ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ' ah, it looks like you've put quite a bit of thought into it. that's … kinda sweet. ' COYLY, THEN LESS SO. ' why don't you buy me a drink, big guy ? we can discuss the other things that you definitely haven't contemplated before, like your favorite color. '
for a long moment, she simply looks at it — not the bloom itself, but the hand that offers it. battle-scarred fingers holding something soft. something fragile. her expression eases in increments, severity melting into something quieter, almost startled by the gentleness of the gesture.
“ for me? “
the words are softer than usual, touched with something rare. she accepts it carefully, as though it were made of glass rather than petal and stem. white gaze drops to the flower, thumb brushing lightly beneath it as a faint current of air steadies its delicate head.
“ you choose strange battlefields for such offerings. “ the corner of her mouth lifts, subtle but real. “ but i will treasure it. “ she glances back to him then, warmth settling where steel once held.
--- There had been the task of priming the seasoning & herbs for what was surely going to be a HEARTY meal ; the apothecary having toiled away at chopping, grinding & preparing everything with GUSTO ( hunched over a slab of wood, knife in hand ). It was the sound of his TRUDGING footsteps on the grass that made her head shoot up ; his deep baritone following and only ENTICING her forward. Tools had been SWIFTLY abandoned in her haste to reach him -- throwing her arms around him the moment he was no longer inundated with his CATCH. Her grin as BRIGHT as the gaze that peered up at him through long, wispy lashes ; her joy was PROFOUND, blatant, and she cared not that he could perceive every ounce of it.
❝ Are you sure you want to hear about it? I tend to ramble, after all! ❞ Emily JESTED with a renewed spark of amusement ; heart skipping a beat when those strong hands, so powerful & capable, rested on her back -- their size difference even MORE apparent given the twos' current position. ❝ While you were off doing men's work, as they say, I was preparing the very things that will make the meat taste even better! ❞ 'Twas then her attention was drawn to the bird in question and she giggled a little. ❝ Oh, the bones of this fella will definitely be useful! He's a big one, too, well done! ❞
NOCTIS'S OLD INJURIES BOTHER HIM MORE THAN HE LIKES TO LET ON. his knee never seems to cooperate, his ankle is swollen so vigorously that his foot stings with every step, his spine feels as though every vertebrae is slowly rearranging itself & there's a sharp pop in his wrist every time he draws his sword. it slows him down. weakens him, targets him. humiliates him, body tight & cramped, uncooperative ( — & muscle memory causes him to remember the attack vividly. )
HE THOUGHT HE WAS HIDING IT BETTER. potions on the quiet, his own fingers rubbing against aching flesh, kneading every unfortunate knot & swelled muscle when no one is looking. but of course clive notices, always so quiet in his fascination, tenderhearted politeness in human form, knowing full well that any attention towards it could be overwhelming.
LIKE HABIT, NOCTIS DENIES IT. ' no, i'm alright ! ' to every worried question, every needling ask. do we need to stop, might be the worst thing he's ever heard. all noctis wants to do is continue, push forward, achieve their goal & never have to worry again about the weight of fate on their shoulders.
HE THINKS ABOUT IT, SOMETIMES. about admitting to the pain. about saying oh, i'm not sure i can go any further; go on without me & slinking down into the bushes somewhere, body curled in a tight ball until the pain subsides. he never does, some sort of ego thing or worse, a desire to be seen as useful.
SO IN TRUTH, HE ISN'T SURE HOW THEY END UP LIKE THIS — taut muscle planted in clive's lap, some warming salve pressed against the curve of his calf while the rest remains limp, flushed from chest to cheek while wearing a veil of shame that this weakness had overcome him, rendered him a horrible hindrance, demeanor sullen & pouty. noctis refuses to meet clive's eyes, lips twisted anxiously, pink tongue poking out against the chipped skin, chattering little soul overwhelmed by unrivaled guilt sitting in the pit of his stomach. he wraps his arms around his belly protectively, snorting, without armor & without honor. ' i meant it. ' tone tinny in timidity, choked up on embarrassment, horror flushed & shivering. ' you don't have to lower yourself so. '
WERE THEY NOT THE SAME? birds of a feather held by the same chains that held this rigid world? unclean disobeyers who sought to deprive the world of its very function, sordid little strays forgetting the kindness of greagor ( — though their sweet god of lights sits just so, sullied by humanity & fragile body, unwavering in the ache, strange warmth permeating the echoes in his chest. ) his complaints go unheeded & when clive presses his thumbs into the smooth bottom of noctis's foot, an urgent pain flares up the frayed nerves of his leg. he whines, agony desperate & yielding, but tries to remain in his resolve to sit put & allow to do clive this single kindness. ' it hurts. ' that much is confessed true, muted little hiccuped sobs caught carefully so that none of the disappointment can leak through, not even when clive makes the attempt again to soothe & noctis frets so much he thinks he might flutter away, a thought in the breeze.
