanel the same.

Suddenly he knew restraint died with fear.

He returned his mouth to Elliot’s neck and sighed. The pulse against his lips raced. He kissed warm skin to flame under his teeth. His eyes were not shut now—he wanted only to see Elliot, greedy and mortal with wanton pleas, glowing with ecstasy as if he were a saint.

He met Elliot’s lips again, always overcome, always awed by desire. Their breaths attuned to the haphazard lulls between kiss after kiss, air pulling across teeth screaming to collide.

For a moment he wondered how life could come to this: his chest beating against another, a tongue like holy fire in his mouth, love spoken in soft moans.

Elliot’s fingers snagged in Nolanel’s hair. He broke away and laughed like time had no war against him. His fingertips constantly traveled, skimming Nolanel’s ears and jaw, circling his arms and tracing his shoulder blades. When Elliot's hands swept under Nolanel’s jacket, Nolanel shuddered as if that exploring touch were directly on his skin.

Dear Halone, temptation must be this.

It terrified him and he was senseless with want for more. He wanted to be nearer, nearer, sharing warmth, mouths open, skin, all rapture and awe and bliss.

A murky shame trailed through him, indefinable and weak, and he dismissed it by freeing the word in his heart. "Yes," he said, as candid as a prayer.

I know, I understand, yes, I love. I need you in the same way, through life, beyond death, come laughter and hell.

No wrong or worry found him now. Nolanel grazed the back of his hand across the rigid heat of Elliot's cock. He rubbed a knuckle into the thick fabric and murmured, "May I say goodbye to you like this?"

"More than this," Elliot leered, raising his chin. He snatched Nolanel’s teasing hand and guided his fingers back to him, to the first button of his jacket.

Nolanel complied and was rewarded with a voracious smile. Elliot arced out of his coat and kissed Nolanel’s open mouth, all savagery and thrill.

All his life seemed to shiver between gentleness and vehemence. For the first time Nolanel wanted both.

Elliot leaned against Nolanel and softly pushed him into the shadows. He separated his body from the blue gleam and offered it to desire.

Nolanel allowed himself to be backed towards the bed. His heels marked every step with the jangle of spurs.

Elliot was upon him, pursuing each second with another touch or piece of discarded attire. His vest came away in svelte lines. His necktie fluttered to the floor like a ribbon at a parade, and his rings flashed off his fingers before they slid into his pocket.

Open-mouthed, sinister in arousal, Nolanel lifted the silk of Elliot's blouse from where it tucked into his trousers. The fabric pooled in his hand like water as Elliot swiveled free of it, and Nolanel dismissed its meager warmth for his first sweep of Elliot's chest.

Solid, abject leather blinded Elliot’s skin from the caress of Nolanel's fingers, but he glowed as if he could covet nothing else. In return, Elliot dragged his fingernails across the cavalry braids of Nolanel's jacket, clipping each one like a rib, and pushing as if he sought the heart within.

Nolanel gave it to him by smiling. Elliot’s hands, trembling as they drew down, seized the last button and slipped it free.

And the world stopped for Nolanel.

He did not back away from Elliot's arms. He was not in them anymore.

The schism in himself seethed. Shame was still the tyrant of his life. That shame was not with Halone—Not with this—Not for now.

It was an old contradiction. If his legs refused to stand and his hands refused to close around the grip of a weapon, there would be no use to his breath; he could not forget how his worth was nearly stolen from him when his skin still embodied the memory.

And now he wanted something from his body that he was not sure he could have.

He needed a body to feel the frenzied hammer of Elliot's heart against his chest, the pinch of Elliot's teeth teasing the wet of his lips, the undeniable vehement fire in the place where Elliot’s erection pressed against his thigh. He wanted Elliot rhapsodic and gasping his name; Nolanel needed to be ruined enough that he would look for the memory of Elliot in his heart before a bullet to halt its beat.

He could have that. That was it. That was all it needed to be.

"Give me your voice, Nolanel. What worries you?"

Elliot knew all of it: the burns and absurdity and the wish that they didn't matter. He stepped back once. They no longer touched.

The night was impenetrable. A thought flashed in Nolanel's mind that he was alone, now, and he fought it by reaching for Elliot’s arm. His gloved hand, coarse and tough, slid down to hold Elliot’s wrist.

"Please, leave my clothes," Nolanel begged, his heart beating louder than his voice. "And—and don't stop."

Elliot listened, steadfast, and angled his wrist so that a few of his fingertips could glance Nolanel’s hand. "Of course."

