Silver Clouds with Grey Linings (Nozel Silva x Fuegoleon Vermillion)
This chapter is the reason this fic has been upgraded from Mature to Explicit on Archive of Our Own.
Also, I’ve been receiving an influx of comments across platforms saying you hope I finish this fic. Well, I am here—on record—PROMISING that I will complete this fic, even if I have to write it into my will. My planned posting schedule is at least once a month, if not every other month, though it may be a little more sporadic from here on out because work is hectic.
This is the first of at least two spicy scenes that will be in this fic. And yes, I swear there will be one where Nozel gets railed seven ways to Sunday.
Anyway… I hope you enjoy this 7,500-word addition to Silver Clouds with Grey Linings (and yes, the fic title is based on a lyric from “The Phoenix” by Fall Out Boy).
This fanfiction is cross-posted on both Wattpad & AO3.
"Do you ever take a break from your Magic Knight duties, Lord Silva?" Fuegoleon asked sarcastically.
"Do you ever take a break from being an insufferable ass, Lord Vermillion?" Nozel returned.
They had a penchant for this sort of banter, teetering on a will-they, won't-they, flirtatious but at the same time bitchy exchange about them. Their repartee was as familiar as it was exhausting, a well-worn dance of barbs that allowed them to blow off steam while maintaining the facade of decorum befitting their status. Fuegoleon's chuckle was low and brief, but it held a note of genuine amusement. "Your sharp tongue does little to mask the fact that you look like death warmed over, Nozel."
Their relationship was one of ambiguous romance where neither pushed for labels and 'I love yous' were never exchanged instead settling for the obscurity of blurred lines. They enjoyed late-night rendezvous and quiet company without the strings of definition, prying society, and the freedom of other partners.
Fuegoleon and Nozel have been in an ambiguous relationship for fifteen years. When Fuegoleon is incapcitated for six months after the assault on the Royal Capital by the Eye of the Midnight Sun and Nozel refuses to visit him, he recieves three chance encounters to convince him otherwise.
A character study on how two idiots define a fifteen-year, ambigious relationship.
Chapter 10: Patience 'Tis the Season (Pt. 1)
Summer passed painfully slow. Fuegoleon had to relearn how to move without wincing, how to trust his own body again after months of injury and weakness. Every morning, the sun would rise like a relentless sentinel, shining through the heavy curtains of his chamber, reminding him that time was still marching forward—whether he was ready or not.
The simplest tasks became trials of patience: lifting a cup of water without shaking, standing without the dizzying spin of exhaustion, summoning even a flicker of mana without collapsing afterward. No matter how much he pushed, the fire inside him flickered weakly, reluctant to ignite.
Nozel was there through it all—sometimes silent, sometimes prodding with his sharp wit, but always unwavering. The cool touch of Nozel's hand against Fuegoleon's skin was a tether to the world, a promise that he wasn't alone in this slow, torturous healing.
Fuegoleon's grimoire sat untouched on the bedside table for days on end, as if afraid to demand more from him than he could give. Yet the fire spirit within stirred restlessly, sensing its master's frustration and desperation.
The most herculean task to relearn was the simplest: writing. Before Fuegoleon had learned how to ride horseback or draw a bow or light kindling, he learned how to write. As hard-headed and brawny as House Vermillion was, they were also educated.
Fuegoleon was right-handed. And it was his right side—his dominant arm—that had been severed.
The quill felt like a lead weight in his left hand. His fingers cramped awkwardly around it, and no matter how he angled his wrist or how slow he moved, the letters came out jagged and uneven. Ink blotted the page where his grip faltered, smudges streaked across his name like bruises.
More than the limp in his gait, more than the fragile flame of his mana, more than the shame of being bedridden while the kingdom carried on without him—this was the humiliation that cut deepest. That he, Fuegoleon Vermillion, who had once written orders with crisp precision, could no longer even sign his own name without it looking like the trembling scrawl of a child.
Each signature was more illegible and graceless than the last. The scroll of parchment spilled over the right side of his desk, littered with a graveyard of vertical lines repeating his signature. Some neatly crossed out, others violently scribbled over like cracks spiderwebbing across glass.
Ink stained his fingertips and the edge of his sleeve, dragging the quill again and again as though sheer stubbornness could wrest order from his uncooperative hand. Mastering the push versus pull motion of adapting to writing with his left hand was cumbersome.
He had tried and failed to use his fire arm to write, burning countless precious goose feathers in the process. Fuegoleon was sure the stationers in the capital had plucked every chicken clean by now to sustain his attempts at relearning his once masterful penmanship.
Hours bled into each other. The candles burned low, pooling wax over the holders, and still he sat there, hunched over the desk, refusing to look away from the parchment.
Fuegoleon didn't register the tears staining the parchment or the Silva loitering in the doorway as the moon cast its pale light across the room. His hand trembled around the quill, the letters blurred beneath saltwater and exhaustion.
Nozel exhaled slowly through his nose, and after a beat he crossed the room, his footsteps soft against the hardwood floor. He placed a hand on the back of Fuegoleon's chair, the other resting lightly on the desk, fingers brushing the edge of the parchment.
"You're gripping too hard," he murmured, echoing advice he'd given before. His fingers ghosted over Fuegoleon's left hand, adjusting his hold.
The Vermillion blinked up at him through bleary eyes, exhaustion evident in the bags sagging underneath them. His jaw tensed, and for a moment, it looked as though he might speak—some sharp retort, some protest of pride—but it crumbled before it could form.
He rested his head against Nozel's tunic. Nozel carded his fingers through Fuegoleon's hair in return. Greasy and tangled.
