Work Text:
The Jeweled Crosier was busier that cloudless day than Vachon had seen in weeks. Fresh snow covered the cobble. Wares came in from the merchant houses for the noble to obtain and the penniless to lust over. He made shop at the shadowed end of the Crosier, the furthest distance from the open fires, and thus why the spot had been so cheap and unwanted. He didn’t mind it. For the first time, he’d managed to obtain a booth without using his lordship’s name—something he refused to speak about in association with his budding tailoring business.
Fine frocks, embroidered dresses, and primly fitted overcoats in the Ishgardian style laid on the tabletop. He’d debated for days on whether to embrace Eorzian fashions but eventually concluded that first, he must master common garb before he could sell more exotic things to the stubborn people in his homeland.
The street funneled cold winds like a mountain pass in the hinterlands, making the scar running the length of his face ache. He rubbed his furred gloves over his nose to breathe some warmth back into his dark skin.
“Welcome, and well met!” he announced to a passing customer who paid him no mind. He managed not to frown. It had been like this all morning, most people paying him scarcely a glance in favor of more established shopfronts. However, determination roosted in him like a riled chocobo. He would make this business work—he would see enough money come in that Lord Gauthier would have no sway over him or his holdings ever again.
“Ready items and repair, available here,” he tried again as a well-dressed woman edged by his stand. She glanced him over, then the clothes, touched the splintering wood of the countertop, and turned her nose up. He gritted his teeth—what, did they expect him to sand down this ramshackle stall as well as freeze to death in it?
...who was he kidding? Of course, they did. Next time he’d bring one of their finest furs to cover the bare wood with. The nuances of business on the main street were numerous and unspoken.
Rather than despair, he brought out his embroidery rings and worked with some warm yellow thread. Even if his fingers numbed quickly without his gloves, the work was stiff and had no need for great dexterity, merely precision and patience. Perhaps that was why this manner of work soothed him—unhurried and only requiring one to envision the way things locked together.
Though educated, the finer points of mathematics, literature, and Halonic lore evaded him. As befitted someone of a vassal house, many of his teachers had excused. It was only his father’s gentle urgings that saw him continue to study in the face of no expectations.
Hard to tell which was worse, no one having expectations of him, or having high expectations for himself.
Hours passed, and what started as a small golden flower had grown into a sprawling border for a kerchief. The sun was setting and the bitter day hurriedly approached bitter night. Just as Vachon lit his lantern to begin packing his untouched wares, a huffing man made his way down the lane.
“You’re… you’re still open, yes?” he inquired, red-faced.
“Yes,” Vachon said, “Are you quite alright?”
“Can you take a last-moment repair?” he stood fully, revealing the sigil of another lower Lord’s house at his breast. Likely a servant or retainer of some sort running an errand from a master that had no sense of when business hours were.
“How soon do you need it?”
“Morning, before early tea,” he urged. “There will be a generous tip if this can be done, my mistress assures it.”
“May I see the damage?” Vachon leaned over the edge of the stall as the harried servant brought out a package with a somewhat rumpled peach gown whose tulle sleeve had been shorn open by a snag on the upper arm. Likely caught on a door jamb or the like. Difficult. It would still be noticeable if one thought to look, but the sleeves seemed to drape enough that it would be obscured. “Repair won’t be perfect,” he warned. “Would your mistress be opposed to some embroidery on both sleeves to hide it?”
“M'lady is rather fond of phlox,” the servant suggested.
“That will do.”
The primly dressed man bowed. “I will collect it upon the morrow. Shall I await the garment here at the stall?”
“If you are near the Pillars you may pick it up at the Cottilard house proper,” Vachon suggested, “It could save you some time.”
“My thanks,” the servant said, his entire body sagging in relief. “A fine evening to you, ser. Thank you again for this untimely favor.”
Vachon bowed stiffly in return. He thought to say it would be no trouble, but in reality, it would be a sleepless night to craft two embroideries fit for a gown this fine. He pulled on his gloves, gathering his wares and the new dress. Arms laden, he trudged up the sloping street toward the high houses, then a ways past them. Where the pristine statues of the Fury became more and more war-torn, he and his father’s house sat like a squat toad amidst giants.
