Final Fantasy XII (Drace/Gabranth)
Title: Helmed Visage
Author:
puella_nerdii
Rating: Hard R
Wordcount: 2,314
Warnings: semi-explicit m/f, blindfolding, possible spoilers through meeting the Great-Chief in Jahara
Prompt: Blindfolds -- "trust is not an easy thing"
Notes: I--I need to bake cookies or something from everyone I've been horribly late for this round. Agh.
He has seen Drace remove her helm only twice.
On the first occasion, they are dispatched to Balfonheim to track a shipment of magicite skimmed from the duty Bhujerba pays to the Empire in exchange for her freedom. That they have reneged on this agreement sits ill with the Judges Magister and with Drace in particular, who he hears has long muttered about the canny nature of Ondore and his people. "To be so reliant on the riches of another nation is not a practice I can endorse," she says, "and it is a practice I disapprove of most heartily when the leader of the nation in question is renowned for his skills at obfuscation."
Gabranth thinks her caution wise, but as he is only Judge, not yet elevated to Magister (though Gramis implies that such an advancement may be in his future, should his service remain true), he says nothing before Zecht, who inquires if Drace prefers Henne's rapidly dwindling veins of magicite.
The shipment has been tagged with the Imperial sigil, so tracking it is not difficult. Gabranth finds that he enjoys the work; he scans his finger down the exhaustive sales receipts given to him and discovers the links tying one transaction to another, deciphers the arcane rubrics behind the columns of data. He does not know how long it takes him to find the fingerprints in the records he seeks, but once he teases them out, he traces them to a merchant named Matthias Cateson, who keeps a small stall near the Whitecap. When Gabranth sees his personal papers, he sees that Cateson has purchased the Stones from a Bhujerban hume calling himself Steelfang. Drace relays this information to Ghis, who has docked in Bhujerba, and picks up another dispatch in the process. "An Archadian passenger ship was beset by Charybterixes as it flew over the Cerobi Steppe," she tells him. "Or so their last dispatch claims. It was made in the vicinity of the Freddik River."
"And we are to check for survivors? They would send us on a rescue mission?"
"They would when one of the passengers was Senator Gregoroth's eldest son," Drace replies, her tone sharp. "Why? Would rescue work be beneath you otherwise?"
"No," he hastens to assure her, "but I was given to understand that such duties were not normally given to Judges, and never to those who have achieved the rank of Magister."
"They are not," she says. "But this situation is not normal. It is convenient that a flock of them should beset a ship bearing such important passengers, given that Charybterixes are solitary creatures by nature."
"Then you suspect -- "
"Nothing, at the moment. But it bears investigation."
He agrees. The Behemoth--an odd name for a ship only slightly larger than a cruiser, but Gabranth supposes it is a rare flash of Drace's humor manifesting itself--docks at the valley called Journey's Rest. He is secretly relieved when the Behemoth docks, for the shifting currents of air buffeted the ship so fiercely that the constant sideways motion gave him a headache. From there, Freddik River is a relatively short trek. He and Drace are well-equipped to handle the occasional packs of Bandercouerls, though they give the Shield Wyrms a wide berth.
The passenger ship Sprinter is a mangled hulk of twisted metal and cracked skystone; the energies leaking from its fissures sear the insides of Gabranth's nose and prickle at the back of his neck. He steps carefully over a small arm charred and twisted by flames, picks his way through shards of glass and congealed pools of blood.
"Part of the controls are intact," Drace calls. He abandons the sight of a glassy-eyed young woman whose legs have been severed at the knees by a fallen beam and joins her at the fused lump of iron that must once have served as the captain's cabin. She removes her gauntlet, leaving only the leather on to shield her hand before plunging her fingers into the shattered window beneath the wheel. When she withdraws the clump of wires, her face is grim. She removes her helm and sets it atop an overturned seat. He stares at her briefly; Gabranth knows Drace is a woman, of course, but it is rare he is reminded of it so forcefully. The slant of her cheekbones and set of her jaw give her face a noble bearing. Her hair looks softer than he expected it to be, and is shot through with thin lines of silver.