"You need a shower," Nozel stated matter-of-factly.
"With you?" Fuegoleon murmured thoughtlessly.
Nozel struck him lightly on the head. Fuegoleon grimaced and buried his head further into Nozel's tunic. The Vermillion was clearly overtired and drunk on ink fumes and willpower.
Nonetheless, he wrestled the quill back into Fuegoleon's hand. The Silva's touch was careful, deliberate. Not delicate—Nozel Silva did nothing delicately—but steady. Grounding. His hand was warm against Fuegoleon's, the calluses along his fingers catching faintly on the ink-stained skin. They repositioned the quill, easing the cramped knuckles and adjusting the angle of his wrist until it no longer felt like a weapon clumsily repurposed.
The only sound was the soft scratch of the quill as Fuegoleon tried again—this time slower, steadier. The line trembled, but it held.
A name. Still imperfect, still crooked. But it was his. Written by his own hand.
Nozel leaned down just slightly, his breath brushing against Fuegoleon's temple. "For every signature you scribe, you will earn a kiss and..."
Nozel swiped the quill and wrote"después de veinte, mi verga (after 20, my dick)" — then underlined it with two bold strikes. If there was one thing Nozel knew would kick Fuegoleon's ass into gear, it was an incentive. Albeit a rather vulgar one.
Fuegoleon stared at the bold, underlined words with smothered delight. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "You're insufferable."
"And you're four signatures behind," Nozel said, casually placing the quill back in Fuegoleon's hand as he pressed a chaste kiss to the Vermillion's lips. "Nineteen to go."
The next signature was marginally steadier. The one after that, a touch more confident.
Fuegoleon's fingers tightened around the quill, the ghost of Nozel's kiss still tingling against his lips. He kept his eyes trained on the parchment, but his ears burned crimson.
Nozel, ever composed and infuriatingly smug, leaned back just enough to give him space—but not enough to give him peace. "You're improving," he said, voice silky with amusement. "I suppose motivation does matter."
Fuegoleon didn't respond right away. He signed another line, slow but sure, and set the quill down with deliberate calm. "This is blackmail."
"It's incentive," Nozel corrected smoothly. "Positive reinforcement. You do want your reward, don't you?"
Fuegoleon turned to glare, but Nozel was already beside him again, trailing a hand across his jaw. The kiss this time landed just beneath Fuegoleon's ear. "Eighteen."
"Is that supposed to help me concentrate?" Fuegoleon growled, pulse betraying him.
"It's supposed to make you hurry up," Nozel whispered, eyes gleaming.
Fuegoleon exhaled through his nose, picked up the quill, and began signing faster.
Each successful stroke of his name earned him a kiss—each more lingering and heated than the last—until he completed all twenty signatures. By that point, the quill was long forgotten; the inkpot had been dashed to the floor. Fuegoleon decided he'd alert the cleaning staff later.
Nozel had crawled his way into the Vermillion's lap and busied himself trailing kisses along his collarbone while Fuegoleon's hand slithered up Nozel's sinewed back. It wasn't the first time they had fucked in Fuegoleon's office, and it would not be the last. It was far past working hours, so they were sure not to be disturbed.
Fucking, making love, sex, copulation—put simply, they had fallen back into it naturally. Nozel preferred not to use sex as motivation, but his patience had become weathered by Fuegoleon's penmanship. He was still learning (and failing) to exercise a modicum of control over his fire arm. So when they fucked on hot summer nights such as these, Fuegoleon would bottom. Or, on the rare off-chance Nozel had time to prepare himself, he would ride the Vermillion to completion.
He much preferred the latter, even if it required the occasional hassle of douching and fingering himself open. Nozel had not allowed Fuegoleon—no matter how many times he had volunteered—to prepare him. He wasn't as adept with his left hand as he had been with his right, and until he had some degree of coordination with his left hand, he would not allow it. And after receiving a mild brush burn from Fuegoleon's fire arm, there was absolutely no way in hell he would let him finger him with fire fingers—even if they were artificial.
"Did you prep?" Fuegoleon asked, breathy and dazed from the workout Nozel had done on his neck.
"No," Nozel replied curtly. Fuegoleon cocked an eyebrow, disappointment flashing behind those lavender eyes. "I was busy today, and you know our agreement..."
Nozel's hands slid beneath Fuegoleon's shirt, fingertips tracing the taut muscles of his ribs before dipping lower, fingers pressing gently but insistently. The Vermillion swallowed thickly, body responding despite the ache and soreness of his left hand. Nozel's mouth captured his again, teeth grazing, tongue flicking teasingly.
"Yes, I know." Fuegoleon shimmied off his overcoat while Nozel worked at his shirt. "One hundred clean signatures with my left hand, then I can prep you," Fuegoleon said, like a bureaucrat quoting protocol—Nozel repeated the dependent clause in unison, but ended his sentence with "me."
"Good boy," Nozel crooned, tossing Fuegoleon's shirt to the an absintee corner of the room and giving a deliberate grind. Fuegoleon's breath hitched at the pressure. "Glad we have an understanding."
Fuegoleon allowed his eyes to flutter shut as Nozel continued absentmindedly stripping off their clothes. Once they were down to their underwear, Nozel coaxed Fuegoleon to lift his hips and slipped off his boxer briefs.
"That's no fair," Fuegoleon drawled lazily, gesturing to the Silva's still-clothed hips, an erection bulging beneath the fabric. "You're overdressed."
