travelerscurse | for whatsina

for whatsina_name

It's so strange, being back.

Ishgard hasn't changed in hundreds of years, strange to think it would have changed since he'd been here last, but then, everywhere else he'd been has changed just in the time he's been there. So it's strange to be walking streets he knows from his childhood but with eyes that are so different.

Beside him, Emmanelain chatters on about the different facets of city life. He had made sure Haurchefant knew to petition his former family with as much discretion as possible. They, of course, had simply said their son had died and they were certain some fugitive from Uldah couldn't be him anyway. He hadn't expected any differently. He feels like that person is dead and he breathes on as someone wholly different anyway, but it's strange, to be being shown around the place he grew up in by a member of one of the High Houses, someone his parents would have killed for him to be friends with just a few short years earlier, as though he were a stranger to this place.

He has always been a stranger to this place.

Dressed in Gridanian fashion and tanned lightly by the sun, he doesn't expect there's anyone here who would recognize him. He'd been barely more than a ghost when he left, hardly a warrior of anything. But as they pass through the Jeweled Croizer and Emmanelain gets caught up talking to some girl he's been trying to woo, there's a sudden, strange sensation at the back of his head, something like and unlike the Echo, and he turns, eyes scanning the busy street for... something. Someone.

(For some reason, unbidden, he remembers the night of the Calamity, giant pieces of some other part of Eorzea raining from the sky..

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's seen Gustavain catch the notes of a song on the breeze and tilt his head to the side to catch the sound. He does that now, but the knowing look in his eyes says that what he's "catching" is Phillip's reaction to him. There's a slow, answering smirk, the lift of an eyebrow, and then, as he turns away, to deal with the soldiers moving up behind them during the interchange, a low, bemused chuckle.

It only gets worse.

Not for them. Or well, not for them if the measurement of that is in how much danger they are in. Gustavain keeps cleaving through the battalion like a hot knife through butter. There's something wild about him as he does-- his laughter breaks through more than once-- and more than one soldier loses their nerve and runs-- he kills them the same as the others, leaping after them with that strange grace he'd shown to rush to Phillip's side. The last one falls with his boots planted in his back and he yanks the sword out of them with little care for any additional damage it might cause.

And then, there's silence, broken only by a soft sound that Phillip might take a moment to realize is blood dripping off Gustavain's sword as he turns, very slowly, to look at Phillip.

Phillip almost winds up doing nothing, or at least as good as, with how thoroughly Gustavain takes command of the field. He can honestly say he's never seen him like this, and while he hasn't personally tagged along as a helper in one of his fights yet, he has seen him in battle, both as a bard and a healer. The man in front of him now is still recognizably him, but most of that recognization is only to his face. He's never seen him move quite like, fight like that. He's certainly never seen him take that kind of mad, wild joy in the midst of battle.

The silence stretches between them for a moment, the soft drip against the sand barely adding to the sea of red that stretches around them. It's horrible, all of it, but Phillip finds he can't tear his eyes away. "...Are you alright?" he asks after a moment, catching his breath. He's asking about his wounds. He is not asking about his wounds.

Gustavain grins, and there's something wild about that too-- not so much uncontrolled as just unfettered, free. He slings the giant sword up on a shoulder and takes measured steps over towards Phillip. There's recognition in his face, this is definitely Gustavain, still, but it's also... very decidedly not Gustavain, or at least, not the Gustavain Phillip has come to know.

"More than alright, Ascian," the tone is playful, sensual and teasing, despite the title he throws around. "Why? Worried that I might show you up?" There's a rolling self-assurance to his walk, like a predator, and if Phillip lets him get close, he'll tip his chin up, rubbing a leather-clad thumb across Phillip's mouth, leaving a red smear there, "Or concerned to find out your dearest hero has darker appetites than you thought?"

Phillip's eyes narrow slightly at the title, the way the man moves, but-- no, it is still Gustavain, despite any reading to the contrary. He's not possessed, not exactly, but there has been a shift of some sort. The same soul, but being fed by something else.