Relief warmed him like sunlight. He did not have to say it: "Forgive me, please."

"I do," Elliot vowed.

“I leave tomorrow.”

“I know. But until then—”

Elliot angled a knee between Nolanel’s leg, pushing nearer, giving his thigh to rut against while his thumb played against Nolanel’s lips. He teased his nail into a scab and pushed into Nolanel’s mouth, feeling the scrape of teeth and tongue, flaring with control.

Nolanel's jaw went rigid in caution, causing Elliot to laugh as he looped his finger free and curled it behind Nolanel’s ear.

“You'll be with me. I'll never love you less than with the full of my soul. We'll have each other, and what comes after only heaven knows.”

He had the air of a man in rehearsal, both intrepid and insecure, and he flattened a palm to Nolanel’s chest as if the thrumming beat would tell him this was real.

Then he smiled and turned away.

Elliot unlaced his shoes, rolled off his socks, and slipped out of his trousers. Nothing adorned him but earrings and lust. He stood, arms lifting to remove the silver studs, and his body stretched with the motion: he was willowy and thin as an ink drawing, made of sharp, narrow curves that softened around the bit of fat that rounded his thighs and abdomen. His sex had a full and striking length, lewdly nodding as he walked to the side table and deposited his jewelry. With deceptive calm, he turned the lamp knob and stood in the crystal light, reflecting. A fretful blush showed his anxiety.

Nolanel did not think, but dropped where he stood to fumble open his boots. His attention scrambled between his task and Elliot’s smooth approach. He could've stayed content on his knees, but he did not have to master himself to stand; Elliot cupped Nolanel’s chin and raised him with a few fingertips.

“Have you thought of this before?” Elliot asked casually, sliding against him, suddenly patient as his dark eyes searched. He was learning, committing to memory the twitch of Nolanel’s cheek, and chiseling at the limits of asceticism.

Nolanel grunted as though the truth were gouged from him, bloody and morbid. He meant yes, although his throat closed rather than answer.

Elliot did not relent. Instead of nudging closer, he stepped atop one of Nolanel’s feet, allowing his sole to scrape against Nolanel’s thick, chafing socks. He was not kind anymore—not to himself or Nolanel’s treacherous body—and he nettled for regrets with sick apprehension. “When?”

“When I’m away,” Nolanel parried, rallying against Elliot’s unease. “When I can’t fear the possibility of your acceptance.”

“I’m too eager,” Elliot apologized. He held each of Nolanel's shoulder straps to keep his touch from traveling.

Nolanel pushed his thumb into a button on his trousers. “You’re too tempting,” he corrected.

And Elliot laughed, although he had already shrunken back. His feet were flat against the cold floor. “Do you not trust yourself to know what you want? Must I tempt only?”

“No; you own that part of me; you have for years: my worst passions, the throes that alight at the thought of you, something ceaselessly covetous of your attention—whether in your mind or between your legs. I’m done with waiting for a time less cruel to love you. That’s all. Give up your mistrust, Cadieux, and take me to bed.”

He slipped open the next button.

Elliot’s gaze dove to watch, mouth barely parted. “I understand,” he said, choking on conviction.

Nolanel’s face bloomed red as the fall-front finally dropped. A groan, partly for show, invited Elliot closer as he unhooded his prick and squeezed the first gleam of pre-cum free.

Elliot trembled as if he could shatter. His slim hands rushed to embrace Nolanel, weigh and pet him, to jolt blood through the dark veins and make him throb for more. “How frequently I've imagined this,” he confessed, twisting one wrist in a way that made Nolanel swoon. Elliot played his tongue against Nolanel’s gritted teeth—he imagined them as one last hold of control until the abyss. “Asking myself how deep your face would flush when your arousal first stiffened against your gut, and you knew that I would be the one to wring your passion forward until you screamed from it.”

Nolanel cursed and pulled Elliot back with him to the bed. The cushions flattened under him like petals, and he felt more like he was unraveling the longer Elliot spoke.

“And if the curls on your forehead would shape with sweat, and if you'd moan if I bunched your hair in my fist—”

They were questions Nolanel would never allow himself to ask. Hearing them now seemed to part them from his own shadows, unknown yet feared and deeply exhilarating.

“Try it,” Nolanel said, mouth crooked with the taunt.

Elliot’s hands were nimble and warm on his body. It was simple bliss: Nolanel relaxed into the familiar comb of Elliot's fingers across his scalp. He kissed the gentle fingertip learning the curve of his smile, then went witless as scalding pleasure ripped through him.

