Stand and Deliver

Deep in the forest (or at least, an uninteresting enough section of it that other travelers were unlikely to stumble across the scene) and far from civilization (or at least, far enough away that one might need to pack a lunch to travel there), a naive young nobleman found himself accosted on the road by a cruel and cunning highwayman.

"Dismount your bird and tether it, ser," the villain demanded, his tone icy and dripping with threat. "I assure you, my men are crack shots with their bows, even hidden in the trees as they are. Should you spur that chocobo to fight instead, neither of you will live to draw a second breath after." All around the pair, the forest was silent save for the chirping of songbirds, and the rustle of small creatures going about their daily business in the undergrowth. However many snipers there were lurking in the trees, they had all clearly mastered the art of the ambush.

The highwayman was smaller of stature -- and younger than his victim by quite some years, as his movements betrayed a certain level of awkwardness common to elezen youths in the midst of the uncomfortable process of attaining their full height -- though neither fact seemed to make a difference in the reaction of the nobleman. He quailed at the sight of the highwayman's sword, shrinking back in his saddle and throwing up his hands as if to ward off an impending blow before rushing to obey the criminal's command. The chocobo (a pale chestnut brown thing, fat and placid of demeanor even in the face of its master's dire peril) pecked disinterestedly at the ground as its reins were tied about the branches of a sapling, and the nobleman clasped his hands together in front of him, eyes wide and pleading.

"Ah, please, I beg of you -- spare me! I shall give you anything I have upon my person, but please -- spare my life!"

The highwayman's eyes, green above the scarf hastily tied around his mouth and nose to conceal his identity, sparkled with mischief, and he raised one ruddy eyebrow. "Not even a token show of resistance? Bah! What an easy mark you are," he sneered.

The nobleman's brow furrowed at this. "Was that the wrong th--"

"Ah, er, it makes no difference to me, my--ahem." The highwayman cleared his throat, drawing himself up to his full height and taking a step towards his quarry, sword raised. In a few short strides they were close enough to touch, and the highwayman reached out to seize hold of the nobleman's collar. "I mean, it's good--very good--that you know your place! Follow me, and you'll find I can be merciful when I have a mind to be." He gave a solid yank on the nobleman's collar. Pointing the way with his brandished blade, he made to lead his prisoner like a dog snatched by the scruff. Perhaps the sight of the sword rekindled the man's fear, for his courage seemed to fail him again. The nobleman dug in his heels, seemingly frozen in terror, but the highwayman was undeterred.

"Move!" the villain barked, dragging the nobleman forward by the collar. The difference between their heights was great enough that the unfortunate man was forced to stoop, and the violent jerk drew a small cry of distress from his lips, much to the highwayman's amusement.

Their destination was a small clearing slightly off the road--a little grassy sanctuary of sorts hidden from the judgmental view of the tethered chocobo by a thick curtain of flowering vines that had grown up, parasitic, along the trees. Sunlight filtered down in soft rays through gaps in the leafy canopy (as the highwayman had boldly chosen to perform his crimes in broad daylight), and the place was close enough to the Gridanian border that a few hardy flowers had even persevered through the cold of Coerthas's seemingly permanent winter. All in all, it was a picturesque enough place to perform a robbery.

The highwayman shoved the nobleman down with more force than was necessary, given that his prisoner had been altogether obedient and tractable--obsequious, even. The nobleman stumbled, colliding with the remnants of a fallen tree trunk that lay across the clearing near petrified with age before falling to the ground with a cry of anguish. Once again he raised his hands in an attitude that suggested he anticipated a blow. "Please, good ser. You may take my chocobo, but I swear to you, I rode out upon the morn with naught a gil upon me," the nobleman confessed. The bandit clucked his tongue at this, irritated.

"Not a gil? And yet, I see you wear a fine fur coat, adorned with silver findings."

"Take it! It's yours!" The nobleman unfastened the buckles of his heavy riding coat, shucking it off as fast as he could and handing it to the highwayman, who had stuck his sword into the ground for the moment. The young blackguard took it and, with a certain degree of care uncharacteristic of a gentleman of the road, folded it neatly in half and hung it over a clean, strong branch, so as to not sully it with the dirt of the forest floor.