"These wires have been cut," she informs him. "See how neat their ends are?"
He bends closer, but the eyeslits in his helm block the better part of his vision. That must be why Drace removed hers; he does likewise, tucking his helm beneath his arm. It is as she said--the wires are severed too cleanly for the cuts to be anything but sabotage. "This was deliberate," he breathes.
The lines around her eyes draw taut as she gives a curt nod. "We will make our report to that effect."
***
When he sees her thus for the second time, it is a cool evening in Archades. The winds have abated for the evening; the night air is clear and the stars bright. In Landis, such nights went by the name of sweetheart's moon, and indeed the moon is high in the sky, shedding her benevolent glow over the drowsy streets.
Gabranth does not realize that the woman resting on the balustrade ringing Tsenoble is Drace until the bright discharge from a passing cab illuminates her features. "Judge Magister?" he calls, his voice betraying his surprise.
"Not tonight," she says, a small grin twisting up the corner of her mouth. "I am off-duty--or as free of my duties as I ever can be, I suppose. It appears you have also been released."
He nods. "There is a fete at the Imperial Palace tonight. Judge Islen offered to stand sentry at the entrance in my place."
"You do not favor such gatherings? I imagine the women of Archades would take pleasure in your company--or the men, if your desires lie thus," she adds.
"Both would show me favor only so long as I kept my helm in place." He gestures to his blond hair and blue eyes, marks of a Landiser if ever there were such. "Once they saw my coloration, they would not take so kindly to a foreigner, I think."
"Or they would find you all the more exotic."
"Why do you not attend?" he asks. "Most of the Judges Magister are there, I think."
"Most are," she agrees. "Save myself and perhaps Zargabaath. Emperor Gramis and Zecht may have successfully dragged him from his library."
"Yet you are not," he points out, though he feels slightly foolish for doing so--were she at the fete, she could not be talking to him now.
"I find them dull," Drace says. "The constant tittering at empty witticisms makes my ears ring after too long."
"You prefer Tsenoble, then?"
"I prefer the open air," she replies. "Tsenoble is less stifling than the Imperial Palace. And the air here does not reek of perfumes and expensive soaps."
"Undoubtedly," he agrees. The air of Tsenoble is too clogged with the discharge of skystone to be called clean, but it at least flows. It has currents. It has patterns of movement, unlike the still, stale air resting in the chambers of the Palace. "You are not chastised for missing these events?"
"The reprimands are only words, and whispered ones at that. I am used to such gossip." She shrugs slightly, drawing her wrap around her muscled shoulders. "It is the way of Archades, after all. And for those whose manner of life draws more attention for its seeming oddity, it is doubly so."
Gabranth rests his palms on the balustrade; it is slightly slick from the morning's rain. "Such a clime proves difficult to navigate."
"Less so for you. You have some skill at deception, do you not? Judge Magister Tarsus speaks highly of your work in the ninth bureau."
"My work is easier when I am helmed," he admits.
"Because others cannot see your face, or because it is more difficult for you to make out the features of others through that visor?" She taps the area around her eyes. He swallows hard, the muscles of his throat convulsing. The sharpness of Drace's tongue is widely renowned; she wields it as others might wield a blade.
"Both," he says. "But a talent for secrecy lends itself poorly to joining in the laughter at a fete."
"True," she says. "Though perhaps you can pretend that the jokes are more amusing than they truly are."
"Such skill is beyond even my abilities." He tries for a small smile and finds the gesture returned.
"I imagine you will acquire them, in time. I have never been able to. Perhaps I should have turned my mind to the task." She gazes down at the twinkling lights of Nilbasse, the crowds darting from shop front to shop front as their voices swell in an almost musical tide.