"It's fair for the reward I'm about to give you." Fuegoleon snorted, the sound dissolving into a sharp inhale as Nozel cupped his crotch, teasing without mercy. Nozel leaned in and kissed him—deep, consuming, the kind that left no space for thought. His mouth moved with practiced intent, all heat and control, tongue stroking slow and deliberate until Fuegoleon's fingers curled into his back.
"Will you be my good boy tonight?" Nozel asked, voice low and rough against Fuegoleon's lips.
"Yes," Fuegoleon breathed, voice thick with need and surrender.
Nozel's smile was dark, predatory. He eased the last barrier between them, sliding his underwear down with slow, tantalizing movements. Fuegoleon's skin burned where Nozel's fingers trailed, every touch igniting a fire that had nothing to do with the day's exhaustion.
Nozel knelt, settling fully between Fuegoleon's thighs as he parted them. A tuft of well-trimmed vermilion pubic hair sprouted at the base, thinning along the shaft as Nozel gave an experimental upward stroke. A mewl escaped the Vermillion's lips, his left hand gripping the armrest of the chair. Fuegoleon was a solid seven to eight inches when fully sprung—at least, that is what Nozel estimated. Right now, he stood at around four or five, half-mast. Nozel supposed he would have to change that.
"Have you been following the bottom-friendly diet tips I recommended to you?"
"Yes," Fuegoleon gasped. Nozel gave a downward stroke.
"Cruciferous vegetables, legumes, whole grains..." Nozel listed lazily. Upward stroke.
"Nozel, please." Downward stroke.
"And are drinking water too?" Upward stroke.
"Yes! Please, Nozel!" Fuegoleon exclaimed, pupils blown and voice strained with need.
"Very well," Nozel hummed thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand much to the chagrin of the Vermillion to clip his bangs back.
Nozel readjusted himself to sit more comfortably on his feet, then surged forward, taking the Vermillion's cock into his mouth and wrapping his hands around whatever he couldn't fit.
Fuegoleon's breath caught in his throat, a strangled gasp punching from his lungs as the heat of Nozel's mouth enveloped him. His head tipped back against the high-backed chair, the muscles in his thighs tensing with the effort not to thrust. Nozel had made it explicitly clear—thrusting into his mouth without permission was a punishable offense.
But gods, the way Nozel worked him—slow, wet, and utterly merciless—was maddening. He bobbed with patient rhythm, tongue flicking the underside on each upward pull, fingers kneading at the base with the kind of restraint that only came from knowing just how far to push before someone snapped. Fuegoleon's left hand hovered uselessly midair, twitching, wanting to tangle in silver hair but knowing better.
"You always get so loud when I do this," Nozel murmured between sucks, his voice dragging along Fuegoleon's skin, dragging shivers up his spine. "You say you're the disciplined one, yet here you are... trembling."
Fuegoleon's teeth clamped down on his lower lip, but it did nothing to muffle the moan that tore free when Nozel hollowed his cheeks and swallowed around him. His legs spread further of their own accord, hips rocking slightly before Nozel pulled back with a wet pop and a look that could curdle steel.
"No moving," he said coolly, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. "Unless you want to finish in my hand instead."
"No," Fuegoleon panted, chest heaving, eyes pleading.
"Then behave." Nozel's hands gripped Fuegoleon's thighs, pressing them further apart. "I haven't even started yet."
He dipped again, this time slower, wetter, dragging the flat of his tongue along the vein on the underside before circling the head with a flourish that left Fuegoleon gasping. Each sound he made was rewarded with a pleased hum, the vibrations sending tremors down his spine.
By the time Nozel pulled back again, Fuegoleon's thighs were trembling, his cock slick and twitching with need. "N-Nozel, I—please—"
"Let me take care of you properly," Nozel purred, his voice silken with promise. He opened the second drawer of Fuegoleon's desk—a small vial of clear liquid that caught the dim light.
Fuegoleon's breath caught as Nozel uncapped it, the subtle scent of something herbal mingling with the musk of their arousal. Slick fingers glistened as Nozel coated them liberally.
"Spread wider for me," he commanded.
Fuegoleon complied instantly, shifting his hips forward on the chair, exposing himself fully. The vulnerability of the position sent a thrill through him that rivaled the arousal itself.
Nozel's cool, wet fingertip circled his entrance with maddening patience. The sensation drew a low groan from Fuegoleon's throat, his head falling back against the chair as that finger finally breached him. Fuegoleon inhaled sharply, the initial intrusion both foreign and exquisite. He forced himself to relax, to breathe through the stretch as Nozel worked him open with methodical precision.
"Good," Nozel murmured, his lavender eyes gleaming with approval. "You take my fingers so well."
The praise sent heat coursing through Fuegoleon's veins. He bit his lower lip as a second finger joined the first, the burn of the stretch melting into pleasure as Nozel found that spot inside him that made his vision blur.
"Gods," Fuegoleon gasped, his hips jerking involuntarily. His cock throbbed, leaking against his stomach as Nozel's fingers curled expertly within him.
Nozel's free hand stroked along Fuegoleon's thigh, his touch firm and possessive. The dual sensations—Nozel's fingers working inside him while that other hand caressed his skin—were almost too much to bear. Fuegoleon felt consumed by the pleasure, his body caught between pushing down onto those fingers and arching up for more contact.
"I need you," Fuegoleon managed, his voice hoarse with desire. "Please, Nozel." Nozel's eyes darkened at the plea. He withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving Fuegoleon feeling empty and desperate. Then he rose to his feet, his movements graceful despite his obvious arousal. He took the vial again, pouring more of the slick oil into his palm before coating his own length thoroughly. He wasn't nearly as girthy or lengthy as Fuegoleon, but he sported a good six to six-and-a-half inches when erect—more than enough to leave an impression.
