Right, so first fanfiction since I was twelve. Wrote Fire Emblem fics then too, so starting again was sort of nostalgic until I realized that this was not the kind of fanfic I wrote when I was twelve.
Like I said, there's some gratuitous kink- or not, depending on how (un)conventional your tastes are- so watch it if you're not into that kind of stuff or there's a chance of setting off a trigger or something, I don't know.
The tense shift is intentional, but hopefully it's more jarring in the "ah I see how Soren feels" way rather than "this story is really annoying EXIT OUT".
He seats himself cross-legged by the cot, bright-eyed, rapt with interest. He is eager to learn, but his clear blue gaze does not suggest callowness of any sort, nor the student's initial ignorance, nor naivety. It is youthful, bright as his hair, but carries a firm determination. There is nothing so purposeful, so overpoweringly virile as a focused, intent Ike; their hands brush, both smoothing out a map of the continent, and the touch is electrifying: it travels up Soren's arms, down into his chest, his stomach, his groin. Though Ike does not know it, he has taken the anima mage's control of the elements and set it against him. Sparks bounce inwardly, crackling at the fingertips from where they once burst. A storm brews inside him, thrashing his heart about his ribcage like a strip of roof in a cyclone. Heat radiates from his face and his stomach and further below. He tries to swallow, but his throat is cracked.
'Let me get that for you,' the commander coos, reaching behind his advisor for a gourd that rests on a stack of tomes. Soren doesn't remember placing it there, but when the commander's hand smooths back a lock of his hair, all thoughts of continuity flit away. He sees the glint in his eyes, the soft upturn of his lips, and knows just then that the touch is intentional.
"Soren?"
Ike retrieved his gourd for himself and took a swig, but his eyes never left his tactician. Soren found himself seated unglamorously on his shins—they were starting to ache, too—with a map spread out between him and his commander. They each pinned down either side, with Soren's finger resting on some inexact point within Daein.
"Right," he rasped, and then loudly cleared his throat. "—right. Sorry. I just had a thought."
"Want a sip?"
Ike held out his gourd for Soren to study a moment.
"I'm fine, but thank you, commander."
"Care to share that thought with me?" asked Ike, setting the gourd on the map to weigh down his edge. The corners curled up on either side, and Soren would have objected in fear of a spill, but more pressing matters preoccupied his mind.
"May we continue first?"
Ike shrugged.
"If you say so."
He appeared distant to Soren. While it was a lovely thought to entertain, he knew this wasn't the courtly concern for his friend's inner and doubtlessly sensual turmoil or whatever he thought of it; after a father's death, a rise in rank, command of an army, an invasion, a betrayal, there was little room for trivialities such as romance and sex, no room for the minutiae of day-to-day management. Those lay in Soren's charge.
"We've been presented with a dilemma," he said once he finally remembered his place in the discussion. "To our east are the Winterseele Mountains… from their springs and melted snow flow the waters of Talrega, which we are by now firmly acquainted with. The range appears to expand just north of this region."
With his finger he indicated the mountains, mere brushstrokes on his aging and likely outdated map.
"And we either pass through or go around?"
"Correct. Unfortunately, we run the risk of enemy intervention no matter which route we choose. Daein's wyvern unit is certainly formidable, but it's preferable to the force of a full battalion. However, supplies are in dire need of replenishing, and taking this path is essentially a gamble."
"Are they, now?"
Of course. Anyone else would have been expelled from the tent with the force of a particularly strong and concentrated gust. But Soren answered slowly, with all the patience he could manage.
"As I mentioned yesterday."
"Sorry."
So am I, Soren thought to himself.
It required no explanation. Ike had a thought too.
"These are simply matters you should be aware of. It's impossible to make an informed decision without, quite frankly, the information."
Ike received the sternness better than Soren had anticipated.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he laughed.
"You would send the troops to war unarmed," Soren dryly responded.
To arms. He has two arms. Soren notices them at the strangest of times. One would think that, living in such close proximity to him, he would not observe the changes. But when he's reaching over the table to relieve Soren of half his plate, he notices how his limbs have thickened. He sees how his neck and shoulders, now strong and wide as a bull's, tauten when he brings his sword down. He sees his cape thrash behind him mid-combat and the shadows of his thighs beneath, the stiffness of his calves, how the muscles stretched thin the fabric of his white leggings. How he feels there, the tightness of his buttocks.
He sees the commander's hand, broad with dirt in his fingerprints, beneath his nails, his cuticles. He smells the pungency, the sweat, the richness; when Ike moves his hand to brush back a strand of his hair, he takes a finger into his mouth. He tastes salt. He hears the commander's breath hitch in his chest; he hears the strain in his murmurs, torn and ragged:
"Are you alright?"
"Hm?"
Soren returned to focus; Ike's was now a look of concern, and he realized he had been chewing on his own fingers.
"Something's biting you," offered Ike.
"True. I am a nail-biter." Soren let his hand fall. "Where were we?"
"Ha ha, not that. I mean something's bothering you."
Don't press the issue, Soren thought sourly; I gave you that courtesy.
"We're at war, Ike. You're as bothered as I am, and rightfully so."
"You're not this evasive when it comes to tactics."