The highwayman, though, was not satisfied with his takings. He retrieved his sword and pointed it at the nobleman, who flinched away as though the point was an ilm from his face and not several fulm. The bandit's green eyes raked up and down the nobleman's body, now revealed from beneath his bulky coat--stockings held up by fashionable ribbon garters, woolen trousers clinging to his thigh, a brocade waistcoat laced just a touch too tight, and a linen shirt beneath worn with no cravat or kerchief, showing a slender triangle of throat and collarbone. The nobleman seemed to feel the highwayman's eyes upon him, and he leaned away, clasping his hands under his chin demurely.

"Your waistcoat," the bandit said, intent on getting his full prize. "And your fine boots and silk hose. And while you're at it," he said, the smile audible in his voice though concealed behind his mask, "those wool trousers of yours. Fine fabric is scarce and will fetch at least a handful of coin or two."

The nobleman gulped theatrically. "B-but, if I do so, I'll be clad only in--"

"That would be your problem, not mine," the highwayman snapped. "I suggest you get on with it. My patience is limited--or would you rather I take something else?" The sword's point flickered, swiping in the direction of the nobleman's right ear, which was only partially concealed by his fashionably disheveled hair.

"Please, please, give me but a moment," the nobleman pleaded, his fingers already on the buttons of his waistcoat to prove his cooperativeness.

"And take care with the buttons, so no one has to go in and sew them back on because you've been too rough with it and loosened the thread," the highwayman added.

With an apologetic look, the nobleman began to slide the buttons out of their place, exactly as demanded. One by one they popped open, revealing the thin, almost transparent linen beneath. Before long he had shrugged out of the finely-embroidered garment and leaned forward to get to work on removing his boots and stockings.

Perhaps it was the highwayman's admonition to be careful with his clothes, but once he had unlaced and unbuckled his boots, the stockings he went for slowly. Carefully, as though savoring his last moments wearing the presumably quite expensive accessories, he untied the small flat knot of the ribbon garters, satin pulling against satin as they came undone and slid down his silk-covered shin. Then, with a glance up at the highwayman to see if he was still adequately following instructions, he lifted his foot to pull down the stockings inch by inch, as though the process were a demanding one that required care and his full attention. The highwayman, for his part, watched the slow proceedings rapturously, in no rush to receive his prize.

"I...must stand," the nobleman said, as if to assure the bandit that he would make no attempt at escape. "To remove--"

"Yes," the highwayman said, his voice thick. "Go about it, then. Get to it."

The nobleman turned away demurely and began to undo the buckle of his belt, discarding it to the ground. As it was hardened leather, the highwayman did not argue its current place--it was unlikely to acquire any dirt that a soft scrap of cloth could not fix--but as his mark moved to unlace his trousers, the highwayman stepped forward and laid a hand on his waist. The man yelped in surprise at the gesture.

"Oh, I--"

"Upon second thought, I think you ought to be quick about it. Or would you prefer I strip you down myself?" the highwayman growled.

For someone who was ordered at sword point to be quick, the nobleman still moved with a certain amount of deliberate slowness as he removed his wool trousers. He bent over slightly, blushing as he brushed past the highwayman's arm, and tugged at the waistband once he'd loosened the laces. Then, he slid the garment down carefully--one leg, then the other, stepping gingerly out of them with a flick of his long limbs. Turning back to the highwayman, the nobleman (now clad only in shirt and smallclothes, and shivering just a little in the chill) tugged at the hem of his shirt as though ineffectually trying to cover himself.

"All this won't fetch enough to make it worth the effort of robbing you," the highwayman scoffed. He glanced up and down his mark's now-exposed form, eyebrow raised. Even despite the chill, despite the nobleman's apparent fear for his life, the thin weave of his smallclothes barely concealed the bulge of an erection. Perhaps, the highwayman slyly suggested, he was the sort who enjoyed being looked at no matter the circumstances, which brought a blush to the nobleman's face.

"I have nothing more to give you," the nobleman protested. "You've taken all I have!"