"We can do this one of two ways. Either I fuck you in your office chair, missionary style, or..." Nozel ran his fingers along Fuegoleon's jaw, tipping his head so their eyes would meet. "I take you over your desk, doggy style. Which will it be?"
Fuegoleon exhaled shakily at the vivid images Nozel's words stirred. The idea of being claimed on his own desk, bent over and exposed, sent a fresh stream of blood south to his dick. But the promise of missionary style, of being able to see Nozel's face as they made love, after eight grueling months of abstinence, was equally tempting.
Fuegoleon leaned into the Nozel's palm, now resting against his face. Fuegoleon swallowed hard. "The desk," he whispered, cheeks coloring. "I think I... need that."
Nozel's answering smile was pure sin, his silver eyes glinting with dark promise. He leaned in close, his breath ghosting over Fuegoleon's ear as he whispered, "Then the desk it is."
Nozel straightened, offering his hand to Fuegoleon with a courtly gesture that belied the raw desire etched into every line of his body.
Fuegoleon took it without hesitation, allowing Nozel to pull him to his feet. His legs were shaky, his body still thrumming with residual pleasure.
Nozel led him to the desk, his steps sure and purposeful. He turned Fuegoleon to face the solid oak surface, his hands settling on the broad plane of Fuegoleon's back. A gentle pressure, and Fuegoleon was bending forward, his palm flat against the desk, his ass high and exposed. Nozel stepped closer, his cock nestling against the cleft of Fuegoleon's ass.
The cool air of the office caressed his overheated skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.
"Nozel," Fuegoleon gasped, arching back into the contact. "Please..."
"Patience," Nozel chided gently, one hand sliding around to curl around Fuegoleon's hip.
He notched himself at Fuegoleon's entrance, the broad head pushing insistently against that tight ring of muscle. Fuegoleon bit his lip, forcing himself to relax, to open up to the invasion. Slowly, steadily, Nozel began to push forward, breaching Fuegoleon inch by hard, throbbing inch.
The burn was intense, still foreign to him after months of celibacy and bottoming only a few times during the past few weeks he'd spent recovering. The stretch was too much to bear. He feared he might tear, like when they were experimenting as teenagers and he had volunteered to bottom first.
"Yellow," Fuegoleon called. Nozel paused immediately, hips halting with a sudden stillness. Fuegoelon's head fell against the desk with a muted thump, a sheen of sweat dampening his brow.
Nozel reached around to where Fuegoleon's hand was bracing himself against the desk, intertwining their fingers where Fuegoleon's had been digging into the wood.
"What do you need, baby?" Nozel punctuated each word with a kiss against the Vermillion's shoulder blades.
"I..." Fuegoleon's voice faltered, his throat tight.
"Use your words, baby." Nozel's hand tightened around Fuegoleon's.
"Slower, and...more lube," Fuegoleon managed after a few moments.
"Very well," Nozel murmured, easing back slightly. He reached for the vial, drizzling more of the slick oil between them, letting it run down where they were joined. The cool liquid made Fuegoleon shiver. Fuegoleon released a slow breath, grateful for the momentary reprieve. He felt Nozel's hand run soothingly down his spine, tracing each vertebra with careful attention.
He took his time, taking Fuegoleon by the hips and massaging the muscles, making sure they were nice and relaxed before his fingers traveled to toy with Fuegoleon's hole, still clenched around the head of his cock. He played and prodded with it, stretching the taut skin to better accommodate his sizable cock until the Vermillion's hole loosened and didn't squeeze his dick to popping.
Nozel's traced soothing circles on Fuegoleon's lower back. "Breathe for me," he instructed, voice low and steady. "Just like that."
Fuegoleon closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythmic pattern of Nozel's palm against his skin. He drew air deeply into his lungs, held it, then released slowly. The tension in his muscles began to ebb, replaced by a languid warmth that spread through his limbs.
"Better?" Nozel asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft as he slowly pressed forward again.
Fuegoleon nodded, then remembered Nozel couldn't see his face. "Yes," he breathed, focusing on relaxing around the intrusion. This time, Nozel entered him with exquisite care, pausing after each inch to let Fuegoleon adjust. The burn was still there, but manageable now—transforming gradually from discomfort to a pleasurable fullness that made Fuegoleon's toes curl against the floor.
When Nozel was fully seated inside him, they both paused, breathing heavily in the quiet of the office. Nozel could feel Fuegoleon's heartbeat through the solid column of his back, a wild, powerful thrumming against his own skin. Nozel rested his forehead against Fuegoleon's shoulder
Nozel's hands tightened on his hips, thumbs stroking absent patterns into the skin as if to anchor them both. He stayed still, letting the moment stretch, letting Fuegoleon's body settle fully around him.
"You're perfect like this," Nozel murmured, leaning in until his breath fanned warm across the back of Fuegoleon's neck.
A low sound escaped Fuegoleon—half a sigh, half a moan—as he shifted minutely, testing the fit, the stretch, the way every nerve seemed to hum with awareness. The movement drew a quiet, restrained growl from Nozel, his hips flexing in response before stilling again.
Fuegoleon's fingers curled tighter against the desk, knuckles whitening against the polished wood. "Move," he whispered, his voice rough with want.
Nozel obliged—slow at first, drawing back just enough to make the absence keenly felt before sliding forward again in one smooth, deliberate stroke that left them both shuddering.