In contrast, he elects to direct his gaze to the stars once more. "I thought I might go to the theater in Trant. Islen speaks highly of the lead actress in The Captain's Peril." Gabranth steels himself not to falter during the next part. "If you would consent to accompany me, I feel the evening would be much improved."
"Do you seek to flatter me?" A curious light shines in her eyes.
"Only to report the truth," he says honestly.
Drace snorts. "And you say you've no talent for fine words. But it would be more diverting than the event we were instructed to attend, I am sure."
He inclines his head slightly. "I am honored."
"The information you received had best be true," she says as they walk to the cab station at the far end of Tsenoble. "Men often shower praise upon actresses with nothing more to recommend them than their looks."
"I trust Islen's report," Gabranth replies.
The sweetheart's moon dips lower in the sky, falling behind one of Tsenoble's tall spires.
***
The third time is the one he remembers best.
He would ask Drace if she was sure of this, but the glint in her eyes is as hard as the armor she has cast aside, and her resolve is nearly palpable. It is unusual to see her clad only in breeches and a linen shirt, but the garments only draw attention to the fact that she is a woman; they pull gently over her curves to reveal the contours of her body. He imagines how well such a shape would fit against his own and shivers.
Drace tugs at the collar of his shirt and kisses him, and the press of her lips on his drives all other concerns from his mind, for her kiss is unyielding and fierce, the claim of a warrior. Note me, and note only me, her teeth seem to say when they nip his tongue. I am here, her tongue cries when it traces the shell of Gabranth's ear.
"Will you give me your trust?" she murmurs. Her lips vibrate against his skin.
"As much as trust can be given here--" he begins, but stops when her hand tightens its grip in his hair.
"A politician's answer, Gabranth. Will you give me your trust?"
What she asks is no easy thing, but he can think of no other answer than the one he must give. "Yes."
She draws him down to her bed, which is far from the barren pallet he has envisioned Drace sleeping on in the past. The coverlet is pleasantly slippery against his dampened skin. "Then close your eyes," she instructs him.
He obeys her. Woven fibers rasp against the skin around his eyes and slacken only slightly after the knot pressing at the back of his head is completed. His breath catches; if he cannot see her, she might--
No, he chastises himself. He will not think so. He has given her his trust. Little as his word might mean these days, he would like to think it counts for something here in her chambers.
Drace leaves his shirt in place, for he still feels the linen stick to his skin , but her hands press against the fastenings of his trousers. He rests on his elbows and lifts his hips from the bed to aid her in her task. "The top button is well-concealed," he tells her.
"I found it." Her --her thumbs, they must be her thumbs--their knuckle presses against his hipbones as the fabric of his trousers ceases to constrict first his pelvis, then his thighs, then his calves, and then something warm teases the length of his inner thigh; it must be her tongue, this is Drace and she chooses to place her mouth so close to--such a place. At that thought, a twitch jerks through his hips.
Warmth closes around him, warmth and suction and wetness, teasing his length with the faintest scrape of hard ridges. Teeth. Oh, gods. Thicker and tougher skin (the calluses lining her finger pads, perhaps) rubs at his balls, drawing firm circles across the skin, motion enough to pierce the darkness enfolding his eyes with flashes of light. The suction mounts as she takes more of him in; he glides in as far as she will let him, trembling with each tentative stroke.
And her nails bite into his shoulders as the pressure around him lifts, replaced with--with her, tight and sweet. He groans and moves his hips in concert with hers. Drace sets their pace and sets it well, until the friction becomes too searing to bear. At the moment of his climax, he imagines that he sees her straddled atop him, the silvered strands in her hair plastered to her neck, and the image pushes him to the edge.
She ceases her own motion shortly afterwards and loosens his blindfold. He opens his eyes to the sight of Drace, sated and breathing hard, her lips still parted and flushed from their exertions.