"Not at all," the villain scoffed, taking a step forward with his sword raised. "I have a few other things in mind that might make this all worth my while." The nobleman backed up a step, but the highwayman was too quick for him; the nobleman found himself shoved roughly against the smooth, ancient wood of the fallen tree, after which the highwayman was upon him. The smaller man thrust his knee up between the nobleman's legs, drawing a short yelp from his victim--and a brief moment of almost unconscious, desperate grinding before the nobleman apparently remembered his place. Having thus caught the nobleman's attention in a most direct and powerful way, the highwayman laid his free hand upon the nobleman's naked thigh, stroking along the vulnerable skin there and teasing close to the place where his legs met his body. The nobleman gasped, eyelashes fluttering.

Despite his obvious arousal, the nobleman seemed to only just now understand the highwayman's wicked intentions. Covering his mouth in demure shock, he raised his most vehement protest of the evening, his voice rising to a theatrical pitch. "Ah, you villain, you--you blackguard! I shall never--"

"Ah, but you said you'd give me anything I wished--anything you had--if only I would spare your life," the highwayman reminded his prisoner. He stood back, but not out of mercy--only to point his blade at the nobleman's throat, drifting down his chest. This time he was about close enough to cut should he have a mind to. "Turn."

"You beast!" the nobleman cried, but a threatening flick of the highwayman's sword silenced any further protest. The bandit seized the nobleman by the shoulder and shoved him roughly around; the aristocrat did not have the presence of mind to resist much, and soon found himself with his back to his assailant, bent at the waist over the fallen tree. The highwayman leaned back to admire the bawdy scene--at which the nobleman gave a small, fearful whimper--for only a moment before he reached out to hold his victim down with one hand on the man's lower back. Despite being the smaller of the two, the highwayman must have possessed prodigious strength, as his prisoner could not seem to wriggle out of the bandit's grip no matter how heroically he struggled.

"A beast, am I?" the highwayman snarled sardonically. "You haven't the first idea how beastly I can be."

"Ah, please, I beg you, be--"

"I shall be," the highwayman said, "as cruel as I like." And with that sly threat, he slid the point of his blade beneath the hem of the nobleman's smallclothes.

The nobleman yelped at the feeling of cold metal against his skin, barely holding back from jumping in surprise. "Honoroit, careful--that's a real sword!" he blurted out, glancing back over his shoulder, but the highwayman only clucked his tongue, leaning over to speak closer to the nobleman's ear.

"I am careful, my lord. Besides," he said, laying his free hand upon the side of the nobleman's neck in a manner that could be construed as gentle, almost reassuring. "Your heart's racing."

The nobleman, whose heart was indeed pounding in his throat, and whose cock had similarly stirred at the dangerous touch of the sword against his skin, to the point where it perhaps threatened the integrity of his smallclothes as much as the razor-honed edge of the blade, did not offer a protest.

"And of course," the highwayman went on, the sardonic edge creeping back into his voice, "why would I ever want to mark up my lovely little prize. As long as you prove tractable we need not see any blood. Pray do not test my mercy, your lordship, or you may find it in short supply." And with a swipe that just barely skimmed the flesh of his prisoner's thigh, enough to make him shiver, he sliced the man's smallclothes from his body.

The nobleman bit back a noise that was halfway between a nervous gasp and an excited groan. Jabbing the blade into the dirt where it stood quivering almost uncomfortably close to the noble's naked thigh, the highwayman seized the man's hips with bruising force, grinding against the curve of his backside and forcing the nobleman's now-uncovered erection hard against the weathered wood below him. The nobleman gripped the fallen log tightly, as though bracing himself, but the highwayman--perhaps wanting assurance that his quarry would not try to fight for his virtue at the last moment--wrenched the man's wrist behind his back, hard enough to draw a yelp of surprise. "Stop! You beast!" the nobleman repeated, having already run through his store of horrified accusations.

"As charged," hissed the bandit, his voice rough and breathy. "But I'm sure you'd want nothing less." As he spoke, he steadied his aim with his free hand and slid himself, slick with sweat and spit, inside the squirming aristocrat below him.

The man cried out, legs tightening to prevent his knees from buckling under him; the noise was clearly half pain, half pleasure as his arousal never flagged even for a heartbeat. His back arched as the highwayman forced himself deeper, still gripping the nobleman's arm--not that there was any chance of him escaping at this point. The highwayman's breath came in short huffs as he stopped himself from thrusting in any deeper for a moment. He was at least merciful enough to let his prisoner adjust to the length inside him, to let the sharp pain of too-tight friction and the dull ache of muscle forced suddenly open subside to be overtaken by the visceral, mounting pleasure of being fucked ragged.