"Nozel," Fuegoleon gasped, the sound a ragged breath torn from his lungs. The rhythm was a slow, agonizing pleasure, a deliberate dance of control that pushed him to the brink. With each measured thrust, Nozel seemed to read his every reaction, his hips moving in an exquisite counterpoint to Fuegoleon's involuntary clenching.
Nozel's eyes darkened, the sheen of sweat along his jaw catching the low light as he leaned closer, his breath mingling with Fuegoleon's in a charged rhythm. "Tell me if it's too much," he murmured, voice rough but tender. A soft moan escaped Fuegoleon's lips, mingling with the quiet rustle of papers and the distant hum of the city beyond the office windows.
Fuegoleon shook his head, lips parting in a soft, breathless smile. "Never enough," he said, voice low and sure.
With that, Nozel found a steady pace—deliberate, patient, every movement measured to stretch, to soothe, to ignite. The slow, building friction was a balm to Fuegoleon's tense muscles.
Fuegoleon's back arched, pressing more insistently against Nozel, fingers digging into the desk as he tried to ground himself. "Closer," he begged, voice trembling with need.
Nozel responded without hesitation, pressing his chest flush against Fuegoleon's back, letting their bodies meld completely. His hands slid down to grip Fuegoleon's thighs, holding him steady as he deepened the rhythm, each movement drawing out a shudder that rippled through them both.
The room filled with the sounds of their breathing, the slick slide of skin, the whispered names and soft groans that spilled like confession. Nozel's lips brushed behind Fuegoleon's ear, trailing a path of heat that left a shiver in its wake.
"I'm here," Nozel whispered, voice thick with emotion. "Always."
Fuegoleon's response was a tremulous exhale. Nozel continued to thrust steadily, his rhythm growing faster and harder as he neared his peak. He reached around, taking Fuegoleon's cock in his hand and stroking it in time with his thrusts.
Each thrust drove deep, direct, and relentlessly against his prostate. Fuegoleon thought he might piss himself from Nozel's pistoning rhythm. Fuegoleon would say Nozel was no less masterful at fucking than roasting duck or cursing in Portuguese.
It reminded him of the first few times they had penetrative sex. Fuegoleon had volunteered to bottom, enduring the strenuous process of douching for the first time. Flushing water into his ass and shitting it out was certainly a humbling experience. Anal sex lacked the ease and lubrication of vaginal sex, neither of which Fuegoleon or Nozel had the anatomy to accommodate.
Sure, vaginal sex felt good, like a warm, wet towel. But, Fuegoleon preferred the familiarity of male anatomy. It was simpler and rawer—less about ceremony and more about the primal connection between him and his partner. He knew how to pleasure women and where the clitoris hid beneath its hood, but there was something more illustrious and visceral about the prostate than the enigmatic g-spot. If the Gods had gifted men with their own pleasure button, why not embrace it—bigots be damned.
The first time they had tried penetrative sex, Fuegoleon bottomed. He had winced and clenched and seized up at every probe of Nozel's index finger against his asshole. They did not manage to perform the penetrative part of penetrative sex; instead, Nozel fingered Fuegoleon to completion and the Vermillion was left with anal fissures the next morning.
Like cygnets to water, they eventually got the hang of it and took their prefunctory roles as top and bottom—the former too rarely assigned to Nozel, and the latter too seldom to Fuegoleon. What they lacked in balance, they made up for in frequency and creativity. The number of times one had lured the other to a secluded alcove for a quick fuck or a stolen moment of intimacy was innumerable. They fucked in lakes, storage closets, balconies, and, most recently, Fuegoleon's office.
The Silva hips suddenly stopped. Nozel's hands left Fuegoleon's thighs, and he withdrew with a soft, wet sound that made Fuegoleon's knees instantly weak. A frustrated whine escaped the Vermillion as he felt the sudden emptiness where Nozel had been, the loss of friction and fullness leaving him feeling cold and exposed despite his overheated state.
He tried to turn, to question the abrupt halt, but Nozel was already moving, his hands on Fuegoleon's hips, guiding him away from the desk. "Turn around," Nozel murmured, his voice a low command. Fuegoleon did as he was told, his legs still shaky, his body thrumming with unspent energy.
Nozel caught him by the shoulders, turning him to face him. His lavender eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, a mirror of Fuegoleon's own desire. Nozel's hands slid from his shoulders, tracing a path down his chest, his thumbs brushing against Fuegoleon's hard nipples. He cupped Fuegoleon's face, his expression one of profound affection.
The height difference between them was laughable when Nozel topped—roughly five inches—but it still left Fuegoleon about a head taller than him. Nozel's eyes flicked to Fuegoleon's lips for a fraction of a second, hands wrapping around his thighs where they met the crest of his ass.
Nozel was all lean muscle—svelte, lithe, trim. He couldn't compare to Fuegoleon's bulk and towering stature, and he certainly couldn't lift him up to fuck him on the desk, so he gave an encouraging push. Fuegoleon complied, hopping up to sit his bare ass on the ornate wood, papers scattering to the floor as he rested on his hand.
Nozel leaned in slowly, tilting Fuegoleon's head down until their lips met in a searing, consuming kiss. The Vermillion's cock had softened during the maneuvering, but Nozel gave it a few deliberate pumps, and it quickly perked back up.
Fuegoleon broke from the kiss with a gasp, his chest rising and falling in quick succession. Nozel's hand never faltered, stroking him with a steady, practiced rhythm that had his thighs tensing beneath the Silva's grip. "N-Nozel," he breathed, the name half-groan, half-plea.
