stuck meme

[parser]

stuck meme

esuna off that paralysis Post toplevels, reply as usual. Hope you enjoy your quality time with your thread partner, now that you're stuck... 01. IN A CROWD — for bonus points: in a crowd, after an argument. 02. DEFENDING THE BASE — while you wait for reinforcements to arrive. Good luck! 03. ON A RAFT — or a manacutter or an airship or something, drifting towards a deserted island. 04. IN A RELATIONSHIP — that your thread partner is trying to break you out of. The relationship can be with someone else... or just your bed/pet/hobby/gambling habit. 05. IN A WAITING ROOM — while you're waiting to hear a healer/conjurer/physician/chirurgeon's assessment, and you really didn't want to run into anyone... or maybe you'd like some emotional support? 06. TRYING TO NAVIGATE — through the Ul'dahn marketplace, maybe, or Hawker's Alley, or any number of confusing Lominsan/Gridanian/Sharlayan alleyways. 07. STANDING GUARD — wherever might be applicable: outside the Rising Stones? Rowena's House of Splendors? Or maybe awkwardly in front of a bedroom with a near-stranger so that the person who hired you to keep watch can get it on inside... 08. WITH YOUR HAIR — caught in someone else's belt or leather sheath or inexplicable shoulder spike... oh, adventurers and their impractical clothing. 09. DELIVERING TERRIBLE NEWS — exactly what's on the tin. Sucks to be you. 10. DOING THE DISHES — at a restaurant where you forgot your wallet and couldn't pay the bill. 11. IN A LAKE — because this person caught you skinny-dipping and won't... go... away... 12. WAITING TO BE RANSOMED — in the actually-quite-loving care of some especially incompetent criminals. Enjoy being stuck! This meme was gently lifted off bakerstreet.

TEMPLATE CODED BY valoirs

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[haillenarte]

[zephirin's neck captures francel's attention once more. the young lord fantasizes about planting his lips there — softly, sweetly — but, again, he swallows the impulse down. he pulls a wrinkle out of the fabric of zephirin's shirt before he continues his massage ever lower, ever lower.]

Truthfully? That sounds like good fun — so long as he lays me gently to rest by the end of it, that is.

[ever lower — for a moment his hands actually squeeze zephirin's hips, but then francel begins moving upward again, for a second pass over zephirin's spine.]

...Do you often join his contests of strength?

[valhourdin]

[ How gently Ser Guerrique's contest would finish depends on the degree of his inebriation. Wont to challenge every table at the Forgotten Knight to test their strength against his formidable arms, Guerrique has yet to grow mindful of his own limits.

Zephirin must disappoint Francel, if the boy imagines all Temple Knights to engage in similar good fun. He stiffens briefly, breath held when Francel's fingers press firmer against his sides — even through a shield of cloth, Francel's touch there prickles upon his skin like a pleasantly cool breeze. ]

I accompany my fellow knights from time to time, but I fear I prefer to face Ser Guerrique in our training hall.

[ And when he visits the Forgotten Knight, it is inevitably to mitigate the situations that arise. ]

[haillenarte]

Hmm... you're not one for excessive drink, are you, Zephirin?

[the question is apparently rhetorical. francel uses every finger to work zephirin's tense body as he makes his way back up toward the man's shoulders once more — stubbornly, he lingers on tense points, battling them until he leaves them tender and pliant.

when at last he makes his way back to zephirin's neck again, he gives in to temptation and gently kisses the nape of the knight's neck.

his attitude is so casual that the kiss might very well be a simple joke between friends.]

...Would you like anything more? Should I scratch your scalp, or rub your ears?

[francel asks so eagerly that it seems as if any of these options — designed to pamper zephirin — would bring him unparalleled joy.]

[valhourdin]

[ The rhetorical question seems a conclusion voiced without needing confirmation, certain of its accuracy. By Francel's tone, he fills in the outlines of a charcoal sketch of his new friend, adding detail and shading as they come to know each other.

As before, Francel's efforts leave Zephirin's limbs lighter, in a state of relaxation achieved through soaking in freshly heated bathwater, a rare luxury, but Francel's kiss filters past. The sensation is distinct, slow to fade.