But the highwayman could not hold himself back for long--nor did the nobleman seem to want his assailant to hold back, from the way he bucked against the tree beneath him, lightly wetting the wood with yet more evidence of his excitement. "Y-yes, I mean--no!--are we still--" he stammered, the rest of his sentence lost in a pained moan as he felt himself slide a tiny bit further down the highwayman's length.

Still pinning him to the tree with one arm behind his back, the highwayman finally buried himself completely inside his quarry with one vicious thrust. The nobleman cried out as his cock dragged against the wood, his legs trembling; the hand that had not been forced behind his back scrabbled for purchase at the smooth bark. Not needing much more encouragement than that, the highwayman closed his eyes and gave himself entirely to the business before him. With a deliberate patience that once again did not quite match the scene of a dangerous criminal taking his pleasure by force from an innocent on the road, he pulled back slowly until the nobleman fairly whined with need before thrusting back inside him. And he seemed to know exactly how best to make the fellow moan--with each thrust, as quick and rough as he was being, he shifted his hips slightly, seeking the exact angle that pleased his victim best.

Finding a rhythm and point of attack that suited them both, the highwayman kept his hold upon his captive's wrist. He seemed to pay little heed to the man's comfort, the fingers of the bandit's other hand digging into his hip to keep steady and the pull on his arm forcing him to arch his back to relieve the tension. The nobleman's cries echoed in the tiny glen, drowning out the sound of birdsong and the crunch of fallen leaves beneath their feet, and if they were cries of anything but pleasure, a passing observer would not have identified them as such.

Given he had been forced at sword point into his current predicament, the nobleman was driven to climax by the highwayman's rough cruelty with astounding speed. "Ah--no, no, I'm--it's--stop, yes, I'm--" the nobleman moaned, still perhaps attempting to put up a token resistance; at this, the highwayman leaned over while fully hilted inside him, going up on tiptoe to brush his lips against the edge of the nobleman's ear. The nobleman bucked his hips, still impaled upon the bandit's cock, and his eyelashes fluttered as he was lost in the throes of climax, spilling upon the wood beneath him.

This spurred the highwayman's lust and, not much further away from climax himself, he redoubled his thrusts, pulling an over-stimulated whine from the nobleman's lips. "Ah, I, I'm...but I just--I--" the nobleman stammered out, before the rest of his speech descended into incoherence. Just when it seemed he could take no more without his knees giving out, the highwayman--not nearly as vocal as his partner, and far more focused besides--half-growled and buried himself as far as he could go inside the nobleman. Their hips flush together, he buried his face in the nobleman's back, just below the curve of his shoulder blade, and bit down as he came. The nobleman gasped out loud as he felt himself flooded with warmth, and they lay like that for a moment together--the nobleman draped boneless across the fallen tree and the highwayman behind him, wrist still in his grasp, laying exhausted atop him.

"...Are you all right, my lord?" Honoroit was the first to speak, after a moment of recovering his breath. Emmanellain, for his part, seemed to still be mostly insensible. Sometimes Honoroit envied his ability to throw himself into any given act of pleasure with hedonistic abandon, seemingly letting every rational though in his head (as few as that might be on most days) be swept into oblivion. Honoroit had always over-thought things--that had been one of the reasons Emmanellain had suggested the charade, in fact. He'd hoped pretending to be someone else might get Honoroit out of his own head a bit; sadly, though Honoroit had found it a pleasant enough diversion, it hadn't really served that particular purpose. Perhaps nothing would.

"Mmmmph," Emmanellain said, when Honoroit released his grip on his arm--even though it was not exactly words, Honoroit understood the noise to be assent. He'd gotten quite skilled at decoding such noises over the years. "A bit bruised," he added after a moment, "but not more than to be expected, my dear boy."

Honoroit swallowed hard; Emmanellain had called him that since he'd barely come up to his waist, but it always sounded so different now--fascinatingly different, no matter how many times he heard it.