Not more than a step past the threshold, he kicked off his boots and shrugged away his coat. There would be no warm meal awaiting him that night—he’d cut into his food money to get that stall for the day. Hopefully, the man’s word that the coin was good held true. If not, it would be many nights of crust cheese and bread.
“Young master? How were the markets?” called Riene, an elderly retainer who managed the house. She entered from the kitchens, immediately went to straighten his boots, and smoothed down his coat on the rack.
“Poor and poorer,” Vachon said bitterly. “But I do have a repair order due in the morning.”
“Best get cleaned up now then,” Riene said and pulled out a crisp envelope from her apron pocket. “The main house sent this. They’d like to see you come the morn.”
Vachon’s entire body went bloodless for a moment. He couldn’t convince his hand to take the summons.
“Are you well, Vachon?”
He finally put his thoughts in the correct order and set down the clothes on the table, then managed to pick up the missive, though in his mind it weighed a thousand bushels. Indeed, it was stamped with the Gauthier crest of feathers. The parchment faintly smelled of the manor, and even the brief whiff of that odor made his hair stand on end.
“Thank you, Riene. I will handle the rest.”
“As you say,” she said eyeing him with an air of suspicion, but she returned to the kitchens.
While inconvenient, the summons would not interfere with his work on the sewing, they would just ensure he got little to no sleep. Hopefully, this trip to the house would actually be about business. By the Fury, please let it just be business.
For a mercy, he didn’t have time to dwell on that. He delicately laid out the damaged dress on his worktable in the backroom, a plane scattered with rolls of twine, measuring marks, and a karakul pincushion that used to be one of his childhood toys. At the very end sat a wooden box that housed a pair of silver scissors that served as paperweights and would never touch the sanctity of cloth.
Impossible to perfectly match the delicate tulle’s color, Vachon instead found a small patch of white and pinned it to the underside of the torn sleeve. He trimmed away the excess and carefully attached the pieces—something for the embroidery to attach to. Then, not able to replicate phlox from memory alone, he rifled through several of his father’s forestry tomes until he found a suitable image.
The rest was serene silence and the slip of gossamer thread along textile. The hours whittled away pull by pull, the needle his most loved accessory. Two sprigs of phlox took shape first in outline, then in warm fuchsia, and finally wreathed in verdant shades of leaf and vine. He’d chosen a pastel that wouldn’t overwhelm the delicate peach of the dress, but still draw enough attention that the embroideries seemed intentional. As a small personal touch, he also created a single bloom on the gown’s neckline.
Finished at the edge of dawn, he gave the dress to Riene with instructions to deliver it to the man who would come calling, then simply melted into his armchair to sleep.
It was the kind of rest where Vachon wasn’t certain if it had happened or not. His eyes never seemed to shut, and yet he jolted awake with the sun spilling across his workspace, glinting along those bastardly scissors.
Right. Reality. He’d conveniently forgotten about it. Let the battle begin.
Defiantly, he cleaned himself in the mirror and re-applied the crimson paint to his eyes. He looked himself in the eyes and leaned in as if he could test his own resolve through the glass. Whatever happened he would be fine. That was his decision. He’d be fine.
He changed into a simple clean tunic, trousers, and wrapped in his favorite gilet, mended up the back with a golden cord corset. Like the scar on his face, he’d embraced this imperfection, and made it more eye-catching.
More than anything, he wanted Gauthier to see it. To see him being fine.
Being absolutely fine.
He set off for the door and chewed his lip in wonder at what sum exactly had been left for his work, if any. Perhaps he had ruined it all and the steward had been angry, denied payment? Had he overstepped with adding the floret on the collar? The anxiety ate at him as he glanced over the entryway table, searching for the bag of gil he desperately hoped was there.
“You’re awake at last,” Riene said from behind him. “You missed the delivery. I assumed getting some rest would be the priority.”
“It doesn’t feel as though I got any at all,” Vachon sighed and rubbed a crick out of his neck. “Was everything… acceptable?”
“Aye, apparently your client is playing guest at Lady Gauthier’s request and wished to thank you personally,” she said. “And pay you, presumably, for the manservant was quite emptyhanded as he arrived.”
Vachon’s heart sank even lower, if possible, and said, “I see, then we will suss this out at the main house.” So much for this being as brief a visit as possible. Now he’d have to maintain his composure in front of a client while that man was within earshot. “Is there anything else before I go?”