Elliot had rubbed his thumb leisurely on the bit of skin between Nolanel’s glove and cuff, drawing a tight, soothing circle—then mirrored the touch on the weeping head of Nolanel's prick.

Nolanel lost himself as his mind brimmed with lust and Elliot’s touch. There was Elliot’s breath warming his ear with vulgar praise, the steady palm holding his cheek as their starved mouths met, the caress of an entire body open to him and avid for more.

“In time,” Elliot promised. “I want to know—Where would your voice break as it moaned the syllables of my name? Would you tell me to continue with lewd pleas or the assault of your hands, bruising to keep me in place as I did this?”

Dim yellow light balanced on the edges of Elliot's body as he hovered on hands and knees over Nolanel. His cock hung thick and dark, exquisite to watch as he dipped to kiss Nolanel’s neck and angle their erections into a thrusting, voluptuous grind. Elliot guided him to excruciating heights and left room for ascension.

The licentious contrast between their bodies excited Elliot; he pressed his naked skin against Nolanel’s clothes, closed a fist in the red fabric of his coat, and rubbed a slim calf into his pants leg. When Nolanel put a hand against Elliot's hip, a fine shudder coursed through him, and Elliot gasped in avid encouragement.

Nolanel obeyed. He explored the curve of Elliot's waist with immediate passion, skating his greedy hands over thin shoulders and wiry arms. His fingers sunk into the hollows of Elliot's throat, underarms, and ribs, then played with the little red swells of pinched nipples. Every nervous touch melted into fascination. Like a fire through wood, Nolanel swept across Elliot’s body, enchanted by the way his touches would interrupt Elliot’s rhythmic graze of cock on cock.

Elliot gradually slowed to a filthy, cutting drag, bucking but no longer lifting away. The head of his prick trailed up Nolanel’s like a finger, and his balls rubbed a sensitive delirium into Nolanel’s next moan.

"By the Fury," Nolanel sputtered, falling loose and senseless. His hips jerked with natural sordidness as Elliot lifted away—and resumed by wrapping Nolanel’s torrid cock in his hands.

In the dark there was only the rhythm of breath interrupted by passionate keens, the taste of excitement and Elliot's wicked, perfect mouth, and holy delight like Nolanel never knew. Elliot set an urgent pace. His fingers were long and slim, sensitive and adept, and he played them across Nolanel’s erection to rapture.

As Nolanel spasmed in ecstasy, Elliot continued, curling a fingertip through public hair and brushing the base. "You're close," Elliot mused, petting Nolanel’s thighs. "How do you want it?" He spoke so the warmth of his breath tickled Nolanel’s leaking tip.

"Hell," Nolanel laughed with the resignation of a dying man. He grabbed the side of Elliot's head and tugged him up. "Kiss me as you break me."

Elliot hummed, grinning in triumph, as he shifted to straddle and sink against Nolanel again. His lips went to Nolanel’s jaw. Heartbeat, fever, he licked the pulse on Nolanel’s neck and pressed in to feel its frantic rush.

Austerity was gone from him. Nolanel yielded to mania, face red and wrecked, breath eddying and clipping around desperate, short whimpers. His hips rose for friction and his arms closed around Elliot, trying to force his lover closer.

Elliot teased him no longer. His kiss struck like lightning. His hand kneaded Nolanel’s cock with the same urgency. He thrust his tongue into Nolanel’s mouth and danced across teeth and scarlet lips. The kiss lasted longer than Nolanel’s sanity.

Bliss assailed him with vicious mercy. Nolanel cried as his body seized in completion. Thick, white ropes of cum jetted over his stomach and streamed down his cock. Elliot’s body flexed where he was marked: his abdomen and lovely hands matched in debauchery.

Nolanel's vision swam. Every sense rioted in tandem, strained with fierce delight, his nerves ablaze with shock and hope.

His voice broke from him like pebbles carried in a stream, but there were no words in his praise.

Elliot continued to nudge kisses across his body, nuzzling between folds in cloth to lip down Nolanel’s arm and rest in his palm.

"Fury," Nolanel gasped. "Blessed Fury. Thank you."

Elliot licked a ripple of cum from Nolanel’s blouse, and Nolanel shuddered, knowing darkly that he would never button it again without thinking of Elliot's desire for him.

Elliot seemed to share the treacherous thought. He played with Nolanel’s body in soothing, petting caresses, proving how easy it was to arouse a nipple under cloth, or to stir new sensation into the pluck of belt loops. Tonight, Nolanel’s uniform was not an obstacle but his muse. His fingers massaged the repaired patches as if they were scars, and he nosed the soaked-through musk of Nolanel's underarms with a stronger interest.

