* Suikoden V, Dolph/Gizel, Following orders -- "Petitioner" Petitioner suikoden v Mithrigil Galtirglin
Dolph’s ability to enter and leave a room unnoticed but not unmarked is a source of fascination to Gizel—fascination and no small amount of envy. If he didn’t admit to at least that, he’d be a lesser man. And there are virtues unlooked-for in the young assassin’s skills, in his dutifully schooled emotionlessness. That blankness is enticing, compelling, to the same part of Gizel that wondered how his mother’s corpse could still be beautiful.
There isn’t even a rustle of curtains or a wisp of sun-drenched air. “Dolph,” Gizel says when the—aura of danger, for lack of a better term, shifts.
That flat voice presses toward him from behind the throne. “Your commandership.”
“To what good news do I owe the pleasure?”
“The Prince and his men are mounting an infiltration of Gordius.”
Gizel props his elbow on the arm of the throne and palms his chin. “So the Dragon Cavalry will lose its honored tradition of factionalism.”
“Wouldn’t you rather they side with us?”
“The river runs where it may—if Gordius buckles beneath the prince, it is the prince who inherits their dishonor. And Commander Laden will be forced to step down under the compulsion of his own shame.” Gizel trails his fingers over his own cheek, cracks his neck, feels the weight of the armored band that now holds up his bangs, the clench of red kohl around his eyes. “The country will change. I’m aware of this already.”
Now there’s sound from him—the assassin comes around, shadowless and unassuming on the side of the throne Gizel leans toward. “It is counterintuitive, serving a man who might not care to win the war he wages.”
“There are no men like me,” says Gizel. “Even if you survive this, you’ll never serve another of my kind again.”
“Is that an invitation for me to take advantage of the situation, sir?”
Gizel smiles. “Seize the moment, I suppose,” he exhales with a chuckle. “Come here on your knees.”
Dolph is as silent about this as anything else—his mouth and eyes are as still and unobtrusively creased as the thighs of his slacks, the obliques of his vest. He knees on the dais nearer than any petitioner has perhaps been—Gizel wonders hotly if the late Queen had ever been served by her barbarian in this position. He and Sialeeds had talked of the same, when talking was all there was to be done of it.
But at this moment, words are the last thing he wants.
The string of orders is crisp and practiced, innocuous; a few shifts of armor and a few loosened knots, and Dolph’s expert mouth is surrounding him, and perhaps the danger in him is as true as it is contrived. The young man’s tongue is deft, practiced—passionless but skilled, and soon Gizel grips both arms of the throne in knuckles that blaze with ache. His head rolls back against the cushions, he bares his neck—he feels the oil around his eyes heat at the thought of whoever succeeds him here knowing nothing of this taboo, of this breach in etiquette and history—
“Hold,” he gasps, before he spends, and Dolph withdraws, throat and lips fluttering around him.
There is no cadence to Dolph’s monotone voice, but it’s hoarser, drier, and that thrills Gizel more than he thought it would. “Something else, sir?”
He rises—less shakily than an ordinary man would have—and turns the throne’s cushion over. “It won’t do to stain her Majesty’s seat when you fuck me over it,” he says, in the calm, steady voice of one who takes his pleasure in such things.