He doesn't back away, stands straight and holds his ground as the figure approaches, allows his head to be tipped up and tries not to shudder with the feel of leather across his lips. "If you think that's the kind of thing that would worry me," he says, his voice as dry as ever, "then clearly you don't know me quite as well as I thought."

He has lived most of his life bathed in darkness, still does in many ways for all he's surrounded by those who champion the light. But as he well knows, no soul is made purely of light or of darkness, the aether within them all could not survive under such an imbalance, so even the bright souls have some of it in them. What does concern him is how split it seems to be in Gustavain, where one side hardly resembles the other at all.

There's a low, sensual laugh to that, Gustavain trailing his fingers down Phillip's cheek, chin, neck, his smile warm, even as though trailing fingers smear Phillip in blood-- the look in his golden eyes is dark, but clearly mirthful.

"Mm. And here I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt, that worry might be what's putting that look on your face, despite the pink in your cheeks," his hand slips down the front of Phillip's throat, down his chest, trailing his ribs until it comes to rest on his hip, possessive. "I thought I would give you an opportunity to run."

He clearly doesn't mean physically, or at least, not entirely, but he squeezes his hip lightly, a reminder that that is closed to him now as well.

There might be some words for Gustavain after this, trying to figure out why it's like this, why he seems so divided within himself. Phillip can guess, but it can't be healthy, something he knows only too well from his own experience. But he doubts talking to this particular aspect of him will yield much use, the part being hidden rather than doing the hiding. And it's possible there's another explanation, but he'll only know if he asks.

And, if he's honest, having a conversation about it now would be difficult for him too- he tries to stay still, but there's an instinct in him that makes him tip his head ever so slightly back as the hand presses against his throat, staying well within his orbit.

He's said it before: that sense of freedom is a very good look on him.

Phillip doesn't make any move to pull away from the hold on his hip, cocking his head slightly as he lifts a hand up to rest on the other's shoulder. "I feel like you should know that by now, too," he says, but in reality, maybe this is part of that conversation he's been putting off, "I have no intention of running."

Maybe he should have. Maybe they both should have. Maybe that night in the Forgotten Knight should have been the end of it. But it wasn't, and Phillip has stayed by him for this long; having a hidden 'dark side' certainly won't scare him off now.

Another chuckle, low and dark and his fingers tighten warningly on Phillip's hip,

"Don't lie. All we ever do is run from one another. You're running even now," he shifts, clips the sword somehow to his back until his other hand can come down and tangle in Phillip's hair.

He doesn't really expect Phillip to struggle, it's not the kind of running he's talking about, but there's no choice unless he wants to genuinely hurt Gustavain in the process, other than to take the kiss that follows. He's likely expecting violence, but the kiss is warm and slow, instead, consuming. Affectionate. There's the taste of blood in their mouths, but he kisses Phillip like he's something precious.

Ah. That's what he means, then?

Phillip isn't expecting violence, exactly, but with the way Gustavain is moving he certainly expected something harsher, the bite of teeth or a rougher hold. He's braced for it, which makes it all the more surprising when it turns out to be something much warmer. There's a soft noise of something, perhaps realization, before he relaxes into it, softening under the sheer affection of it, a hand coming up to rest on his cheek. It hindsight, it makes sense. He's certainly been trying to hide this. He just hadn't entirely realized he might not have been the only one.

When he's released from the kiss, or allowed to pull away, he doesn't drift far. Just far enough to lift his eyes to those glowing yellow ones, considering them. "And if I stopped running?" he asks. Would you stop too?

The grin back is full of that same wild he is like this, only maybe it's less wild and more... uninhibited? Dangerously uncaring about things like "norms" or how things are "supposed" to go? Just dangerously uncaring in general? Whatever it is, it's definitely dangerous.

"If you stop running, you're mine," it's said like a threat, but with a dark undercurrent that says perhaps it's not intended as one, possessive and purring. The hand on his hip slides around Phillip's waist, pulls him in against him, which is going to get Phillip filthy.