Nozel's mouth curved faintly, a rare softness tugging at his sharp features. "You're beautiful like this," he murmured, his voice low and reverent, each word brushing Fuegoleon's ear like velvet. He shifted closer, pressing himself between Fuegoleon's thighs, the blunt heat of his cock brushing insistently against him once more. Fuegoleon shuddered, wrapping his legs around Nozel's lean waist, drawing him in with a desperation born of trust and need.
Their mouths found each other again, slower this time, the kiss hot and anchoring. Fuegoleon clung to him, arms hooked around his neck, holding him close as Nozel shifted his hips and eased back into him. The stretch, the fullness, the sound of both their voices breaking against the kiss—it all rushed back in a dizzying wave.
Nozel pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes heavy, lips wet from their kiss, hair plastered to his temple. "You feel..." He stopped, swallowing hard, words failing him. Instead, he pressed deeper, slow and deliberate, until Fuegoleon was trembling around him. Fuegoleon's fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting as if he could pin Nozel inside him by force alone. Their foreheads touched, breath mingling, every exhale turning ragged as they moved together,
His hips found a faster, more insistent cadence. Each thrust drove him deeper, a rhythmic pounding that made Fuegoleon's vision swim. He was all raw sensation, the feel of Nozel's hands on his thighs, the hard press of his body against his, the exquisite friction of their joined flesh. He let go of Nozel and gripped the cool, hard surface of his desk a grounding point in the tempest of pleasure. He squeezed his eyes shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest.
Nozel's lips found the tense muscles of Fuegoleon's neck, a gentle nip that sent a fresh shiver of fire through him. "I want to hear you," Nozel rasped, his own breath ragged. "All of you."
Fuegoleon's body arched into him, every nerve alight as the steady grind of cock against prostate left him trembling on the edge. Nozel adjusted his angle with precision, each thrust purposeful, ruthless in its intent to unravel him. Fuegoleon clutched at his back, dragging him closer, needing every inch, every ounce of pressure.
The desk beneath him creaked faintly in protest, a counterpoint to the harsh rhythm of their bodies. Fuegoleon bit down on his lip, but the sound that broke from him was still loud, still desperate—he couldn't contain it, not with Nozel driving him open so completely.
"Don't hold back," Nozel murmured against his mouth, his voice almost breaking with the strain of control. His hips snapped forward again, and Fuegoleon saw stars, his back bowing, every muscle strung tight as a bowstring.
Fuegoleon's control snapped. A loud, guttural moan tore from his throat as Nozel found the sweet spot again, a relentless, targeted pressure that made his head fall back against his shoulders. "Nozel!" he cried out, the name a breathless plea.
The name was a final command. With a low cry, Fuegoleon came hard, his body shuddering and clenching around Nozel's cock. Nozel followed a moment later, spurting inside Fuegoleon as he moaned his name. He collapsed on top of Fuegoleon, both of them panting and sweaty and sated.
Nozel stayed buried inside him, his forehead pressed to Fuegoleon's shoulder, breath ragged against sweat-slick skin. The world seemed to narrow to the frantic thrum of their heartbeats, the scent of sex and sweat.
For a long moment, neither moved. It was only the slow glide of Nozel's hands along Fuegoleon's thighs—gentling after their bruising grip—that broke the stillness. Fuegoleon's legs remained looped around his waist, refusing to let him go just yet.
When Nozel finally lifted his head, lavender eyes half-lidded and glassy, Fuegoleon met his gaze and gave a soft, incredulous laugh. "Didn't expect to get fucked over my desk tonight," he murmured, voice roughened from moans and cries.
"Didn't expect to fuck you over your desk tonight." Nozel offered a half-assed smile. He shifted, sliding out slowly, carefully, and Fuegoleon hissed at the raw sensitivity. A low, satisfied hum escaped the Silva's throat at the sight of him flushed, trembling, undone.
The sight of him—feverish and spent, with a faint sheen of sweat on his chest and throat—was a masterpiece of Nozel's making. He gave Fuegoleon one last, lingering look before turning to survey the damage. The desk was a disaster. Papers were fanned out like discarded playing cards, some with ink smeared across the elegant script of official reports. An overturned inkwell left a dark, spreading stain on the paper that had started this whole debacle, the scribbles of Fuegoleon's signatures bleeding into one another.
"Well, at least the important paperwork survived," Nozel remarked dryly, plucking a single unscathed document from the chaos and holding it aloft between two fingers. His lips curved faintly as he set it aside, the gesture as meticulous as if he hadn't just ruined half a week's worth of reports.
Fuegoleon gave a hoarse laugh, running a hand back through his damp hair. "Important? Those were requisition orders for the barracks kitchen. Unless you think the kingdom will collapse without its shipment of flour."
"I imagine the cooks might," Nozel said smoothly, though his eyes softened as they swept over Fuegoleon again—still perched on the desk, legs parted, skin flushed and gleaming. The sight tugged at something deep inside him, something far less sarcastic.
Fuegoleon caught the look, and heat flared in his chest—not arousal this time, but something quieter, heavier. He shifted forward, reaching out to snag Nozel's wrist before he could turn away again. Their fingers laced together easily, naturally, and Fuegoleon's voice dropped low. "You're staring."
"I have every reason to." Nozel's thumb brushed over the back of Fuegoleon's hand, a ghost of tenderness belying the steel in his tone. "You should see yourself right now."
Fuegoleon huffed, though the warmth in his chest spread. His legs swung down from the desk, feet meeting the cool floor, and he glanced at the inky ruin again. "Perhaps this desk is cursed," he muttered.