“Take care,” Riene said, but her tone was dire. She’d never presumed to speak a word of suspicion when it came to the scar newly healed on his face or who gave it to him, but it did not take a great deal to infer.
“I will,” he assured and stomped back into his boots and fluffed his coat about his shoulders. “Has… has there been no correspondence from father yet?”
“I’m afraid not, young master.” Riene gave him a sympathetic expression. “If you’re feeling lon—"
“Thank you, Riene,” Vachon cut her off. “I’d rather forgo the trappings of pity if it is all the same.” Before he could see if he’d upset her, he swept out the door and stubbornly marched up the hillside, sun blinding him where it hit the snow. Even squinting from the brightness, Ishgard remained a bleak place.
The tumult of thoughts in his head slowed the closer he got to the manor’s double doors. A household guard stood at the steps, not of the Gauthier house, so likely from the visiting Lady. As Vachon approached, he flashed the Gauthier crest on the breast of his coat and mounted the stairs unmolested.
When he knocked at the door, it was the servant from the market who answered.
“Ah, you’ve arrived, good, good. M’lady and yours await you.” He swung the door open and ushered Vachon into the foyer impatiently. Perhaps he hadn’t truly been in a hurry yesterday, maybe this was just his natural state of being.
“About my payment,” Vachon led in.
“M’lady has seen to it,” the servant said quickly and rushed down the hallway to the familiar sitting room. Within, two women, one willowy and round with child and the other wearing the selfsame dress he’d spent the night slaving over. The former glanced up from her tea.
“Ah, Vachon, a pleasure,” she beamed where she sat. “Niette was just showing off your fine skill in embroidery—had I known you’d such a talent I would have simply begged to commission you for my own.”
He bowed briefly to Lady Gauthier, but before he could thank her, the other woman, Niette, broke in.
“This was my mother’s dress you know, and I’d always quite hated it. It never felt as though it were truly mine.” She took another sip of her tea. Notes of pine and a foreign fruit almost overwhelmed the household soap that was generously used to keep the carpets clean. “Now I can scarce keep from looking at it.”
“I am pleased you enjoyed the alterations,” Vachon said, relief settling like a warm blanket around his shoulders. “Your manservant made the most astute observation that you are fond of phlox. I merely followed his suggestion.” He resisted the urge to blatantly ask where his payment was. Tulle and silk thread were not cheap, and hers had been the only order he’d gotten all day.
“Now, now,” Lady Gauthier set her cup down with a loud tink. “As an artisan you must embrace compliments. I suspect you shall be getting many more of them in the near future—tell him what you’ve done, Niette!”
Unless the answer was that she was going to pay him immediately, Vachon withered.
“I’ve dislodged you from the ill-reputed spot in the markets my retainer found you in,” she said gleefully. “From now on, you will have a proper spot in the market, endorsed by my house, personally. I do hope you will consider prioritizing more commissions from me in the future.”
Vachon blinked, breath stolen, so elated he nearly forgot where he was. He stammered, “M-my Lady, this is too much to accept.”
“Nonsense,” Niette said with a cluck and another sip of that pine tea. “That your Lord has yet to endorse your skills publicly leaves you open to patronage elsewhere. Lerue and I quite agree.”
“We do,” Lady Gauthier said. “So long as you continue to fulfill your obligations to our house, I see no reason why this business of yours should not flourish.”
“I am speechless before your generosity,” Vachon admitted. “I will not squander your faith in me. Merely say the word and my services are yours as well.” Potential patronage? From another merchant house, no less.
“Now, as exciting as I am sure this is, I do believe Ilnoir had other reasons for seeing you today,” Lady Gauthier said. “At present, he is in his chambers, but I doubt he will mind your presence. If he doesn’t vanish into that office of his before noon it will be a miracle.”
“Our husbands work far too hard,” Niette agreed.
Vachon nodded, bowed, and turned numbly toward the main hallway, so shocked that he felt nothing in his chest but electricity and energy even in the face of seeing his Lord. It had been months since that day. Since he wore the scar. Since he learned firsthand the violent and desirous touch of another man. Horror should have been rotting his guts, but the taste of success was simply too sweet. Let what would be, be.
Naturally, the finest and largest door at the end of the hallway belonged to the Lord and Lady Gauthier. Vachon rapped his knuckles on the wood and called, “My Lord? You summoned me?”