HE SETTLES REGARDLESS. placated by the concept of someone being thoughtful enough to indulge him in this gentleness, thumbs rubbing circles against the worst of the pain, relief slowly building up & winding itself upward, cradled by the porcelain flesh that hides taut muscle, slim thighs & an even slimmer waist. excitement does not lend itself in the typical way, instead becoming a fountain behind his eyes as he tries to feel something other than that depressive chagrin, shamelessly infatuated & all too aware that nothing can ever last here. in the midst of regret, noctis allows himself to look. tired tiers leveled across the lack of distance, knees scrunched up & on the hay of some kind villager, neither willing to risk an inn where everyone could see the bearer's mark or an open field where so many imperial figures seem to patrol. clive works steadfastly & distractedly, somewhere here & in the aether. big doewet blue eyes, thick tufts of brow drawn into a permanent scowl as he loudly thinks, perpetually pink mouth twisted in a pout as though this is a task of utmost importance & not something to pass the time while the moon & her shadow rise to importance in the sky, metia's shield blindingly red. clive presses a particularly sore spot on noctis's foot & in the ensuing writhing, wraps a wide hand around noctis's ankle, patting apologetically as he continues to continue this torturous charade.
' my apologies. massages were not something i picked up these thirteen years, or even before, but i do think if you allow me to continue, it could help. '
COULD HELP. a potential healing was still better than nothing, that much noctis was sure of. even if the agony flared, blinding white pain that wrapped around his ankle, still sore under clive's nimble ministrations, rolling thumbs pressing against the worse of the pain, sweeping apologetically, careful of the blisters from boots & gentle as a kiss. noctis looks away sharply — but this overwhelming feeling was nothing like embarrassment & everything like a horrifyingly fleeting realization that in all his years, maybe he had been yearning for this kindness ( yearning for this kind of closeness again, every other reminder naught more than a hazy memory. others had been kind to him once in some distant world. people sworn to him, promised to him. from birth to adolescence, some sort of a lord's promise. )
& FOR ALL HIS WANTING OF LOOKING AWAY, NOCTIS STILL PEERS AT CLIVE LONGINGLY, RESPECTFULLY, MINDFULLY. peeks downward, caught perversely on the slutty little window of his chest, broad & muscled well, a perfect display of what a daydream might look like if it came to life & was kind enough to be shy simultaneously as being proud of everything that was accomplished before. focuses on that fine musculature, so thick, so wide that noctis politely wonders what it would be like to sit a little closer, volcanic heat tolerable so long as it masks that other kind of forbidden want. the horrors of wanting an affair — not because anyone is spoken for, but because fate couldn't possibly allow for them to stay close, could it? did they not have something else to do? the wanting gnaws at him, a cruel twist of destiny to antagonize him so. if noctis knows what was good for him, he would abandon this plight & go back to watching from afar, protected by divine indifference & only guiding when he must. tender - hearted glittering as souls gathered, seeking access to freedom, threading against his skin as if to ask him when they were going home. & he might could guide them now, lead them to wherever it is that they were longing for if it weren't for the human complications of wanting to sit around to see what happens next — whole body blushing as clive all but dedicates himself to this purpose, no longer just working on the sole of noctis's foot up, but shamelessly groping the curve of his calf, full length stroking & rhythmically focusing on the length. noctis mourns the faintness of his resolve & upturns his nose, seeking the scent of fire, hints of bergamot & whiskey, little hints of clive.