"No," Nozel corrected softly, thumb brushing against the curve of his jaw. "It's blessed. It gave me you tonight."
That earned him a faint snort, but Nozel leaned in anyway, brushing their mouths together in something softer than before. No fire, no frenzy—just a slow press of lips, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had just passed between them.
When they finally broke apart, Fuegoleon exhaled, the tension ebbing from his broad frame. "As lovely as this would be to continue, I believe some aftercare is an order," Fuegoleon stated plainly, gesturing to the cum already crusting on his stomach, Nozel catching a glance of his leaking down the Vermillion's thighs.
"Right," Nozel winced, busying himself with rifling through Fuegoleon's desk drawers.
"You don't remember where the wet wipes are, do you?" Fuegoleon asked, his tone halfway between amusement and exasperation, watching Nozel rummage with all the elegance of a man attempting surgery blindfolded.
Nozel's hand stilled mid-search, his expression flattening into something perilously close to affront. He angled a sharp look over his shoulder. "Do you truly think I make a habit of memorizing the location of your... wipes?"
Fuegoleon chuckled, low and hoarse, the sound tugging at the corners of Nozel's composure. "It would save you the trouble of scowling through my things like an offended cat."
With a faint sniff, Nozel resumed his search, finally producing a small packet from the back of the drawer. "There. I'll have you know I located them in record time."
"Mm, congratulations, Captain," Fuegoleon murmured, taking them from him and brushing his fingers deliberately against Nozel's as he did. "A new skill to add to your repertoire."
Nozel took care to wipe down Fuegoleon's abdomen while Fuegoleon swiped his ass cheeks and thighs clean.
With the immediate mess handled, Fuegoleon stood, grabbing a fresh pair of boxer briefs from a nearby cabinet. "Well," he said, pulling them on. "That was... thorough."
Nozel didn't respond immediately. He was still kneeling by the desk, a faint blush on his cheeks, meticulously folding the used wipes before placing them in the wastebasket. When he finally stood, he didn't meet Fuegoleon's eyes. "My services aren't cheap," he said, his voice returning to its usual dry cadence. "I'll require payment in the form of a list of clean signatures."
Fuegoleon chuckled, a low, warm sound. He walked over to Nozel, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him close. "I suppose that's fair," he murmured, his lips brushing against Nozel's ear. "Consider it a fee for... excellent work."
Nozel's breath hitched faintly. "And don't expect me to be so lenient next time," he said.
"Now, put some pants on," Fuegoleon grinned, giving a light smack to Nozel's ass.
Nozel stiffened at the smack, his blush darkening, though he refused to give Fuegoleon the satisfaction of a reaction beyond a frosty sniff. "You're entirely too pleased with yourself," he muttered, pulling on his own set of boxer briefs.
Fuegoleon only smiled, unrepentant. "Shouldn't I be?"
Fuegoleon knelt down to begin haphazardly organizing the leaflets scattered about the floor. Nozel joined him, and within a matter of minutes they managed to piece the papers into something resembling neat stacks. Fuegoleon's version of order was more "good enough," while Nozel's was surgical—straightened edges, aligned corners, each page smoothed free of wrinkles.
After tidying the product of their chaos, Fuegoleon corralled Nozel to the couch. The Vermillion dropped into the cushions with a sigh, stretching his arms across the backrest in careless ease. Nozel, of course, perched on the far edge, posture rigid and knees angled as though the couch were a throne rather than a place to rest.
Fuegoleon's mouth curved, watching him. "You know," he said, voice low and teasing, "most people relax after sex."
"I am relaxed," Nozel replied crisply, though the faint tension in his shoulders betrayed him.
Fuegoleon chuckled, scooping Nozel up and settling him atop his torso. "If this is you relaxed, I almost pity your subordinates."
Nozel made no discernible effort to resist the Vermillion, instead weaving his fingers together to create a makeshift pillow and rest his chin comfortably against Fuegoleon's chest. Fuegoleon unclipped the cross flory flitchy securing Nozel's bangs and set it on the side table, earning a pointed look as he tousled and fluffed the strands into a soft halo.
Nozel swatted at his hand, brushing a few stray strands that Fuegoleon had missed out of his eyes. Before he could return to his place against Fuegoleon's chest, the Vermillion grazed his fingers along Nozel's neck, over the battleworn and faded, albeit pronounced enough, scar to determine it was text from some primeval language. Fuegoleon's fingers lingered, tracing the divots of each character as if trying to deduce the inscription Megicula had mauled into Nozel's flesh.
"And when are we going to talk about this?" Fuegoleon indicated the scar by tapping his index finger against it twice.
"As soon as we talk about this," Nozel retorted, giving a firm squeeze to Fuegoleon's right shoulder. Fuegoleon flinched, a quiet hiss of discomfort escaping his lips, and Nozel quickly drew back his hand.
"Sorry," he apologized, a little disingenuity lacing his tone.
"It's fine," Fuegoleon mumbled, rolling out his shoulder in relief.
"No, it's not," Nozel breathed, kneading at his neck. "It's just... complicated." He thumped his head against the Vermillion's chest.
"Complicated, like we shouldn't be having this conversation unless you want another episode like pre–last year's Magic Knights Entrance Exam."
It took Fuegoleon a moment too long to register the incident Nozel was referring to before the Silva flicked him on the forehead.
"You seriously don't remember?" Nozel snapped.
"No, I do." Fuegoleon raised his hand in defense. Sheesh—who could blame him if it took a hot minute to recall the memory? He had been incapacitated for the past six months, three of those months with Nozel whispering sweet nothings at his bedside. But he wasn't going to tell Nozel that—at least not yet.