"You carried on so," Honoroit said, pulling away--and out, which drew another pitiful little whine from Emmanellain. He turned and (a bit gingerly, Honoroit noticed with satisfaction) sat down upon the grass, back to the old fallen tree, and beckoned Honoroit to join him after a moment to catch his breath. Honoroit did so gratefully, finding his usual place nestled between the older man's knees with his head resting upon the hollow of his collarbone. Their rush of activity ended, the nearly spring-like chill had begun to creep in again (Honoroit would not let himself say "spring," not even now, for fear of ruining the world's good luck); huddling close together had quickly become the more comfortable option. "I thought for a moment I might have--"

"Actually hurt me? It's just that you make such a convincing robber. For a moment there, I thought perhaps you really were going to whisk me away for ransom or something of the sort. Have you ever considered the stage?"

"Not particularly, though banditry has crossed my mind a time or two."

"Well then," Emmanellain mused, leaning his head back against the fallen tree and looking up at the sky thoughtfully. "I suppose we ought to all thank the Fury you never took up the sword and went on the road. I feel certain no merchant would ever cross the Coerthas border with a full purse if you were out there demanding they stand and deliver. Limsa Lominsa in the south is run by pirates, you know. I think you could have become their king."

"I'm flattered" Honoroit said, briefly pausing to ponder Emmanellain's vignette of him as a bandit king. His master was certainly envisioning a storybook kind of villainy, a character who would not be out of place in their little woodland pantomime. Honoroit, however, was more of a realist. "But I shudder to contemplate the amount of throats I should have to slit to achieve such a position. If I ever had such a capacity for ruthlessness, my lord has long since dulled the edge."

"Dulled edge? We were only just discussing how convincing a bandit you made, were we not?"

"Then I invite you to imagine," Honoroit said, "what I might have been like had I never met you." He turned in Emmanellain's arms, still draped loosely around his shoulders, until they were facing each other again. When Honoroit went up on his knees like this, he could see eye to eye with Emmanellain sitting; it had not been so very long ago that he would have been obliged to stand in order to not look upwards at his master from the ground, even like this. In some moments Honoroit missed being small enough to be gathered in Emmanellain's arms like a beloved pet, but other times he could scarcely wait for the moment he would tower over his master, even by a few scant ilm. Emmanellain had always been on the small side, which he had tried over the years to compensate for with heels, so Honoroit fully expected to end up taller. He could vividly imagine Emmanellain's exaggerated despair when he first realized the worst had come to pass, to be followed by sentimental delight at how much he had grown, and perhaps a streak of salacious excitement.

Honoroit, still in his waistcoat and hose after all that, fished a silk handkerchief out of a pocket with one hand and raised it to Emmanellain's cheek, where the rough wood of the fallen tree had left a streak of grime and a patch of rubbed-raw skin that stopped just short of drawing blood—thankfully, as Honoroit had been compelled to deploy his best excuse just the other week to explain a bruise upon the hollow of Emmanellain's neck from where he'd bitten a touch too hard for discretion. If he needed to explain away actual blood he wanted to have a little more time. It never failed to twist his heart, make him feel dizzy with affection, the way Emmanellain trusted Honoroit to hurt him and never seemed to suspect there might be cruelty or malice behind it.

Emmanellain shuddered theatrically, never serious for more than a moment or two at once. "I am imagining it, dear boy. Do you really think," he said, hand coming up to rest over Honoroit's at his cheek, warm and gentle, "you would have been so terribly cruel?"

"Perhaps," Honoroit murmured. "Perhaps not. But it was my lord's kindness that first showed me the world could be anything other than wicked, that there was perhaps something else one might do besides lash back at it. And I do not particularly fancy ever finding out what might have been without that."

"Mmm. Nor I what might have been without you. Still that same devil-may-care fop, I suppose."

"You are still a devil-may-care fop."

"Ah, but one with an assistant of such surpassing brilliance and cleverness that it compensates for what few shortcomings I possess. And besides, you're plenty ruthless. You were arguing with some baronet or something just the other day in Artoirel's office over his proposed policy reform, or whatever it is. I swear the fellow was nearly in tears when he left."

Honoroit could not help but smile at this. The baronet -- it had indeed been a baronet, Emmanellain had gotten at least that much correct -- had deserved it. Bloody orthodox holdouts.

"I don't think bandits typically limit themselves to debate." Having successfully made Emmanellain look a touch more presentable, Honoroit sat back down with his head against his master’s shoulder, curled back into the crook of his arm.