In a way, it was revenge, and a way to lay claim to the parts of Nolanel—military and physical—that were forbidden to him.

"I'm sorry," Nolanel groaned. "You want me bare."

Elliot gasped, "No—No. That is not all why. I want you happy, and to feel, and—You've no idea the madness your hands are to me, as they are." He shuddered as if it terrified and exhilarated him to say. "Please." The whisper fled him at the same moment as Nolanel’s rasping, urgent, "Yes." He reached for Nolanel's wrist, intertwined their fingers with an encouraging squeeze, and brought Nolanel’s hand between them.

Nolanel tenderly wrapped his hand around their cocks. Electricity struck through him—in pleasure, in disbelief, in unbridled, exultant lust. He tentatively worked his hand down, their cocks ablaze and slick against his palm, until he groped indulgently at the sensitive heads. Elliot whimpered against him and bucked, sparking delicious friction. Nolanel's hand slid back up, rougher and more certain, and he tipped into delirium with a zealous pace up and down.

Elliot was unerringly debauched. He thrust into Nolanel’s hand, writhed and mewled against the knead of Nolanel's strong fingers, and chased a new ecstasy in the sweep of leather against his skin.

"Touch me," he cried, "Everywhere."

Nolanel seized Elliot’s waist and pushed him aside onto the bed. He lifted himself from the sheets and climbed atop Elliot with a panting laugh.

Elliot grabbed his head and pulled him into a kiss, ravenous and filthy. Nolanel's hands were solid and trailing Elliot’s shoulders, collar, and gliding against his lithe chest.

It was familiar. This was Elliot, sublime and beautiful, under his touch. The man he loved, who he held in agony or joy, who he knew the taste and smell and everything of, and with whom he shared, now, everything with.

Nolanel worked his hand between them and gathered Elliot into his palm. The sublime, attentive roll of each testicle through his fingers, all warmth and coarse tenderness, all awe. Clear liquid dribbled from Elliot's prick as a seam on the glove rasped his skin. Elliot moaned, mouth wide, wanton, and gasping, his hips jerking desperately forward.

Emboldened, Nolanel shifted lower. He released Elliot, who wailed from the loss, cock standing tall and inflamed. Elliot squeezed his thighs shut to hurry pleasure and touch back into his balls, but Nolanel’s shaking hands pulled his legs apart. Each of Nolanel's solid fingers sunk into the flesh of Elliot's thighs, and he marveled as he kneaded the warm, pliant skin.

Nolanel lowered his face to kiss the junction of leg and groin, golden hair flattening under a lave of his tongue. Sweat and arousal met the back of his throat like a burning iron, goading him for more. He folded himself like a man swearing an oath, but his mouth opened for no language. Nolanel sealed his lips around the head of Elliot's cock and sucked.

Elliot swooned with violent lust. In his effort to keep still, he beat one arm into the mattress and twisted the sheets into his fist. The heel of one foot pressed down, lifting a knee to push into Nolanel’s immovable bulk, and he laughed like a hysteric when a bead of sweat fled down his face like a tear.

Nolanel traced the arrowed head with his tongue, caressing the slit and teasing the retracted foreskin. Salt, sex, avid, and free—taste whelmed Nolanel like a paean, sweeter than Elliot’s cries alone. He slid down, taking more into his mouth, letting drool run between his lips and drop down Elliot’s thighs.

Hair curtained Nolanel’s face as he worked. The weight on his tongue was enthralling, and his attention narrowed to its unique satisfaction. He grabbed Elliot under his buttocks, lifted him, and forced his cock once to the back of his throat.

Nolanel inhaled sharply through his nose and bobbed. He started tentatively, learning the fill and ebb, folding his lips back or closing them to squeeze the shaft. More than once, the crest of his teeth scratched into Elliot, causing the body beneath him to jump. Nolanel apologized by fondling Elliot’s exposed length. Saliva eased the abrasion of leather.

Elliot was not soothed by the extra stimulation. He shook and wailed, panting between incessant praise. "Gods, ser. You never—" Elliot shuddered then rocked back into Nolanel. Pleasure was melting his good sense. "Don't stop. This is—This—"

Nolanel could find the rest. This was love. It was nameless, necessary, and ineffable. For Elliot to pet and soothe him, to guide ecstasy from onset to completion, laughing and calling him affectionate names, was right. Every fingernail needling into his back was meant to be there, and the groans stripped from him were song. It was better than dreams and harsher than imagination. This was Elliot. This was goodbye.