"It was when you collapsed from a cur—" Curse. Before Fuegoleon could finish his sentence, Nozel was on him, cussing, hissing, and shushing him to avail. The Silva had climbed onto Fuegoleon's torso, straddling him with both hands covering the Vermillion's mouth.
"Shut up! You musn't say that word," Nozel snapped, his forehead pressing against Fuegoleon's, hands firm over the Vermillion's mouth. His lavender eyes flashed with a mix of panic and authority, the remnants of that cursed memory sharpening his tone.
"If you tell anyone that Megicula had a hand in Acier Silva's death, you will die."
"If you talk about it, the one who heard you will also be struck with the curse."
"The spell will spread like a disease."
The words of Megicula rang clear as a death knell, a venomous reminder of the helplessness Nozel had felt as he watched his mother wither away. He would not—could not—allow Fuegoleon to be inflicted by that curse. He refused to let him die, to let that same suffocating fear consume the Vermillion as it had consumed him.
Nozel withdrew his hands. "If we're to discuss this, then I'll have to arrange some time with Dorothy."
"Dorothy? Dorothy Unsworth?"
"No, Dorothy—the petulant, ten-years-younger-than-me woman my father tried to set me up with last year." While intended as a sarcastic quip, it was true. Nozel's father had been particularly zealous in marrying off his eldest son, especially as he entered his thirties, spouting some bullshit about keeping the bloodline potent. Nozel shuddered at the memory of awkward dinners, forced smiles, and the endless parade of well-meaning but suffocating family commentary.
"Yes, Dorothy Unsworth, you dolt. Who do you think was keeping me sane while you blissfully slept for six months?! At least she has better taste in tea varieties than you."
Fuegoleon arched a brow, amusement tugging at his mouth despite the gravity of the conversation. "Ah, so that explains the chamomile I kept smelling every time I woke up halfway. I thought it was you trying to soften up."
Nozel scoffed, sitting back on his haunches, arms folded tightly across his chest. "Don't be ridiculous. If I wanted to soften up, I'd have poured hot wax in my ears to drown out your incessant optimism instead."
Fuegoleon chuckled, tilting his head, eyes narrowing with a kind of gentle persistence that always grated on Nozel's carefully maintained walls. "So, Dorothy knows?"
"Yes," Nozel responded curtly. "Now, we mustn't talk about this anymore, because we don't want to trigger anything," he growled through gritted teeth. His lavender eyes hardened, sharp as glass. "And in exchange for my information—" Nozel leaned forward, pressing a pointed index finger against the bridge of Fuegoleon's nose, a gesture halfway between reprimand and claim. "You're going to tell me who this little would-be assassin of yours was."
Fuegoleon blinked at the sudden shift in tone, the playful veneer of their banter stripped away in an instant. The finger against his nose was deceptively delicate, but the steel behind Nozel's gaze left no room for evasion.
"You make it sound like I've been hiding something from you," Fuegoleon replied, his voice steady though his chest tightened beneath the razor's edge of Nozel's scrutiny.
"You have been hiding something," Nozel shot back, his tone cutting, though underpinned by the faintest tremor—fear disguised as ire. "Assassins don't simply appear. Someone sent them. The Eye of the Midnight Sun wanted you dead. And if you think I'll tolerate being kept in the dark, you gravely underestimate me."
Fuegoleon reached up, brushing his hand against Nozel's wrist, not to push him away but to anchor him. "It wasn't secrecy. It was timing. I wasn't about to unload everything the moment I woke from six months of near-death." His eyes softened, though a shadow lingered behind them. "I needed to be certain of who it was, of what I was dealing with. And until then..." He exhaled slowly. "Until then, I wanted to spare you the weight of another war."
Nozel's nostrils flared, his grip twitching against Fuegoleon's shoulder. "Spare me?" he echoed, venom curling through his voice. "You arrogant, sanctimonious—if you ever dare to think that sparing me means lying by omission again, I will make you regret it." His finger pressed harder against Fuegoleon's nose, his lavender eyes blazing like tempered steel.
Fuegoleon didn't flinch beneath the sharpened heat of Nozel's glare. Instead, he leaned forward, closing the scant distance between them, and pressed the offending finger to his lips. His mouth lingered there, warm and unyielding, before he kissed the fingertip with deliberate tenderness.
"You think I lie to you to protect myself," he murmured against Nozel's skin, "but the truth is I'd burn the world down before I'd ever betray you." He tilted his head, meeting the full blaze of lavender with his steady amber. "I love you, Nozel. Even when you're impossible. Even when you're wrath incarnate."
The Silva froze, as though the words had struck harder than any curse. His jaw tightened, a flicker of disbelief breaking across his carefully guarded expression. For all his composure, for all the frost he wielded like armor, a faint tremor betrayed him in the way his breath caught.
Fuegoleon's thumb brushed along the ridge of Nozel's knuckles, gentle, coaxing. "I don't need sparing. I need honesty. If you can give me that, then I can give you everything else."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched—thick, fragile, electric. Then Nozel withdrew his finger only to curl his hand against Fuegoleon's jaw, grip firm but not cruel, as though holding him there by force of will alone. His voice, when it came, was low and fractured, raw as a wound.
"You reckless, insufferable man," he whispered. "Why must you say things like that when you know I can't—" His words broke, teeth gritted against the tide threatening to drag him under.
Fuegoleon leaned into the hold, unafraid, letting the weight of Nozel's storm crash against him. "Because it's the truth," he answered simply. "And because you need to hear it."