"Typically, no. I hear they do, upon occasion, target scions of nobility for more nefarious purposes, however. You'd be practically obligated to throw me over your saddlehorn and whisk me back to your smuggler's palace, where I suppose I would be compelled to serve your every whim for the rest of my days."

"Well, perhaps if you are assiduous in attending to your actual duties," Honoroit mused, "we might yet find a string of idle days where you might not be missed if you were tragically abducted from the road."

He laughed lightly. "Is that a promise?" Honoroit couldn't exactly see Emmanellain's exact reaction from his current position leaning against his shoulder, but he could sense the very slight movement and hear the slight sigh, so the feel of Emmanellain burying his face in the back of Honoroit's head, like a kiss combined with the kind of reaction a child might have to an especially fluffy blanket or unusually docile cat. Emmanellain’s breath tickled his scalp, and he spoke quietly but the vibration of his voice felt like it was trembling right into Honoroit’s ears.

"I'm trying to threaten you," Honoroit replied, glancing upward. His master had a look of wry amusement on his face, but Honoroit had spent enough time in Emmanellain's company to see there was just a touch of wistfulness behind it. Ever emotional, the brief contemplation of a life without Honoroit had clearly cut deep. Foolish, sentimental creature -- and yet that had always been his greatest asset and his most endearing quality. The world had more than enough cruel and ruthless men. If Emmanellain had truly blunted his edge, he was glad of it. Emmanellain's gentle heart had been, for much of his life, largely a flaw, something for others to exploit and a weakness that meant the slings and arrows of life, launched deliberately or not, dealt more grievous wounds. Emmanellain's kindness towards Honoroit himself had drawn an enormous amount of cruel words from his peers -- at least until they saw he could be useful. And yet Emmanellain’s feelings had never wavered, and his optimism remained undimmed.

Someday, Honoroit hoped, the world would be such that Emmanellain would be less of a fool without having to change a thing.

Honoroit went up on his knees so that he and Emmanellain were now eye to eye, and the man tightened his embrace, his fingers sliding along the linen of Honoroit's shirt before pulling him close. "I am trembling in terror, truly," he said. "If I do not seem to be, it's only because I am a touch exhausted from your last round of marauding. I'll be properly intimidated if you give me a moment."

"Well, we ought to get back in any case. We can hardly lay here until nightfall."

"I mean...we certainly could--" Emmanellain began, but Honoroit stopped him with a frown. "No, no, you're right,“ Emmanellain said. ”I suppose it’s only going to get colder, and it'll be quite uncomfortable the moment either of us moves unless we get ourselves properly dressed."

Honoroit stood, hands on Emmanellain's elbows to help him to his feet. "Fetch your clothes, then," he said. "Having you ride half-naked back to Camp Dragonhead isn't nearly as lovely an idea as it sounds."

Emmanellain raised an eyebrow lasciviously at this but did as he was told. Honoroit had left everything neatly draped across a handy tree branch, out of the grime and ready to be collected, so he took the opportunity to quit the clearing for a moment to fetch their chocobo.

Honoroit found Emmanellain still fumbling with the buckles of his boots when he returned. With a gesture, he directed his master to sit himself upon the fallen tree he'd so recently been flung over while Honoroit knelt to tighten the fastenings -- an action he didn't begrudge. Perhaps an outside observer might have felt it a show of subservience, but it had never been so for the two of them. For one, Emmanellain had scarcely ever demanded that Honoroit do anything at all, despite his ostensible employment, and for another Honoroit enjoyed the quiet tyranny he held over Emmanellain's appearance, secure in the knowledge he could leave his master to fix his own boots or comb his own hair should he lose the desire for it.

"Well," Honoroit said, tugging the leather strap tight and brushing a speck of dirt off the ankle of Emmanellain's boot. "I suppose we could stay out a touch longer after all."

"Couldn't resist?" Emmanellain kicked his feet back and forth like a child, and Honoroit rose to find himself between his master's knees again.

"Not exactly," Honoroit replied, tucking a lock of hair behind Emmanellain's still bright red ear. "It seems that when ordered to tether your bird, you were a touch too hasty about it. I'm afraid she's wandered off."

Emmanellain adopted a look of contrition, and Honoroit could just tell that he was about to launch into an excuse so aggravating, so foolish, so unnecessary that he was all but compelled to lean up and give his master some better task with which to occupy his tongue.