“Enter,” came the voice of Ilnoir Gauthier, Lord of the manor.
Vachon hesitantly turned the knob and encroached on a dimly lit bedroom. Dourer than the rest of the house, as though a mirror for Gauthier’s soul itself, little made its way free of traditional Ishgardian gray. Its prim cleanliness made the room displeasingly sterile. The jewel atop the crown of discomfort was Ilnoir himself, in a dressing robe and little else by the fireplace with a glass of burgundy.
For how often Vachon saw this man in his dreams, he remembered scarcely any of his features. The knifelike jaw, rough hands, steely hips—they were the pieces of him that Vachon knew and couldn’t erase from his body. The rest melted away as though he were more phantom than mortal, ready to slip at a moment’s notice.
The young man bowed as his Lord stood, taking the drink with him.
“You’re timely, at least,” Gauthier said. “Here I wondered if your new services would impede you in your duties. You must not have slept.”
Vachon’s cheeks warmed and he said, “I slept some. What business is it of yours?”
“Cheeky today, my little tailor,” his Lord grinned, and a feral light glinted in his eyes. “And you’ve insisted on your maquillage as well. You’ve a stubborn streak.” He waltzed closer and grabbed Vachon’s shoulder, looking him over. “Or is it an invitation, I wonder?”
“It is mine and means nothing other than I enjoy it,” Vachon leveled his eyes on Ilnoir with decidedly more than “stubborn streak” emboldening him. “Have you any business to discuss with me today, or are we to rehash the last dance?”
“This is cute,” Gauthier clucked and gave Vachon a pat on the cheek. “Your first success and already you’ve forgotten the way of things.”
A sudden shift and his leg had swept Vachon’s out from under him. A sickening moment of freefall ended as Gauthier’s arm caught hold of him about the waist. In a panic, he’d already grabbed at the man’s dressing robe, unraveling the cloth belt and leaving the now-naked man looming above him.
He’d not gotten a look at his Lord’s naked body the first time. He hadn’t had the opportunity to wonder over matured muscles, silvering hair, scarless skin, and the strong musk of an older man. Disgust roiled up with the brimming desire. This was the kind of body he’d have fantasized over before this mess began. He let go of Gauthier’s robes as though they burned. He twisted himself in the man’s grip, but it held firm.
“You’d best keep quiet—there are no thick walls to save you this time.”
The heavy body pinned Vachon to the floor. One by one, a clever hand popped open the buttons to his coat. He squirmed as his neck bared and Gauthier nosed against the hot skin, inhaling deeply. Meanwhile, his lord pushed open the gilet slowly, baring skin inch by inch. It was almost tedious, the care he was taking.
“W-what?” Vachon whispered with a huff, “Not interested in tearing something you’ve already ripped?” Whether he cared to admit it to himself, the slow pace was giving him time to feel every little push and shift against him. He gritted his teeth and turned his face away from an exploring kiss.
“I want to watch,” Gauthier said huskily beneath his jaw, “I want to watch the defiance in your eyes melt into need.”
“These are your Lady wife’s chambers as well, what is to stop her from seeing this?” Vachon pushed at Ilnoir’s face, earning a solid bite to the flesh of his palm and then the soothing lewd trail of tongue.
“She is a social thing and won’t so much as leave her guest’s presence until they are past the threshold.” A kiss fell upon Vachon’s palm, then a hand forced his arm against the floor and rough fingers dragged over his pulse.
No, not this again, please. Vachon’s gilet rucked up from his struggling, and when his stomach showed, it invited that ravenous mouth to feast. He gasped, and his belly flinched, something in his head dizzy from how sensitive the skin beneath those lips was. He tried to protest, but his words were dying on his tongue, and soon after Gauthier’s mouth pressed flush to his. He knew better to resist, but all the same, he bit.
His Lord recoiled and spat blood from his wounded tongue, wrath in his eyes.
“Vassal,” came the cold title, “Undress.”
“No,” Vachon pulled himself closer to the wall. His heart hammered—denying the man who held his and his family’s life in the balance. His clothes were the only barrier protecting him. This resistance the only difference between him and a whore. He shook his head.