Opening his eyes, Zephirin looks over his shoulder, at Francel's timidity gone. ]

...I may risk imposing on your hospitality then. [ The toy rabbit is the only friend to put to bed. ] What of your repayment?

[haillenarte]

You need not repay me for what I enjoy doing...

[but they did agree — so to speak — on some manner of repayment, so francel tilts his head to one side, his ears cocked in zephirin's direction. he is vaguely reminiscent of an obedient hound, eager to receive his master's affection.]

Well... what appeals to you the most?

[valhourdin]

[ It appeals to Zephirin to see Francel brighten, but he questions the wisdom in encouraging the boy's attachment to their odd developing friendship. Perhaps it does more harm than good.

At the back of his neck, his skin yet keeps hold of the observation that Francel's lips were softer than his fingertips.

Turning to face Francel fully, Zephirin takes one of his hands, raising it between them as if he intends to kiss it just above the delicate ridge of Francel's knuckles. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel appears confused. he cocks his head in the other direction, a puppy in all but name.]

...Zephirin?

[valhourdin]

[ He does not kiss Francel's hand, does nothing beyond holding it lightly and contemplating Francel's slender fingers. Finally, he returns that hand to its place. ]

...My apologies. My thoughts strayed elsewhere.

[haillenarte]

[francel remains confused for another moment longer. he lets his hand fall. slowly, the slope of his neck returns to neutral position; his lips form a slightly pursed straight line. and as the young lord's eyes drop to the bedsheets, he mumbles:]

...You can do whatever you'd like, you know...

[valhourdin]

[ Francel's lips shape themselves into a pout almost comical yet fetching; Zephirin's take on the ghost of fond humour. ]

Then, by your leave...

[ Reaching once more for Francel's hand, he proceeds to do what the boy did to his toes, the night of their first appointment. Finger by finger, he taps each softly rounded tip. ]

[haillenarte]

[this, it seems, pleases francel. almost at once his comical pout turns into a broad smile, all joy and light; once more the young lord is the picture of angelic radiance as he giggles and squirms, but does not pull his hand away.]

Zephirin! "This Little Chocobo" isn't quite the same on fingers!

[valhourdin]

[ Zephirin's brows twitch upon his forehead, arching. His fingers pause at the base of Francel's thumb. ]

"This Little Chocobo", is it?

[ A rhyme of Francel's creation? If Zephirin's mother once played games with his fingers and toes, he has no memory of it. ]

[haillenarte]

...Hah?

[this, apparently, is the confused, flustered noise that francel makes upon realizing that his friend has no idea what he's talking about.]

Well, yes... 'tis a song that one sings while... er, while playing with a child's toes. My mother and the maidservants would sing it to me in my youth, and though I did not sing it to you, I thought the motion would be familiar. It is fairly popular throughout Ishgard, even in the Brume...

...Did your mother never do this?

[valhourdin]

[ With a slight shrug of one shoulder, Zephirin retrieves his hands. ]

Doubtless she did. Mayhap I was too young to learn the words.

[ Those summers came even before any pudding tasted or imaginary dragons slain, too distant to search. ]

[haillenarte]

...I see...

[zephirin's withdrawal spurs francel's advance. slowly — with some of the same shyness that graced his actions before zephirin agreed to his soothing touch — francel pads a little closer, his head and shoulders lowered as if in apology.

he does not know if he should offer comfort. the young lord worries for what little zephirin has told him of his past and boyhood days, but he lacks the words to question the temple knight — instead, he gently rests his forehead against zephirin's shrugged shoulder, saying nothing.]

[valhourdin]

[ Francel seems stricken on Zephirin's behalf, surprising the knight with his gesture. To reassure the boy and determine how deeply convinced Francel is that his friend lives bereft of a childhood staple, Zephirin brushes his palm across Francel's hair. ]

My mother oft spoke of my father — I listened gladly. [ His hand lingers atop Francel's head. ] "This Little Chocobo" escapes me, but she sang other songs, this I recall.

[haillenarte]

[francel promised himself he would not fall asleep tonight, even if zephirin took hold of his ears and rubbed him into liquid relaxation — but, nevertheless, his lashes flutter prettily at the touch to his hair, and his eyelids droop. the weight on zephirin's shoulder becomes a little bit heavier.

perhaps this makes zephirin's repayment.]