His clothes are going to be absolutely ruined, and whenever they get on to finishing their task they are going to greatly alarm anyone waiting for them. Of course, Phillip isn't really thinking about that right, or how this really isn't the time or place for this conversation. It's very hard to think about much of anything, and with how close he is Gustavain will definitely feel the full body shudder when he says mine.

They've danced around this the way they have with everything else, dropping the words here and there during sex but never outside of it. Separated from momentary passion, there's no way to deny that that's what he wants, and no way to brush off the fact that at least part of Gustavain means it. His hands move up to cup his face, and when their lips meet the kiss is tender, soft but without holding anything back- a kiss of someone who is very much in love.

There are going to be consequences for this. There's certainly still a part of Gustavain that has things like reservations, an awareness of responsibilities, an acknowledgement that this is going to get messy before the end and maybe it would be better to not hurt each other with it to start with. This part of him doesn't care about any of that, it only cares about what it wants, and there's no doubt in his mind what that is.

There's an answering shudder to the way Phillip kisses him, hands sliding up to cup around his cheeks to pull him up more into the kiss, though the pressure is very gentle. Things go heated, deeper, very quickly, but there's still... well, perhaps it's more possession than love just at the moment-- it's not like he's incapable like this, of course, but there are certainly darker appetites at the fore-- but to claim, you have to want, and this is the first time he's been truly honest about the wanting.

Phillip knows quite well that this is not going to be the end of it. Even if he's made decisions, he hasn't talked about them yet, and there is the lingering issue of how everyone else is going to react when he comes clean and likely some other problems as well. Not to even mention Gustavain's frustrating habit of throwing himself headlong into danger. But if he's come this far, entangled himself in the lives of those who would see this world safe, he at least wants to see them safe.

The possession inherent in the kiss does not dissuade him at all, if anything he seems to melt a little underneath it. For as old as he is, how he feels is quite new to him, something that tugs a bit more at the part of his soul that is mortal. It is easier to forget that there is anything beyond the two of them, anything outside of this moment, as he leans into the kiss and all but clings onto him.

This feeling is not new to him.

Cherish the stars and the light they bring you in the dark. For you are a traveler, are you not?

He has only come this far due to the bonds he's made with others. It's why he throws himself headlong into danger. He doesn't know if he really cares about Eorzea the way everyone seems to think he does, but he cares about the people in it, the lives of everyone touched by the Calamity. Before he had the Scions he had the warmth of a hundred taverns, the stories of hundreds of people, living their lives. Before that, Ishgard, his sister, his family. Phillip. (Before that.)

Those bonds pull at him and he responds, he always has. His life leads him away and back and into danger and home. He needs them, all of them, needs an anchor and a guide in the night, something to navigate by. And he knows that. But what is new, what he doesn't normally let himself consider, is how much he wants it-- wants to be tangled up, wants someone to claim him as much as he wants someone to claim.

And, in a way, isn't how this whole Fray business started and ended? Love? Is it any wonder that maybe he needed this to be able to bring that out of someone else?

Not that he's really thinking about any of that, at the moment. Somewhere, maybe, in the back of his mind, sitting alongside the normal color of his eyes. In the present, he deepens the kiss, nearly bending Phillip backwards with it, still possessive but slow, without any need to go anywhere or become anything. When he pulls back, finally, he's smirking slightly,

"Mm. Clearly I should have slaughtered an army in front of you before now, if this is going to be your reaction," it's teasing, but warmly so, and he pulls Phillip closer again, as though he's not already clinging close, wraps his arms around him and draws him in.

That gets Phillip to roll his eyes, in that fond way he often does, but he does not resist the pull, wraps his own around the elezen’s shoulders. “As if that was all this was about,” he says, but he’s smiling as he does. They both know it’s not. But they both know it’s not entirely unrelated, either.

He reaches a hand up to smooth through Gustavain’s hair, a familiar gesture up with an edge to it that doesn’t usually come up in their quieter moments. It’s usually in the throws of something else, usually attached that near dangerous tone of mine that they always pretend he didn’t say after the fact. Of the two of them right now, Gustavain is certainly putting more of what is happening to words, but that doesn’t mean Phillip isn’t saying It.