Divinity seemed to be in the room's furthest corners, permitting foolishness in the face of ruthless humanity. The world would not change, but Nolanel's iron mind would cradle a new richness, and it sounded like Elliot’s voice, keen and blathering, giggling stupidly, lush in rhapsody. Wild, raw pride gilded Nolanel’s memory. He would not forget Elliot’s next moan.

Elliot's hand shot to the base of his cock, circling it with tight fingers. "I'll finish," he grunted. Audible, slow, and uneven, he tried to calm his breath. Still he shook querulously as Nolanel withdrew his sturdy hand.

For the first time, Nolanel lifted his head away to reply, hoarse and low, "Good. I want it."

He saw Elliot then, thrown back on the sheets, debauched and sweaty and in love, quavering with open lips and wide, feverish eyes. There was a beguiling lure to his lithe body, now that it glowed with the blush and sheen of ecstasy, and it made Nolanel want to scream for all the skin he had yet to kiss.

Elliot swallowed hard and laughed, tipping his head into the pillows and exhibiting his throat. That was the permission Nolanel needed.

He kissed the soaked tip of Elliot's cock and sucked it again, indulgently working to grind and taste. His hand closed atop Elliot’s to squeeze, release, and pump, until Elliot groped in tandem, whimpers silencing into awe.

Hot cum burst into Nolanel’s mouth and flooded his throat. The abruptness staggered him, and he withdrew, coughing, spitting his reward into the sheets. It cloyed, distinctly thick as he swallowed, and he relished in it. Ribald satisfaction shaped his laugh into a fresh sound.

Elliot kicked and wailed through his orgasm, then he was sobbing beneath Nolanel, kissing his face and throwing his arms around his neck to bring him flush, body full to body, and swearing the words yes, yes, yes, my love.

It was debauchery and mad, ridiculous rapture. Nolanel cleaved to it. He embraced Elliot and lined his cheeks with kisses and sweet gratitude.

Nolanel had thought sex would be a peace: a unison of heavy kisses and slow, groping hands—not the bestial storm of teeth, urgency, and adrenaline that made his body a mania. He panted as its frenzy folded away into himself, freeing his mind to resume its contradictory march.

Instead of absolution, he imagined the fireplace was what warmed his back. It was a feeling not unlike the rapture of battle, every fiber of muscle alight with promises and exertion. Fear, so alike mystery, rushed through his nerves until he couldn't separate it from curiosity. What would he regret when death came to collect his soul? How could he doubt the good of happiness?

It should have been impossible. Elliot lay beneath him, blithe and warm, his naked body still unfamiliar, his sex wet and spent. The bangs on his forehead had been clawed back in fever, displaying a spike of embarrassment as it needled his eyebrows.

“Do you think,” Elliot whispered, still brave enough to look Nolanel in the face, “that will be enough to bring you back?”

Blood was not more bitter. He deserved its sting. Nolanel did not allow himself to look away, but felt the scrape of linens as he lowered himself on knees and elbows.

Tomorrow Nolanel would part from country and comfort for the stiff brace of war. It was what he missed: the rhythmic sway of lances on the march, what it meant to share charges and gritted oaths, the certain glory in refusing death when exhaustion brought it nearer than the bullets.

He was amidst all he would abandon. Spires above painted angels, alleyways strewn with misty brick, Ishgard, empire, thick hills and the rustle of growing wheat. Memory could hold these things. There would be dreams that would let him walk the Last Vigil and pass the strangers and the lamp posts and the rolling winds of the Sea of Clouds. That was why he could still wake in the coal-choked mines or with the resonance of Iceday service. He would wake there again no matter what fortress held him.

Eventually he would wake in this bed.

"I’m sorry," Nolanel said, "I do love you."

"I know," Elliot assured, caressing the hair at the back of Nolanel's neck. The daze of ardor was in his wet eyes, still dark and kind. He pulled Nolanel aside to guide him into the bed beside him, and immediately Nolanel relaxed into the plush blankets.

Elliot faced him, astonished and renewed, and brought Nolanel’s hands against his chest to squeeze and hold. "I hope you never feel unloved.”

"I'll try not to," Nolanel said honestly, smiling in his guilty way.

"Survive."

"I'll try."

Elliot scoffed and hiccuped. "Don't let them change you."

Nolanel flattened a hand against Elliot's heart. "I won't."

#laughing at him

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