...What songs did she sing?

[valhourdin]

[ The Fury's hymns are unchanging, known to every child of Ishgard, but lullabies are chosen at a mother's discretion, and Zephirin never thought to ask his own mother whether she sang songs already composed or combined words and melodies herself into nameless arrangements. He sifts through his memories and comes upon one of an uneasy night, his father's anticipated letter late to arrive. Bedridden, in a fever's grip, Zephirin found dragons waiting in his dreams.

After a moment's piecing together the fragments of a remembered melody, he hums a few bars to answer Francel's question. ]

...Do you know it?

[haillenarte]

[zephirin's voice is an alchemist's concoction, one that turns francel's bones into water and his heart into dust. ordinarily, the knight's speech is carefully neutral, almost toneless, sometimes bland — but his humming lends it a different sort of quality, something that francel feels is not unlike vulnerability. he wants to crystallize the memory of zephirin's humming forever; he wishes he could replay it again and again in his mind, just as crisp and clear as he experienced it, but the nature of memories are such that they fade, and someday, reliving even this moment will not come easily to francel.

he has fallen too deeply in love.

and they are close — they sit connected, and upon francel's bed, no less — but for a moment, the lordling's throat aches with longing.

he swallows audibly before he clears his throat and provides the prescribed words to zephirin's melody:]

...Hush, little baby, don't say a word,
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird...

...It goes like that, I believe. My mother never sang it to me — but one of my nursemaids did.

[valhourdin]

[ Francel's voice, too, is laced with something vulnerable, a yearning note that Zephirin takes to stem from memories evoked. The hand still resting upon Francel's head remembers itself, and Zephirin's concerns, but its palm passes across the boy's hair one more time, its thumb along Francel's ear.

The weight on Zephirin's shoulder is no burden — the weight of a fragile heart must be borne with care. ]

...You possess a remarkable memory.

[ Music, it seems, drew Francel's interest from a young age. ]

[haillenarte]

[francel chuckles softly. it is, primarily, a ticklish response to the stroking of his ears, but it stems from self-deprecation. the young lord shyly adjusts his head on zephirin's shoulder; his golden hair fans out against zephirin's thin shirt.]

Only for tunes. I do very poorly in my arithmetics classes, I fear.

[valhourdin]

[ Zephirin's fingers settle into mapping the lines of Francel's ear anew, moving in slower swiping motions than a head rub given an affectionate hound. Francel shifts against him, but does not squirm with the head-to-toe shudder of their first such encounter. ]

Arithmetics? Would that I had advice to impart.

[haillenarte]

[these slower motions soon have their effect: though the young lord is evidently trying to suppress his reactions, tingling pleasure nevertheless trickles from his ears to his limbs, to his arms and fingers, and francel's lips part ever so slightly as his bare toes curl.

his breathing comes, slow and shaky, and somehow it is hard to tell if he is relaxed or tense. his toes are pink and vulnerable, white in places of pressure, as they brace against the ball of his foot.]

Have you...

[a soft moan, barely even a sigh, punctuates that remark. zephirin's fingers have found a particularly needy point on his ear.]

...Have you no talent for numbers either?

[valhourdin]

[ With Francel's head pillowed upon his shoulder, turning his own head even slightly brings Zephirin's cheek and chin in contact with the boy's hair where it falls across his brow. Unintentionally, Zephirin's lips and the tip of his nose brush against the soft strands. Francel's breaths are warm puffs of air that reach Zephirin's skin past his collar.

The movements of Zephirin's hand halt for the moment. ]

None to be of assistance, I regret to confess. My schooling ended when I became a squire.

[haillenarte]

Yes, that is not uncommon...

[francel has no idea how close he is to the soft lips that he longs for. reflexively, he assumes that the stilling of zephirin's hand and the slight movement of his head implies that the man is finished, and francel lifts his head from zephirin's shoulder, afraid to linger overlong. his toes relax.

there is no hiding the pout on his lips, however, nor the needy glint in his eyes as he looks up at the knight.]

Um... Zephirin? Could I... Could I ask for something odd?