“We were supposed to be doing something,” he comments casually as his fingers brush through the knots created by battle. It is just as much of an offer to forestall it a bit longer as continue. It’s not like it was horribly urgent...

"As if it wasn't," he rejoins, because they do both know it's not entirely unrelated, "I've killed for less," he adds, softer, and there's no guilt behind the statement, because he's never taken a life he didn't feel he had to, but that doesn't mean that he thinks the reasons he had to have always made sense. "It feels good," his hand strokes up Phillip's spine, voice low and intimate, "seeing that look in your eyes, feeling you shake against me..." he leans down, lips brushing Phillip's ear, "I want more of that"

"Hm. We were," he acknowledges, when Phillip tries to be casual about this, but his tone hasn't changed, "And we should go before they come back, besides," Phillip can feel the grin, the sharpness of teeth against his skin, "But I'm going to push you down into the bloodstained dirt and take you instead and you're not going to breathe a single word of protest about it."

If he wants more of those things, he’s certainly doing all the right things to get them. They haven’t played with this much, and maybe Gustavain assumed Phillip wouldn’t want to, but for all his posturing and plays for control there’s no denying that he’s more than happy here, being manhandled and teased to the other’s whims.

His breath staggers again when Gustavain tells him what’s coming, a heat that probably shouldn’t be there rising in him in response. He shifts just each to trace over his jawline, something about the touch hungry even as he fights to keep the rest of his body still. “Well, you’ve already made an absolute mess of my clothes,” he says, his dramatics a little less potent for how breathless he is, “What else would there be to complain about?”

One moment they are standing and Phillip is making his quip and then there's a flash of a grin and he's sprawled face down on the ground instead, Gustavain moving with that same surprising grace and speed, kicking his feet out from under him. It's not gentle or controlled, it's possible he's going to get bruises or the air knocked out of him from it, in fact, but it's not meant to cause further hurt. Gustavain has those gloved hands on his hips a moment later and he drags him bodily up to his knees, the grind against his ass a moment later more about the psychology of it than anything else, blatant and animalistic.

So, too, is the bite into his neck right near the meat of his shoulder a moment later, more like a wolf bite than a man's, like Gustavain could hold him still with his teeth there, lest he tear out his throat. The truth is more a show of danger than actually dangerous, his teeth are no sharper like this than normal, but it will bruise, likely vividly.

Knock the wind from him it does, his head spinning as he gasps for air and winces at the renewed pain from his earlier wounds. He doesn’t have time to pull himself up before Gustavain does, a strangled sort of noise escaping his throat as his mind is temporarily overwhelmed. This is not Gustavain-like behavior. He’s having a hard time finding the spirit to care.

His body stills considerably when the bite find him, a slight tremble through him as his arms fight to keep him lifted. Under his teeth, Gustavain will have no trouble feeling how quickly Phillip’s heart is beating, pulse like a drum through a mix of pain, some fear, and so, so much desires. “Gods,” he managed to gasp out, not sure he’s coherent enough to say more but the sentiment coming through loud and clear.

"Better that they're not watching, wouldn't you say," he growls in Phillip's ear and the only reason Phillip doesn't have his pants torn off of him is that they're easy enough to just loosen and yank down, along with his smallclothes. Gustavain wipes his fingers along Phillip's hip, enough to get the worst of the gore off of them, but he doesn't bother taking off the gloves, even though his hands would be clean beneath.

There's no way to have anticipated any of this, but it's clear Gustavain had anticipated something, because there's oil a moment later, scented with flowers, something intended for the bedroom rather than something being repurposed and, given the speed with which he'd found himself on the ground, Phillip might be surprised to find that he's not immediately speared through.

Instead, a hand finds the back of his neck, fingers pressed down into that bruise without serious strength, but clearly deliberately, putting a pressure on the back of his neck until he bows his head down to the ground, ass still in the air. It's only then that Gustavain touches him with the other, oiled hand, and then it's only to rub firm, slow circles around his rim. It's not kindness, this slowness, it's vulnerability-- less like he specifically wants to humiliate Phillip in any way and more like he's showing Phillip how much Phillip will give him.