Unamused, Gauthier tore at Vachon’s trousers, yanking them down by the ties. But rather than forcing himself into the struggling body, he gripped the newly exposed manhood and gave it a witheringly slow stroke.
Vachon’s hips rose unbidden. The gesture caught him so off-guard that something pleasurable stirred within him. Another stroke and he covered his mouth to stymie any sound from erupting.
“You don’t touch yourself often,” Ilnoir chuckled darkly as his wrist rolled. “Why is that?”
Vachon spat before he thought, “Because I think of you.”
Though meant as an insult, his Lord’s cock twitched sternly upon hearing. Those razor eyes widened—his grip tightened. His lips pursed white. He licked the corner of his mouth, leaving a smear of blood, and kissed Vachon again. Harder. Hard enough the man’s blood welled on his tongue. Gauthier stroked him relentlessly, preventing any further bites from the sheer addictive skill of his hand alone.
Quiet moans huffed between their mouths, Vachon swiftly swelling in his Lord’s palm. This. This was exactly what he pictured whenever he took himself in hand in the quiet hours of night—this scent, the slick of a tongue on his lips, this presence bearing down on him. The first time he’d tried, he’d stopped halfway with eyes full of tears and no satisfaction. All that kept him from tears now was pride.
They remained that way for some time, Vachon’s fingers twisting in the rug. The coppery kiss left him struggling to breathe, the clever fingers wasting what little air he found on gasps. More. His thighs trembled as his sensitivity and pleasure heightened simultaneously. More, please. Everything in him screamed like a harp string tightened near to breaking. Shame and desire crowded in his chest, leaving him with only the urge to release it all—empty. He yearned to beg for release.
His Lord was not of the same mind. Infuriatingly close, the warm hand stopped its ministrations and the smothering kiss withdrew. Vachon was left panting and splayed lewdly on the floor, misery writ in his eyes that he was still abuzz with need.
“That is a far prettier face,” Gauthier said as he thumbed his chin. “I wonder if you’ve the sense to beg?”
Even wanton, Vachon had too much pride for that. He sat up.
A hand cruelly vised his cock. It squeezed until the swollen glans flushed dark with blood. He choked, arching as his insides hungrily spasmed. Pleasure or pain, it was enough. A thin string of seed threaded itself over his shirt, a pale blemish on the black cloth.
Bewildered, he remained there on the floor, manhood throbbing, loins aching. Gauthier smiling.
“Why does this make you happy?” Vachon finally said haggardly. “Why, when you have a home with everything anyone could possibly want?”
Gauthier laughed, and the sound was bitter. He merely shrugged; a gesture so noncommittal that Vachon’s cheeks flushed with heat. That he could be so blasé about an act that was nothing short of trauma. That he could have no well-reasoned ideology for risking everything. Just a shrug. And a smile.
Fury, damn that smile.
“On your knees.”
Vachon… obeyed. How did you reason with someone that had no reason for what they were doing? Who derived joy irrationally from something so evil? He didn’t react when Ilnoir pulled his trousers down the rest of the way, when a rough hand kneaded at a cheek of his arse, spread him. His heart was already numb to what would happen. He should have prepared physically as well, for in the time he knelt with his palms on the cold floor, his Lord had found the oil.
Vachon silently wept long before the biting pain of penetration. He plastered a hand over his mouth to mask his whimpers. His body spread unwillingly for Gauthier’s turgid shaft.
The swell of the man was an anchor inside Vachon’s body. It rested, hot and throbbing, between his walls, and then all too swiftly, moved. Rutting to his innermost places, nerves ablaze. This was his definition of pleasure—body assailed by sparks from the inside every time that generous length deigned stroke the right little cluster deep within. He twitched back to life, saliva pooling at his lips. He didn’t swallow, but rather gulped between gasps. Desperate for air, desperate for more. The first true moan fell from him.
His Lord made an inhuman growl, and dug his teeth furiously into Vachon’s shoulder. Then his hips surged in like the shock from a canon blast.
Vachon cried out—loudly, his treacherous body burning him alive.
Down the hall—footsteps. He held his breath.
“Darling, is everything alright?” Lerue Gauthier called from the other side of the door.
Trapped, trembling, still stuck hard on his lord’s cock, Vachon dared not speak.
Unflinching, Ilnoir called back, “Quite dear. That snag in the rug caught our little tailor by the heel.”
Cold dread warred with the aroused flames in Vachon’s gut. Would she open the door? A part of him prayed she would – that she’d save him from this desecration that he’d just cried out for… oh, Fury, he’d raised his voice for the man. He’d taken a bite of rapture and let it sing past his gritted teeth.
“I’ll see to it someone fixes the thing. Pardons, my love,” she chirped pleasantly.
Another skilled lie passed through the door, “We’ll be done soon, dearest, please enjoy your guest.” Gauthier moved his hips again, the worst kind of threat as his manhood glided past every sensitive place Vachon had.
His cheeks flushed hotter. He gripped the stone. In shame and desperation, he moved his hips back against the intrusion. He couldn’t wait for the footsteps to recede. He had no control over his breathing. When his backside fell flush with Gauthier’s, he gave them a stuttering, clumsy roll. Oh, Fury, let him come, please!
At last, the crisp clip of heels left the door and the two of them waited for the silence.
“I felt that,” Gauthier rumbled, and kissed the back of Vachon’s neck. “Tell me what you want.”
Vachon clamped his jaw shut, already horrified by his own need. He shook his head.
Ilnoir slid in deeper, and he massaged his pulsing length inside Vachon’s body. One slow rolling stroke, and then a sharp hump.
Vachon bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, huffing. He shook his head again, as though he could banish desire itself from him. Don’t make him say it. Don’t make him acknowledge what burned in his skull and loins. If he spoke it, there was no going back.
Gauthier pulled out all the way to the tip. He thumbed Vachon’s arse and then like a lancer felling a drake, he skewered the dark body upon him.
Vachon’s pent breath burst out. “Ahk-kkh… M-make me come... p-please…” The words dribbled out, honey from a hive. He fixed his Lord with a pleading stare from over his bitten shoulder. A hand forced Vachon’s head down to the floor, tangled in his hair, and the other propped his backside higher.
“Good.” His Lord snapped his teeth as his rutting surged back into rhythm. Hard. Deep. The wet sucking of their sex filled the spaces between their moans.
The rocks beneath Vachon’s lips and hands grew slick, and still his lord plumbed him ravenously. His body dripped sweat. He savored when their sacs smacked together between ferocious thrusts. When he came, it was sheer ecstasy flowing out of him, emotions too dull and broken to feel the shame. His hips sagged. Gauthier came up his back in a sticky rope. The man chuckled above him and a boot pushed him over onto his side.
“Would that I had the time to despoil you again,” he mused. “But I would hate to disappoint my wife.” He dropped a kerchief from a nearby nightstand onto Vachon’s side. “Clean yourself up. Oh, and see to it the shipment from Tailfeather is ready to go to market a day early.”
Gauthier shrugged off his dressing robe, his entire body a damp sheen, and wandered through a door in the back which seemed to be the baths.
Vachon struggled to find his breath. He gasped quietly for a long while before he weakly sat up, took the kerchief, and tried to wipe the semen off him. It had come on so fast—that irrepressible need. That horrible mind-altering desire. That he’d felt anything at all should have disgusted him, but all he felt now was empty.
No. No, the one shred of his mind still functioning told him to get out of there as soon as possible. He grabbed for his coat, weak-legged jerked open the door, and tried to remember how to walk.
Lerue was there at the tea table, along with her friend. Vachon managed a bow that nearly sent him falling but for the lock of his knees. They said a few parting pleasantries that he nodded through, barely able to hear, and forced himself to walk, not run, for the door. He could smell the sex on himself. He prayed no one else did.
The only soul who seemed to notice anything amiss was the servant that opened the door. He caught Vachon’s arm silently when at last a step gave out beneath him, and let him linger there as his body reeled. He swallowed when they, at last, made eye contact, and the older man said nothing. He merely opened the door and allowed him to take all the time he needed to take the step past the threshold.
It was that which broke him, of all things. He peered up with tears in his eyes. He mouthed ‘thank you’ and then with all his strength, ran from that blasted house.
That night, he ate his predictably meager dinner, and barely. No matter how many times he’d scrubbed himself in the icy bath, he couldn’t scour the memory of the passionate flames within him. Those wicked desires. The prospect of his new booth and his continued business were all that kept him melded properly together.
He could do it. He could buy his way out from under that man. If he could gain control of this newborn lust.