NOCTIS HATES THE LITTLE NOISES THAT ESCAPE. most mournful & morose mewls of muted pain, unable to hide the grimacing, the burrowing annoyance that this is all his body has to offer. the worst part is his imagination ( sweet - dreams of idle hands flourishing with life, no longer wholly focused on the worship of swollen limb but guided upward — satisfying him, guiding him, heavy weight below him or atop him, cradling so much like a lover would, the impeccable closeness of saints. ) in that heatrosy display, noctis nearly gapes at his own audacity, shameless beckoning & roving gaze as clive sits across from him, all but oblivious to the quiet vulgarities currently ransacking the inner sanctity of noctis's mind, so utterly concentrated on relieving noctis of pain that he doesn't even realize he's causing other problems. ' if it helps, you're doing well. ' it isn't enough to be thinking it, he must sound like it too. that despite the relief flooding in, there's still enough stinging that noctis's tone is rather wet, damp with the inconsolable realization that everything hurts & he would just like to rest for a good wall, sauna sticky skin to his own frustratingly frigid feel. there aren't enough psalms and prayers in the world that could alleviate such demented thinking, so noctis settles in for finally relaxing, coaxing himself to lie back against the hay as clive's hands continue their venture, now wiggling against the underside of his knee where it might hurt the most. ' i'm feeling better. ' a simpered confession, but an honest one, bitten out between the small grunts that escape.
HE EXHALES THROUGH HIS NOSE, RAGGED LITTLE HUFFS. noctis is too tired to hide it, makes use of the coziness around him to lean into clive's touch, unceremoniously lounging across the ground, eyes heavy lidded & downcast. it's a nice show to witness — clive with his expression twisted, fingers pressed flush against against the knots of noctis's knee, knuckles rubbing carefully to alleviate. that unspoken precision, jack of all trades interest, that it's all noctis can do to keep his thoughts level & polite considering his company, though it is a struggle. easy to imagine that same expression above him while they're equally messy, fingers sticky, swirling endlessly around one another, desperate closeness in the tight confines of his imagination, all sensitive touches & fluttering emotion. clive's hand around him & noctis's wrapped the same in reciprocation, impolite lack of decency as the quiescence is disturbed by his inability to focus on anything other than the sensation, back arched & bowstring taut.
AS IF HE COULD EVER CONFESS THESE DEBAUCHED FANTASIES — notwithstanding the immense respect noctis has for clive as a person, but for his own self, secretive & ominous as he deigns to be, greagor's secret - keeper & the fallen's very own last champion. if he ever did, how could he go about it? oh clive, i dream of you endlessly, rather shamefully, in great detail. noctis nearly snorts at the prospect, bubbly laughter hidden behind the now more appreciative sounds he's able to make while clive's fingers glide up-down on the bunched up tightness of his hamstring, over his trousers, thank the gods. he's only able to conceal himself by still holding his blankets around his upper half, always determined to remain warm & covered at all costs, unbothered by the sultry swirls of heat that seems to radiate off clive in waves, a personal fire to fight off the elements. should it be a sweeping gesture? a loud proclamation? would it even matter if he beat out anyone else who dreamed to confess such devious things? the world is ending & noctis has the gall to think about fucking, down & dirty in someone else's shelter ( made even worse with the knowledge that there are search parties still seeking missing bearers & dominants. )
HE FEELS HYSTERICAL WITH LUST. outrageously needy. exhaustingly clingy.the half - whimpered half - whispered compliments not even enough without the depths of his chest complicating things, emotions beating out the attempts at remaining logical because, if noctis dares peek out beneath the charcoal darkness of his half - moon lashes, he knows clive will be watching him, puppy sweet curiousness to know if he's been doing a good job. ' really. ' soft, yearning word punched out — syrup syllables lisped to perfection. ' i'm feeling better, i am, if you wanted to sto — oh, fuck. ' & there's no point in pretending he has any remaining willpower. clive digs his fingers into the meat of noctis's thigh, pain so sweetly relieving & arousing that noctis knows he'll be ashamed at how much he longs for the resurgence of something similar, trying to mask that pitched moan as having something to do with the pain rather than the interest. he flinches away from clive's touch all together, face burning hotter than any fire ifrit himself might summon, so filled to the brim with shame that even hellfire could do nothing for this little sin. he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or lean into it either — obnoxiously horny & lusting plain as day, lying flat on his belly & dragging himself away so he can at least pretend to maintain some semblence of personhood.
' i'm so sorry ! did i hurt you ? here i was trying to make you feel better, too — it's your back, isn't it ? '
& ALL OTHER KINDS OF APOLOGIES THAT NEARLY FALL ON DEAF EARS, BECAUSE IT NEITHER HURT NOR MADE IT FEEL WORSE. it's a playful rush of suffering, emotions all piled together, congealed — leaking, melting stages of grief mushed together because the sweetness of spring's first love is still consuming a decongestant to occupy the allergies ( nightmarish desire to confess, tongue - tied & tasting of absinthe, heart inward chanting that it could be enough, this smooth glide of warm, broad palm aginst the thinness of his tendons, thigh plush & malleable, gently manipulatable, brutally devout in this shrine of secrets. ) noctis thinks if his skin burns any hotter, he'll get so dizzy he'll pass out or slip up & all his attempts to remain cool, levelheaded & aloof will crumble into fine dust. in his state of love-drunk fretting, he moans weakly, tucked up on his hip to forget what the pressure of pleasure feels like, almost ashamed of his bodily reaction to the littlest bit of attention.
SO BIG, SO STUPID, FOR WHAT? is what he wants to say. what he actually says, gritted out, teeth bared, is ' you can try to loosen me up, but i'm not quite sure that's possible.' he's pent - up. impossibly wired ( — immaculately a freak so desperate for closeness that he'll use whatever excuse he can manage to no longer feel as though he's alone, a certain kind of kindred longing that's burrowed itself so deeply into his very essence that noctis has all but forgotten how to act, less kingly & more beastly, too aware of it but selfish enough to keep the façade going. ) if he's acting strange, clive has the decency to not point it out, picturesque gentleman behavior coming to fruition as they allow themselves this moment. this tender mask. this soft, sensually silent moment of bonding under the guise of being thoughtful — but to address what is truly going on is a mighty & impossible task, potentially not something they'd speak of at all.
CLIVE'S WEIGHT SETTLES ON THE BACKS OF HIS LEGS WITHOUT FURTHER PROMPTING. like an obnoxiously, sweltering blanket — thickly muscled weight carefully molding to the curve of his legs, careful & easily settled, unrealistically cramped. noctis allows his eyes to flutter closed, hands fisted tight underneath his cheek, inward monologue all but declaring that this absolutely must be a dream because in no other world could something like this ever be allowed. cheeks pillowed & warm, willingly trapped beneath, no longer scrambling for an escape from the situation, all but condemned to a sultry fate of thinking that despite everything, this might be enough. could be, too, if it weren't for the aching way noctis leans into the touch, weakly puffed breaths beneath the careful massaging, taut knots slowly loosening until he's nearly putty.
CLIVE REALLY IS DOING GREAGOR'S GOOD WORK — hands tender gliding over the sore muscle, jagged scar still puckered beneath the thinness of his shirt, loose & baggy to keep his armor from chaffing against his skin, thumbs lightly pushing against the grain, causing gooseflesh to rise & tampering down on the more depraved of noctis's monologue. he thinks his heart might be skipping beats from how good the attention is, how pleasant every movement is even without something to lubricate the skin, because clive's hands are, how steady, how assured although noctis is faintly sure that clive has never done this before. not that he dares make the accusation now when he's one moment away from falling asleep from how soothing it is, being rocked to sleep, rocked in gentleness. it's almost enough to forget how he aches with arousal too, still not over that gods - damned eye contact from earlier, the smooth growl in clive's voice when he speaks, unassumingly seductive.
IT'S NOT ENOUGH TO DROWN OUT THE LONGING. the other kind of physical reaction noctis has to this sort of attention ( a moment away from crying at the saccharine sweetness, needy little desire to ask for more, preening & nearly purring from how wonderful that it feels — bits of pomegranate stuck on his teeth & tongue, because this is surely the path that leads straight to hel. ) he knows that he's being noisy, all but leaning up into every touch, half - panting half - whining because there's no chance it can ever be this good again aside from getting the real thing & that's if he ever feels confident enough to ask, sinful & greedy & incomplete as he is now despite being pinned beneath the meat of clive's thighs.prone, hip to hip, horrifically close to grinding if noctis arched back just a little more. he doesn't dare, enjoying that he has enough control to not buck up & fuck up everything that he has going for him. dulcet tones humming his pleasure, sweetly singing his enjoyment.
BUT AS WITH EVERYTHING, IT'S HIS IMAGINATION THAT GETS HIM INTO TROUBLE. the lithe, nimble movements of clive's hands & fingers as he works tirelessly, politely drumming against noctis's soft flanks. how kind — how nice & sweet it must be, because all noctis can do is shudder at the idea of what it would be like without the fabrics between them, just warm skin to smooth skin, jerked together closeness that all changes the air between them. a moment of fantasy in the reality. noctis dares to glance over his shoulder, teeth lightly grit, tongue running along the smooth glide of his lip. betraying the devout vow he had made not even minutes ago that he would be on this best behavior ( — far too immortalizing the look of concentration on clive's face, smoldering determination brimming in the depths of his eyes, mouth uniquely pouted, lip bitten between his teeth as if he too were thinking of something unseemly. ) noctis hides his face back in his hands, damns it all, damns himself & damns clive too.
— & UNBEKNOWNST TO HIM IS THE PLIGHT OF ANOTHER, A GREAT TRIAL OF PATIENCE. that for all of noctis's insistence on maintaining chaste & polite, his whining, writhing, whimpering certainly had the opposite effect. is this what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?
RANDOM SETTINGS PROMPTS. / no longer accepting / @rekkax
white presses against every window of the ski lodge , thick and relentless , the kind of snowfall that erases distance and direction alike . the wind howls hard enough to rattle the beams , a sound too close to a living thing for comfort . somewhere outside , the mountain exists only as an idea .
inside , there is fire .
oswald stands near the hearth , close enough that the heat licks at the hem of his coat , far enough that it does not touch him properly . he has taken off his gloves but not laid them down , fingers still curled around them as if they might be needed again at any moment .
clive sits on the bench by the table , back to the wall , sword within reach even now . there’s snow still melting in his hair , dark strands damp against his temples . he looks tired in the particular way of someone who has been holding the world together with his hands and only just let go .
“ we won’t be moving until morning , ” oswald says , not looking up , “ the pass is gone , ” even if it weren’t , visibility like this turns confidence into a liability .
they lapse into silence again .
the fire pops . wood shifts . the lodge creaks , settling into the storm as if resigned to it . somewhere in the rafters , snow slides and thuds softly , a reminder of the weight above them .
after a while , oswalf reaches for the kettle hanging near the hearth and pours water into two cups ( not tea , he wouldn't want to make his companion vomit on accident when they are trapped in such a tight space ) . when they reach for the cups their fingers brush against each other's , his — usually cold , now icy , and rosfield's — staggeringly warm . oswald startles at the touch but doesn't comment .
outside , the storm screams itself hoarse .
inside , two men sit with their backs to stone and timber , both accustomed to being the last line between catastrophe and everyone else , both too tired to pretend otherwise tonight . the mountain does not care who they are , the snow does not care what they have done .
Setting aside his scabbard, the man rushes to pull Emily into a hug. A totally.. platonic hug. ❛ You scared me,❜ he grumbles, ❛ you could have died, Emily. ❜ (say less)
ask the novelist / accepting.
--- INSTINCT could be a force of nature, pulling one toward danger even at the cost of their OWN life if it entailed helping someone they cared for ; that had been what just transpired. Witnessing Clive swing his sword with such EFFICIENCY had been mesmerising -- but that had torn to shreds to let FEAR set in at the sight of a bandit closing in from behind. Emily had acted without thinking. Brandishing her own blade, only ever truly used for TRAINING, had been more of a bodily reaction than one of the mind.
CUTTING into the man was not planned, nor would it have been intentional if she had been thinking RATIONALLY.
Now she was encompassed within the SECURITY of Clive's strong arms, held against his chest whilst he squeezed her to the point she nearly lost breath -- she didn't care, though. He was warm. He was SAFE, no harm had befallen him and that was all that mattered. ❝ I...I had to do something. ❞ There was a SHAKY inhale as she dropped her sword, banding her own arms around his broad frame and CLINGING. She didn't look toward the fallen man, did not wish to even take heed of what she had done.
❝ He was going to kill you, Clive. I had to...t-to protect you, as you protect me. ❞ She whispered softly and nuzzled into him ; breathing in his musk, the scent of battle, sweat, all so familiar & eliciting a sense of COMFORT to her anxious soul. ❝ ...Do you think less of me? For what I did? ❞