He doesn’t need to show Phillip anything, not really- even if he won’t admit it, he knows just how much he’s willing to give, and the answer is everything he’d want and more. The only reason he hasn’t openly helped out before is that Gustavain didn’t ask. Even before he’s fully made up his mind he would have said yes, and did plenty in the background to supply help that couldn’t be traced to him. Had this happened earlier, it may have been harder to accept, more difficult to give up control, but in this moment? The vulnerability feels easy.

He tips his head down, the scent of blood mingling strongly with the smell of the oil and that should be far more disconcerting than it is. His arms are still braced against the ground to at least keep his face out of the dirt as much as possible, but even if Gustavain pushes him further he won’t fight it. For the moment he’s quiet, breathing ragged and seeming to just try and clear his head.

Clear his head? Well that won't do.

It's really that that spurs him onward, whether it's some strange-but-normal way he's keyed into the other or some twisted manifestation of the Echo, he knows somehow, the moment it starts to get easier for Phillip to think, and that's the moment he pushes the first finger inside of him. It's not harsh or intended to cause pain-- in fact, there's even more oil, to the point Phillip can hear the first wet slide in-- but it's inexorable, a slow, steady push until he's taken the whole of the long, slender digit, thicker than he's used to with the protective leather of the glove.

From there, there's a pace, steady, slow without being lazy, directed. There's a goal, here, and every touch doesn't let Phillip forget it.

As planned, that press of the finger inside of him shatters his thought process once again, Phillip making a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan. It doesn't hurt thanks to how much oil is being used, but it is tight and certainly pulls his focus away from literally anything else, especially once Gustavain starts moving it.

His hands making grasping motions at the ground, wanting to hold onto something but finding nothing suitable. Were they facing each other, it's very easy to imagine him tangling them up in Gus's hair, holding on for dear life. But he's currently being denied even that, and the lack of anything to hold onto makes them, and him by extension, more restless and searching. (In his current state, it's probably not hard to imagine just how much 'worse' it would be if he actually couldn't move them.)

"Hm. Shall I tie you down, darling?" he just seems to know, no indication of if this is the darkness or the Echo or just Gustavain... and is this new to this strange form of his or does he always know and he's just usually not so keen to wield it like a weapon?

"It's alright, you know," he says it tenderly enough but also casually, as though there's not a chance that there's a millennia of it not being alright, "you're allowed to just feel and not reach." Whatever the answer to that might be, though, either bit of it, Phillip will have to work it out while he pushes another finger in, slower than the first but just as firm and unyielding. It's perhaps a bit soon, but as much as Gustavain is unhurried feeling about this, he is aware that someone's going to come looking for the squadron eventually.

Gustavain might be sure that it's alright, but Phillip is not. For all that he is accustomed to performing, he is very much not used to this kind of attention focused all on him. Which isn't to say he doesn't or won't enjoy it, but allowing himself to just feel is something he's still working on in more ways than one.

Luckily, what he is feeling is enough to override any worries he might have and most of the inhibitions that remain. The press of that second finger elicits a moan, and perhaps paradoxically it does get him to relax and still more (though he will absolutely keep that offer of tying him down in mind for later). His front is absolutely stained with blood and dirt at this point, but that is the farthest thing possible from his mind as each push and pull of those fingers starts pulling softer noises from him.

Edited (twelve hours later noticed an html fail) 2021-05-27 13:20 (UTC)

Gustavain sits back for a moment, pets the hand on Phillip's back down his spine and back up to his neck. It's very clear that what he's doing is admiring his handiwork for a long moment, spreading his fingers wide inside of him to be able to get a good look at that, too. It's merciless, the regard, there's nowhere to hide.

There's even less when the firm push of his fingers back in ends with him searching with them until he can tease that spot inside him with a surprisingly gentle touch.

Well. To start with.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject