|Renay (renay) wrote,|
@ 2007-11-19 06:35 pm UTC
|Entry tags:||fanfic: final fantasy x/x-2|
Baralai/Gippal, R/not worksafe
For owlmoose and cyrnelle, follows Three Quick Breaths in Safe Dark Spaces, which was apparently SEKRITLY POPULAR. *stares at Yati*
Also on AO3.
Gippal didn't make a habit of selling Yevon short—Al Bhed grew up in sand, oil, and the constant reminders that praetors and priests, acolytes and the awed were not to be trusted. Reliable as a machina with a internal leak, Gippal's pop had told him, and Gippal didn't have any reason to doubt it. He thought about it every time Baralai covered or sank into him, a firm reminder that he was sleeping with the Yevon-privileged, Praetor-elect in the heart Bevelle, just like he thought about how stupidly in love he was every time Baralai called his name.
The problem was that Gippal only cared about one of those things anymore.
"The vote will be soon," Baralai said, chest rumbling on Gippal's thigh.
"Why do you do that?" Gippal complained, boneless and sweaty on the slippery silk sheets. "Stop messing up my afterglow."
Baralai raised his head, hair falling in front of his eyes. "If you would sneak in earlier so we could have normal conversations—"
"—then I would get caught by the monks and then you'd never get elected. That'd be smart."
Baralai pressed his lips to Gippal's stomach. "You're better at sneaking around than you let on."
"Before the flattery goes to my head, why does it matter when the vote is?" Gippal reached down to tangle his fingers in Baralai's hair, a little shorter than it had been yesterday. He missed the length, the curl at the edges, hated that Baralai was slipping back into the Yevon-regime.
Baralai's breath blew hot across Gippal's skin as he bowed his head. "Trema is..." The pause was awkward, and Gippal stilled his hands.
"A creep? Insane? Power hungry?"
"Planning something," Baralai murmured. His tongue flicked out to trace a path over Gippal's hip before he spoke again. "I wanted to ask you a favor."
Gippal shifted his hips. "You've got a funny way of asking, when a guy's naked and at your mercy." Gippal felt Baralai smile, the slow curve against the dip of his thigh—his smile was a secret Baralai didn't show anyone else, except for Gippal. It was a real smile, not the fake, political one, the one everyone involved with New Yevon wore. It reminded Gippal of circling wolves.
"I want you to steal some spheres from the archive," Baralai said, and silenced any protest by sliding his tongue up Gippal's cock.
Gippal arched into it, choked Al Bhed escaping with a barely muffled shout as Baralai's mouth slid over and down. Gippal's thoughts flew in a hundred directions: what Baralai had just asked him to do, what it meant, what Baralai was doing with his tongue, and Gippal couldn't focus, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but hold himself back from just letting go completely, his palms full of soft hair and the pinch of nails.
Baralai, Gippal thought as Baralai's thumbs traced a pressure-path back and forth on his skin, had his mouth on him, had his hands on him, had made marks from the very first day of training in the heat and dirt and jeers from the crowd who only wanted to see Gippal, the damned Al Bhed, get beaten. Baralai, who had healed his wounds and kept him warm, Baralai, who trusted him, Baralai, who would become Praetor and have more power than anyone in Spira, had his mouth on him, slick and hot and wet.
Gippal twisted and cried out, back off the bed and thighs locked around Baralai's midsection. Baralai laughed below him.
"Whoa," Gippal said, blinking as he sank down. Baralai laughed again, pushed free and crawled up the bed.
"Is that a yes, then?"
"No, that was a whoa." Gippal cupped Baralai's neck with his hands, tangled their legs together. "You just ruined your clean campaign with sexual bribes for nothing," he said. "How am I supposed to walk out of the archives with an armful of spheres?"
Baralai grinned against Gippal's lips. "You're not," he said. "You're supposed to sneak out of the archives with the spheres in those ridiculous pants."
Gippal snorted. "Oh, now you're making fun of my clothes." He closed his eyes, and was reminded of his lessons, hidden costs of stepping over invisible lines in the sand. "Sure, I'll go steal some spheres for you," he said. "But there's got to be more in it for me, right?"
When Baralai kissed him instead of answering, he tasted like the tea he loved so much, a promise, and like Gippal—and it was an affirmation.