"Do not mistake my will to live as craven," Gaius says, muscles slowly tensing under Estinien's hands. "It is not a desire to return home or to return to comfort that drives me. I asked him only time enough to hunt Ascians to extinction to free my people. After that, my life was his. I care not what he does with it."
Will to live? No. Will to hunt the beings that have driven his country for a century, creating a war machine that he found himself a cog in all for an alien's pleasure? That is the thing.
"I will take all of their tools, one by one, and I will see Garlemald freed. My mask hangs among theirs, another tool removed from their use. I will take the rest, by my own hand, should not your Warrior friend catch the rest. Every pawn down brings us closer to -- that thing, that Emet-Selch who puppets them."
Well, this sounds VERY familiar. Estinien chuckles, despite the dark topic,
as his palms press and spread across the small of Gaius's back. "I imagine
you find a strange comfort in that. To know you will not need to live in
the world you will create, but that your work will eventually consume you.
It is easier that way, no?"
"The world I have created is full of grief and strife, and all for naught. Just a petty game by a monster, with man's lives as the chits he bets," Gaius said, voice as soft and steady as it always is. The tightness in his muscles betray him, but he tries to force them relax -- only so successful. "I have furthered their goals, conquered nations, betrayed my country twice over to stop them, if once unknowingly. My life is forfeit; Garlemald will hang me if I am fortunate. Eorzea's claim in my head is known. Ala Mhigo will bury me up to my neck in the sand and leave me to slowly desiccate if they claim their right to justice. At least Valdeaulin gives me the time to see this last thing done before I die."
The flickering of firelight reminds him of the Praetorium, burning bright and fast, scores upon scores of men dead in the ruins. Livia, who he called his own, dead. Rhitatyn, slain at his Castrum. Nero fled, ever self-centered. There is nothing left but the hunt now.
"If I succeed, I will count my debts to the future paid, and die at peace."
The movement of his hands is an excuse now - an excuse to stay close, to
keep talking. To keep Gaius talking. Estinien's guilt is not quite as
Gaius's guilt - no, he is not fool enough to believe that the crimes of the
church are solely his fault. He was lied to, and acted accordingly. That
does not mean he is blameless but Gaius had eyes to see and still took the
wrong path. The weight of his sin is greater, even if Estinien's failings
are more deeply personal. (His family. His sworn brothers. His country's
legacy.)
"And should Valdeaulin refuse to grant you that peace, when your hunt
ends?" he asks, hands sliding back up to Gaius's shoulders.
"I am sure there will be no small number of nations that will take me to my end," Gaius says, unruffled. The hypotheticals are just that. "But Valdeaulin has never showed me kindness, and his grief runs deep. I am not fool enough to think it will assuage his pain, but he is."
Muscles start to relax under Estinien's hands; the tension of it is melting away, and Gaius is losing himself in the touch. He cannot bring himself to feel wretched about his lot; he saw his path, he walked it, and now that he has reached the chasm between him and the future, he will walk it until he falls. There is a certain peace in knowing that there will be an end to it all, and that his death will not be meaningless.
Estinien's barely focusing on the movements of his hands now. They're sliding up and down in a slow rhythm, his mind somewhere far distant. "Perhaps, at the end of all this, he may see your death as a mercy to deny you."
As Nidhogg had denied him death's mercy, choosing to instead turn him into a tool of vengeance - and ironically, of his own children's salvation. Estinien at least takes his joys in how much the great wyrm would hate what has become of both their people now.
"Then someone willing to take it will push him aside," Gaius says, eyes closing now, letting himself be grounded in a body that betrays him at every step. Whether it's pain or pleasure, Gaius is a slave to it. "It doesn't matter. So long as the work is done. That is the thing. My life was forfeit as soon as the Praetorium burned."
There is no joy in what Garlemald has become. A nation raped and ravished by the predatory desires of a ancient inhuman madman; nearly a century of manipulation to come to this war machine. There will be joy when her enemies are dead. Gaius will not be there to drink deep the draught of victory, because he will be counted among her betrayers.
When Estinien's hand slides up, Gaius lifts his to cover it over one shoulder, before he says, "You don't have to do this. I will give you what you wish; you don't need to try to concern yourself with my plight."
Estinien's hands are immediately yanked back, as if the man himself has grown white-hot. "Did you think I came here to seduce you?" he hisses, all the more angry for the fact that it's...not...quite...incorrect. The sympathy wasn't part of it, but.
"I am not some courtly noble trading false platitudes for favors, you absolute ingrate." He finds his hand halfway to his lance just at the thought of it. Damnit, he'd been trying to help.
"Seduce? Not hardly," Gaius huffs a soft laugh, a rare enough sound. "You do not have it in you yet, dragoon. But you do not... you do not need to..."
Care is the word, but the very implication is that Estinien could at all, and that is folly. He cannot. So instead he just begins to re-wrap his arms, starting on the shoulders that Estinien no longer touches.
"Do not think that you need to do anything but ask for what you want. We are comrades in arms, soldiers in the same field. This last as long as it pleases you."
"I asked for it straightforward enough the first time, if I had a mind to I could do it a second time." Thank god the darkness hides the flush of his face. "I merely wished to help tend to what you could not. And to talk, man to man. Is that also forbidden in Garlemald?"
He hates being caught caring. It hurts every time.
Gaius' eyes are pale as sun-yellowed glass, reflecting the warmth of the firelight. He simply watches, for a moment, as Estinien struggles with his feelings. The man's more tender hearted than he realized; the bristling armor protects a kind soul.
"No," he says after the searching look. He returns to his bandaging. "I apologize, I mistook your aid for something else. The fault is mine."
"I should say so!" His skin is sizzling, and the only thing keeping him from stalking back out into the night again is the thought that if he does so he won't get any more of that skin against his skin. "Does every act of comradeship come with a hidden cost, to you? Ishgard was cold but by god we at least had some solidarity!"
He won't call it kindness. He'll call it anything but kindness, because he knows how that word is poison to men like them.
Yes, he wants to say. Yes, everything has a cost. Every one is a would-be conqueror in Garlemald, including of their own people. He stepped over the White Raven's corpse to continue onward into Eorzea without a second thought. He fed information to the warriors who fought at Carteneau because they were useful, and it was a way to mitigate the worst of his nation's excesses and save lives at the same time. He is not a man that wastes lives needlessly like some of his fellows who will gladly throw the lowborn into the same meatgrinder as they do the slave class or the oppressed of the provinces.
Estinien doesn't know any of that. Has no idea. Will never know, because Garlemald that exists now is falling from the mountain of bodies they built their empire on from Ilsabard to Othard to Ala Mhigo.
But all of that has a price, whether it is in Gaius' own dubious morality or something else. But he was a well-loved Legatus for good reason: he would quicker pay that coin with his own blood then that of his men.
The man's calm, the note of sadness in his voice, chills
Estinien's embarrassment-fueled ire. "Well, good," he says huffily,
settling himself down again, The lance stays by his side, still, within
fingers-width of him as it always is. All men cling to their weapons in
times of war but Estinien's attachment at times resembles that of a child
with a comfort toy rather than a soldier with his instrument. The lance is
more than a weapon to him.
"I would have no trouble offering such comfort again, whatever that damn
mage says, but not in trade," he grumbles, staring into the embers before
them. "I know there are places for such matters. I have no interest in
them."
(His eyes reflect the firelight more than those of an Elezen should. The
way a beast's eyes would gleam in the night. If he is aware, he has not
spoken of it.)
It is with a measured slowness--telegraphing as not to spook the wild thing that exists in this elezen's body, that Gaius reaches up to card the bared fingers of his unwrapped right hand though Estinien's pale hair.
"No trade," he agrees. The heat under his skin is unbearable now -- he just wants this man on his back, around him, clinging to him as they both take shelter from the storm together. It's a damned foolish thought, but Gaius indulges it for half a second anyway. "Just -- whatever we have, for as long as we have it. The same rules as before-- if it pleases you, we can do it again. If it doesn't, you must tell me. Is that alright by you, dragoon?"
Estinien slowly leans into his touch, the stray cat reluctantly letting
himself be befriended. "Mmm. If it pleases you, I'd like to try that trick
you tried last night. Now, before I'm too spent to enjoy it properly." He
doesn't entirely agree, nor disagree, with Gaius's proposal. It should be
enough to be obvious - if it was a thing that displeased him, he'd leave.
Gaius lets his bare hand sink in, remembering what hair felt like. His skin was frequently numbed in places, his hands often. But for the moment he hoped to just look into this naive young man's face and let himself see some beauty for a time.
A rustling from Valdeaulin's tent tells him that the other elezen is now rousing for his seat at the fire.
"Come, then," Gaius murmurs, coaxing him toward him with one hand -- letting his other to reach for the tie of his tent -- the better to let the flaps shut just after Gaius makes eye contact with the other man, letting him know exactly how far away from the fire he should sit if he doesn't want to hear the pair of them fuck.
Valdeaulin is THIS close from storming in and setting the entire tent on
fire. The part that makes it so, so much worse is that this is sort of his
fault.
Ask Estinien if he gives a fuck about Valdeaulin's emotional state right
now, because he's already shucking his pants and climbing into Gaius's lap.
The very idea that he'd have to walk back to his own tent alone has put him
on edge, made his arousal even keener. He wants this man. NEEDS him.
Gaius is already stripped to the waist, only one arm wrapped and the other feeling the world in a way it didn't before. His pants go the same way Estinien's do. As soon the Elezen has made his move, Gaius all but pulls him into his lap.
A moment later his hands are in Estinien's hair, gripping it, taking what scant control he can. "I see you have a taste for me, now. Flattering, dragoon. What trick do you want so badly again?"
"The--the one with the oil." The one where you put your dick in me and for some bizarre reason it feels incredible. That trick.
His hands, so steady a moment ago, don't seem to know where to lay. They run over his arms and can't hold still, nervous and skittering. He know that he wants, but not what to do about it.
"That's just sex, dragoon-- nothing special to that," Gaius says as he loops his arms around the young soldier and takes him to the bedroll easily; broad-chested and strong of arm, hefting Estinien isn't easy, but it's still doable. Just roll him right back and roll his hips, letting his cock slide against Estinien.
"I want your front this time," Gaius says, looking down at him in the dark; he sees more than most men do in the dark -- third eye bared, he is can still trace sharp edges and whipcord muscle. With Estinien beneath him he bites and sucks the other man's neck, before he nips the edge of a sensitive ear. "Want to see you."
Valdeaulin would cringe - hell, so would Estinien - at how fast the fickle cat turns to an eager dog, ready to obey any commands. His teeth grind as he tries to stay silent, soft whimpers escaping him as Gaius sucks across his neck. Fine, on his front, anything you please.
His hands rest upon the man's bare shoulders, still slightly tacky from the cream.
Yet, the eagerness thrills Gaius like nothing has in weeks. Let him be wanted and desired, to be more than a walking corpse on a mission. Let him feel alive tangled up with the dragoon that he certainly should not be fucking. Let his heart's blood pound in his ears, and his body thrum with it. Let him live!
Having to come up to get the reserves of his oil, Gaius drops back on his haunches to dip a hand down between them teasing muscle to get it to relax, gentle but insistent.
"Relax, and this will go more smoothly, Ser Wyrmblood, and you will get 'that trick' that much faster."
The man relaxes surprisingly easily - he knows what's coming this time, and knows it'll be good for him. Gaius would be lucky to have such a responsive soldier under him, though this one would not be nearly loyal enough for the Empire's tastes. A warrior, but not a soldier.
His hair twists about over his face as he lifts his hips up, trying to get more of that sweet friction, one hand already on his own cock.
"Slow, slow, Ser, or you'll end your fun too quickly," Gaius says, putting his other hand over Estinien's to slow his own touch. "I promise you, I will give you what you crave."
After all, Gaius' own dark cock is up and hot against his thigh -- it isn't as if this man doesn't want things as badly, crave Estinien as hungrily as the elezen desires him. He does. He just has more discipline about it; it is not so new to him, after all.
But it is wonderful to be able to give it to him, to feel him relax and eagerly accept, until he is spreading his fingers to open him up, making a small hum of pleasure at the body's obedience. "You take it so well," he murmurs in something like appreciation. "A blessing for both of us."
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loligiary2022-08-06 03:27 pm
no subject
Will to live? No. Will to hunt the beings that have driven his country for a century, creating a war machine that he found himself a cog in all for an alien's pleasure? That is the thing.
"I will take all of their tools, one by one, and I will see Garlemald freed. My mask hangs among theirs, another tool removed from their use. I will take the rest, by my own hand, should not your Warrior friend catch the rest. Every pawn down brings us closer to -- that thing, that Emet-Selch who puppets them."
no subject
Well, this sounds VERY familiar. Estinien chuckles, despite the dark topic, as his palms press and spread across the small of Gaius's back. "I imagine you find a strange comfort in that. To know you will not need to live in the world you will create, but that your work will eventually consume you. It is easier that way, no?"
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The flickering of firelight reminds him of the Praetorium, burning bright and fast, scores upon scores of men dead in the ruins. Livia, who he called his own, dead. Rhitatyn, slain at his Castrum. Nero fled, ever self-centered. There is nothing left but the hunt now.
"If I succeed, I will count my debts to the future paid, and die at peace."
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The movement of his hands is an excuse now - an excuse to stay close, to keep talking. To keep Gaius talking. Estinien's guilt is not quite as Gaius's guilt - no, he is not fool enough to believe that the crimes of the church are solely his fault. He was lied to, and acted accordingly. That does not mean he is blameless but Gaius had eyes to see and still took the wrong path. The weight of his sin is greater, even if Estinien's failings are more deeply personal. (His family. His sworn brothers. His country's legacy.)
"And should Valdeaulin refuse to grant you that peace, when your hunt ends?" he asks, hands sliding back up to Gaius's shoulders.
no subject
Muscles start to relax under Estinien's hands; the tension of it is melting away, and Gaius is losing himself in the touch. He cannot bring himself to feel wretched about his lot; he saw his path, he walked it, and now that he has reached the chasm between him and the future, he will walk it until he falls. There is a certain peace in knowing that there will be an end to it all, and that his death will not be meaningless.
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As Nidhogg had denied him death's mercy, choosing to instead turn him into a tool of vengeance - and ironically, of his own children's salvation. Estinien at least takes his joys in how much the great wyrm would hate what has become of both their people now.
no subject
There is no joy in what Garlemald has become. A nation raped and ravished by the predatory desires of a ancient inhuman madman; nearly a century of manipulation to come to this war machine. There will be joy when her enemies are dead. Gaius will not be there to drink deep the draught of victory, because he will be counted among her betrayers.
When Estinien's hand slides up, Gaius lifts his to cover it over one shoulder, before he says, "You don't have to do this. I will give you what you wish; you don't need to try to concern yourself with my plight."
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"I am not some courtly noble trading false platitudes for favors, you absolute ingrate." He finds his hand halfway to his lance just at the thought of it. Damnit, he'd been trying to help.
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Care is the word, but the very implication is that Estinien could at all, and that is folly. He cannot. So instead he just begins to re-wrap his arms, starting on the shoulders that Estinien no longer touches.
"Do not think that you need to do anything but ask for what you want. We are comrades in arms, soldiers in the same field. This last as long as it pleases you."
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He hates being caught caring. It hurts every time.
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"No," he says after the searching look. He returns to his bandaging. "I apologize, I mistook your aid for something else. The fault is mine."
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He won't call it kindness. He'll call it anything but kindness, because he knows how that word is poison to men like them.
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Estinien doesn't know any of that. Has no idea. Will never know, because Garlemald that exists now is falling from the mountain of bodies they built their empire on from Ilsabard to Othard to Ala Mhigo.
But all of that has a price, whether it is in Gaius' own dubious morality or something else. But he was a well-loved Legatus for good reason: he would quicker pay that coin with his own blood then that of his men.
"No," he says finally. "Not every one."
no subject
The man's calm, the note of sadness in his voice, chills Estinien's embarrassment-fueled ire. "Well, good," he says huffily, settling himself down again, The lance stays by his side, still, within fingers-width of him as it always is. All men cling to their weapons in times of war but Estinien's attachment at times resembles that of a child with a comfort toy rather than a soldier with his instrument. The lance is more than a weapon to him.
"I would have no trouble offering such comfort again, whatever that damn mage says, but not in trade," he grumbles, staring into the embers before them. "I know there are places for such matters. I have no interest in them."
(His eyes reflect the firelight more than those of an Elezen should. The way a beast's eyes would gleam in the night. If he is aware, he has not spoken of it.)
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"No trade," he agrees. The heat under his skin is unbearable now -- he just wants this man on his back, around him, clinging to him as they both take shelter from the storm together. It's a damned foolish thought, but Gaius indulges it for half a second anyway. "Just -- whatever we have, for as long as we have it. The same rules as before-- if it pleases you, we can do it again. If it doesn't, you must tell me. Is that alright by you, dragoon?"
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Estinien slowly leans into his touch, the stray cat reluctantly letting himself be befriended. "Mmm. If it pleases you, I'd like to try that trick you tried last night. Now, before I'm too spent to enjoy it properly." He doesn't entirely agree, nor disagree, with Gaius's proposal. It should be enough to be obvious - if it was a thing that displeased him, he'd leave.
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A rustling from Valdeaulin's tent tells him that the other elezen is now rousing for his seat at the fire.
"Come, then," Gaius murmurs, coaxing him toward him with one hand -- letting his other to reach for the tie of his tent -- the better to let the flaps shut just after Gaius makes eye contact with the other man, letting him know exactly how far away from the fire he should sit if he doesn't want to hear the pair of them fuck.
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Valdeaulin is THIS close from storming in and setting the entire tent on fire. The part that makes it so, so much worse is that this is sort of his fault.
Ask Estinien if he gives a fuck about Valdeaulin's emotional state right now, because he's already shucking his pants and climbing into Gaius's lap. The very idea that he'd have to walk back to his own tent alone has put him on edge, made his arousal even keener. He wants this man. NEEDS him.
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A moment later his hands are in Estinien's hair, gripping it, taking what scant control he can. "I see you have a taste for me, now. Flattering, dragoon. What trick do you want so badly again?"
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His hands, so steady a moment ago, don't seem to know where to lay. They run over his arms and can't hold still, nervous and skittering. He know that he wants, but not what to do about it.
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"I want your front this time," Gaius says, looking down at him in the dark; he sees more than most men do in the dark -- third eye bared, he is can still trace sharp edges and whipcord muscle. With Estinien beneath him he bites and sucks the other man's neck, before he nips the edge of a sensitive ear. "Want to see you."
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His hands rest upon the man's bare shoulders, still slightly tacky from the cream.
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Having to come up to get the reserves of his oil, Gaius drops back on his haunches to dip a hand down between them teasing muscle to get it to relax, gentle but insistent.
"Relax, and this will go more smoothly, Ser Wyrmblood, and you will get 'that trick' that much faster."
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His hair twists about over his face as he lifts his hips up, trying to get more of that sweet friction, one hand already on his own cock.
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After all, Gaius' own dark cock is up and hot against his thigh -- it isn't as if this man doesn't want things as badly, crave Estinien as hungrily as the elezen desires him. He does. He just has more discipline about it; it is not so new to him, after all.
But it is wonderful to be able to give it to him, to feel him relax and eagerly accept, until he is spreading his fingers to open him up, making a small hum of pleasure at the body's obedience. "You take it so well," he murmurs in something like appreciation. "A blessing for both of us."
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