"I cannot hide from you," he says, and seals the words with a kiss to make them true.
Author:
puella_nerdii
Rating: Hard R
Wordcount: 2,314
Warnings: semi-explicit m/f, blindfolding, possible spoilers through meeting the Great-Chief in Jahara
Prompt: Blindfolds -- "trust is not an easy thing"
Notes: I--I need to bake cookies or something from everyone I've been horribly late for this round. Agh.
He has seen Drace remove her helm only twice.
On the first occasion, they are dispatched to Balfonheim to track a shipment of magicite skimmed from the duty Bhujerba pays to the Empire in exchange for her freedom. That they have reneged on this agreement sits ill with the Judges Magister and with Drace in particular, who he hears has long muttered about the canny nature of Ondore and his people. "To be so reliant on the riches of another nation is not a practice I can endorse," she says, "and it is a practice I disapprove of most heartily when the leader of the nation in question is renowned for his skills at obfuscation."
Gabranth thinks her caution wise, but as he is only Judge, not yet elevated to Magister (though Gramis implies that such an advancement may be in his future, should his service remain true), he says nothing before Zecht, who inquires if Drace prefers Henne's rapidly dwindling veins of magicite.
The shipment has been tagged with the Imperial sigil, so tracking it is not difficult. Gabranth finds that he enjoys the work; he scans his finger down the exhaustive sales receipts given to him and discovers the links tying one transaction to another, deciphers the arcane rubrics behind the columns of data. He does not know how long it takes him to find the fingerprints in the records he seeks, but once he teases them out, he traces them to a merchant named Matthias Cateson, who keeps a small stall near the Whitecap. When Gabranth sees his personal papers, he sees that Cateson has purchased the Stones from a Bhujerban hume calling himself Steelfang. Drace relays this information to Ghis, who has docked in Bhujerba, and picks up another dispatch in the process. "An Archadian passenger ship was beset by Charybterixes as it flew over the Cerobi Steppe," she tells him. "Or so their last dispatch claims. It was made in the vicinity of the Freddik River."
"And we are to check for survivors? They would send us on a rescue mission?"
"They would when one of the passengers was Senator Gregoroth's eldest son," Drace replies, her tone sharp. "Why? Would rescue work be beneath you otherwise?"
"No," he hastens to assure her, "but I was given to understand that such duties were not normally given to Judges, and never to those who have achieved the rank of Magister."
"They are not," she says. "But this situation is not normal. It is convenient that a flock of them should beset a ship bearing such important passengers, given that Charybterixes are solitary creatures by nature."
"Then you suspect -- "
"Nothing, at the moment. But it bears investigation."
He agrees. The Behemoth--an odd name for a ship only slightly larger than a cruiser, but Gabranth supposes it is a rare flash of Drace's humor manifesting itself--docks at the valley called Journey's Rest. He is secretly relieved when the Behemoth docks, for the shifting currents of air buffeted the ship so fiercely that the constant sideways motion gave him a headache. From there, Freddik River is a relatively short trek. He and Drace are well-equipped to handle the occasional packs of Bandercouerls, though they give the Shield Wyrms a wide berth.
The passenger ship Sprinter is a mangled hulk of twisted metal and cracked skystone; the energies leaking from its fissures sear the insides of Gabranth's nose and prickle at the back of his neck. He steps carefully over a small arm charred and twisted by flames, picks his way through shards of glass and congealed pools of blood.
"Part of the controls are intact," Drace calls. He abandons the sight of a glassy-eyed young woman whose legs have been severed at the knees by a fallen beam and joins her at the fused lump of iron that must once have served as the captain's cabin. She removes her gauntlet, leaving only the leather on to shield her hand before plunging her fingers into the shattered window beneath the wheel. When she withdraws the clump of wires, her face is grim. She removes her helm and sets it atop an overturned seat. He stares at her briefly; Gabranth knows Drace is a woman, of course, but it is rare he is reminded of it so forcefully. The slant of her cheekbones and set of her jaw give her face a noble bearing. Her hair looks softer than he expected it to be, and is shot through with thin lines of silver.
"These wires have been cut," she informs him. "See how neat their ends are?"
He bends closer, but the eyeslits in his helm block the better part of his vision. That must be why Drace removed hers; he does likewise, tucking his helm beneath his arm. It is as she said--the wires are severed too cleanly for the cuts to be anything but sabotage. "This was deliberate," he breathes.
The lines around her eyes draw taut as she gives a curt nod. "We will make our report to that effect."
***
When he sees her thus for the second time, it is a cool evening in Archades. The winds have abated for the evening; the night air is clear and the stars bright. In Landis, such nights went by the name of sweetheart's moon, and indeed the moon is high in the sky, shedding her benevolent glow over the drowsy streets.
Gabranth does not realize that the woman resting on the balustrade ringing Tsenoble is Drace until the bright discharge from a passing cab illuminates her features. "Judge Magister?" he calls, his voice betraying his surprise.
"Not tonight," she says, a small grin twisting up the corner of her mouth. "I am off-duty--or as free of my duties as I ever can be, I suppose. It appears you have also been released."
He nods. "There is a fete at the Imperial Palace tonight. Judge Islen offered to stand sentry at the entrance in my place."
"You do not favor such gatherings? I imagine the women of Archades would take pleasure in your company--or the men, if your desires lie thus," she adds.
"Both would show me favor only so long as I kept my helm in place." He gestures to his blond hair and blue eyes, marks of a Landiser if ever there were such. "Once they saw my coloration, they would not take so kindly to a foreigner, I think."
"Or they would find you all the more exotic."
"Why do you not attend?" he asks. "Most of the Judges Magister are there, I think."
"Most are," she agrees. "Save myself and perhaps Zargabaath. Emperor Gramis and Zecht may have successfully dragged him from his library."
"Yet you are not," he points out, though he feels slightly foolish for doing so--were she at the fete, she could not be talking to him now.
"I find them dull," Drace says. "The constant tittering at empty witticisms makes my ears ring after too long."
"You prefer Tsenoble, then?"
"I prefer the open air," she replies. "Tsenoble is less stifling than the Imperial Palace. And the air here does not reek of perfumes and expensive soaps."
"Undoubtedly," he agrees. The air of Tsenoble is too clogged with the discharge of skystone to be called clean, but it at least flows. It has currents. It has patterns of movement, unlike the still, stale air resting in the chambers of the Palace. "You are not chastised for missing these events?"
"The reprimands are only words, and whispered ones at that. I am used to such gossip." She shrugs slightly, drawing her wrap around her muscled shoulders. "It is the way of Archades, after all. And for those whose manner of life draws more attention for its seeming oddity, it is doubly so."
Gabranth rests his palms on the balustrade; it is slightly slick from the morning's rain. "Such a clime proves difficult to navigate."
"Less so for you. You have some skill at deception, do you not? Judge Magister Tarsus speaks highly of your work in the ninth bureau."
"My work is easier when I am helmed," he admits.
"Because others cannot see your face, or because it is more difficult for you to make out the features of others through that visor?" She taps the area around her eyes. He swallows hard, the muscles of his throat convulsing. The sharpness of Drace's tongue is widely renowned; she wields it as others might wield a blade.
"Both," he says. "But a talent for secrecy lends itself poorly to joining in the laughter at a fete."
"True," she says. "Though perhaps you can pretend that the jokes are more amusing than they truly are."
"Such skill is beyond even my abilities." He tries for a small smile and finds the gesture returned.
"I imagine you will acquire them, in time. I have never been able to. Perhaps I should have turned my mind to the task." She gazes down at the twinkling lights of Nilbasse, the crowds darting from shop front to shop front as their voices swell in an almost musical tide.
In contrast, he elects to direct his gaze to the stars once more. "I thought I might go to the theater in Trant. Islen speaks highly of the lead actress in The Captain's Peril." Gabranth steels himself not to falter during the next part. "If you would consent to accompany me, I feel the evening would be much improved."
"Do you seek to flatter me?" A curious light shines in her eyes.
"Only to report the truth," he says honestly.
Drace snorts. "And you say you've no talent for fine words. But it would be more diverting than the event we were instructed to attend, I am sure."
He inclines his head slightly. "I am honored."
"The information you received had best be true," she says as they walk to the cab station at the far end of Tsenoble. "Men often shower praise upon actresses with nothing more to recommend them than their looks."
"I trust Islen's report," Gabranth replies.
The sweetheart's moon dips lower in the sky, falling behind one of Tsenoble's tall spires.
***
The third time is the one he remembers best.
He would ask Drace if she was sure of this, but the glint in her eyes is as hard as the armor she has cast aside, and her resolve is nearly palpable. It is unusual to see her clad only in breeches and a linen shirt, but the garments only draw attention to the fact that she is a woman; they pull gently over her curves to reveal the contours of her body. He imagines how well such a shape would fit against his own and shivers.
Drace tugs at the collar of his shirt and kisses him, and the press of her lips on his drives all other concerns from his mind, for her kiss is unyielding and fierce, the claim of a warrior. Note me, and note only me, her teeth seem to say when they nip his tongue. I am here, her tongue cries when it traces the shell of Gabranth's ear.
"Will you give me your trust?" she murmurs. Her lips vibrate against his skin.
"As much as trust can be given here--" he begins, but stops when her hand tightens its grip in his hair.
"A politician's answer, Gabranth. Will you give me your trust?"
What she asks is no easy thing, but he can think of no other answer than the one he must give. "Yes."
She draws him down to her bed, which is far from the barren pallet he has envisioned Drace sleeping on in the past. The coverlet is pleasantly slippery against his dampened skin. "Then close your eyes," she instructs him.
He obeys her. Woven fibers rasp against the skin around his eyes and slacken only slightly after the knot pressing at the back of his head is completed. His breath catches; if he cannot see her, she might--
No, he chastises himself. He will not think so. He has given her his trust. Little as his word might mean these days, he would like to think it counts for something here in her chambers.
Drace leaves his shirt in place, for he still feels the linen stick to his skin , but her hands press against the fastenings of his trousers. He rests on his elbows and lifts his hips from the bed to aid her in her task. "The top button is well-concealed," he tells her.
"I found it." Her --her thumbs, they must be her thumbs--their knuckle presses against his hipbones as the fabric of his trousers ceases to constrict first his pelvis, then his thighs, then his calves, and then something warm teases the length of his inner thigh; it must be her tongue, this is Drace and she chooses to place her mouth so close to--such a place. At that thought, a twitch jerks through his hips.
Warmth closes around him, warmth and suction and wetness, teasing his length with the faintest scrape of hard ridges. Teeth. Oh, gods. Thicker and tougher skin (the calluses lining her finger pads, perhaps) rubs at his balls, drawing firm circles across the skin, motion enough to pierce the darkness enfolding his eyes with flashes of light. The suction mounts as she takes more of him in; he glides in as far as she will let him, trembling with each tentative stroke.
And her nails bite into his shoulders as the pressure around him lifts, replaced with--with her, tight and sweet. He groans and moves his hips in concert with hers. Drace sets their pace and sets it well, until the friction becomes too searing to bear. At the moment of his climax, he imagines that he sees her straddled atop him, the silvered strands in her hair plastered to her neck, and the image pushes him to the edge.
She ceases her own motion shortly afterwards and loosens his blindfold. He opens his eyes to the sight of Drace, sated and breathing hard, her lips still parted and flushed from their exertions.
"I cannot hide from you," he says, and seals the words with a kiss to make them true.