"And you are, evidently," said Soren, and for all the mildness of his retort, he immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry—I'd just like to get through with this."
Though Ike didn't appear convinced, he humored Soren. That's all it was: humoring him. Ike wasn't one to back down in defeat, his stubbornness renowned throughout the company and unmatched.
"Fair enough. You were saying about equipment?"
What was he saying about equipment? Something he could mindlessly list off.
"It would take far too long to give you the name of every ill-equipped soldier, even in our little troupe. Their weapons are worn with use—everyone's. The armory is running low on materials, and I doubt those mountains are a popular destination for merchant convoys."
"So everyone but the laguz are in trouble."
"The laguz. Yes, well, they fight like animals, but they eat like animals as well."
Like animals— Soren could justify himself with this. These fantasies were unglamorous, yet was eating no less undignified? Sleeping, defecation, a stickiness beneath the covers some nights—all unseemly, yet natural functions of the body. People were more similar to animals than otherwise, beorc, laguz, or some abominable hybrid of the two not excepted.
Are they like animals? Do they writhe and snake in bed like dragons? Do they claw like the hawks, covet like the crows, growl and bite like beasts? Is it rhythmic? Do they hold, sway, hum like herons? Is it sweet or savage? Are they steady and methodic, or do they blindly grope and tumble—over the cot, against a wall, on a cold, hard floor, behind a tent, within a grove of trees, atop an aging map. Bruises, tears? All the better. Do they speak to one another, or do they cry out? Or stifle their sounds. Or simply catch their breaths.
Is it a surrender or a struggle? At times it's any blend of these; at times Soren finds himself above his commander, taking him or giving himself, or at other times the weight of the commander folding over him, bearing down on his shoulders, his chest or his arms, and their mattress is groaning if there is a mattress—or creaking as he is loved with vigor, with force. It is painful when it suits him, and painless when it does not. Their clothes can be gathered and piled together at the foot of the bed, tossed to the floor, or simply never removed. Ike is hulking, svelte, hairy, youthful, commanding, submissive, tender, wild—wherever Soren's whims take him. Sometimes there is a third: another variable, numerous, additional permutations and combinations. But he is unimportant.
What is important is that Soren does not know for certain and will likely never know.
"I don't know."
"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," said Ike.
"I don't know everything," Soren responded while he collected his thoughts. Ike laughed at this, to his relief. He'd asked for his opinion on their next course of action—what was that, again?
"I never would have guessed."
Soren sat back and let the map roll up on its own; Ike did the same.
"The reason," he began, lost his words, and paused. Started again. "This is a discussion, not an issue of orders. I trust your judgment as commander and general. The entire army excepting Shinon trusts your judgment; that is why we leave these decisions to you."
Ike smiled at Shinon's mention, which was a good sign.
"But I trust your judgment. And Titania's. And, well… that's about it, when it comes to these affairs. You're more level-headed and objective than I am. And Titania…"
"She's certainly more hands-on than I am," Soren said.
"You could almost say she's like a mother to us all."
Clearly the word "mother" held different connotations for the both of them.
"She offered to take stock this morning."
"Did you accept?" asked Ike.
"I told her she'd be of more use in the kitchen. It did not come off the way I intended."
Again, Ike smiled.
"In truth," Soren continued, "It gives me peace of mind to see to this all myself. If Titania had taken stock for me, I would have double-checked, and checked again, and she would have wasted her time rummaging through some sweaty leather chest-pieces and corroding equipment."
Leather, equipment—they have those within reach. They have their own belts, perfect for impromptu sessions. Soren's sash works well too. It's dark, it covers the eyes, it binds, it's soft enough to bite into. They can decide upon a night, steal away to the supplies tent, take their pick, or do it there.
He has his wrists bound together around a tent pole, stripped down to nothing but his headband, which he tugs from time to time. Here there are flogs, whips for the caravan beasts, clamps, rope of every length and thickness, rods, leather. Equipment.
He advances and he's wearing a pair of riding gloves. He forcefully cups the commander's chin in his hand and leans in close—his robes brush up against his bare front. Somehow the certain cold does not deter him, but this is a negligible detail.
He explores him like an animal, or a book, or however he has forever wished to explore him—his every crevice, every nerve. He taps him with the crop and sees where he winces, expecting a blow. There are the obvious places, but then unexpected source of sensitivity that varies from session to session, depending on Soren's mood: the neck, the sides, the lower back. Sometimes he pleads for it. Other times he's willful and rebellious. Mostly it is a gradual shift from the latter to the former. He cannot decide whether it tickles him more to break him like a stallion or recognize that Ike cannot be tamed, no matter how tight his binding—either way, their sessions are fresh every time. He may cry out when lashed, or groan, or grunt, or seethe. Or his teeth sink deeper into the sash. Soren may kneel and seize his hips and take him, or tie his wrists in front of him and bend him over and take him without neglecting the crop, or simply force himself back onto him, feel the nudge of his stomach against the curve of his back, feel the total control no matter which one of them takes it.
He can be in Ike's place, and often finds himself there. Willingly or unwillingly, depending on his fancy. Ike is not gentle with his handling, but expert; he knows every intimate, sensational secret of Soren's as well as Soren knows himself. He is red from the lashings, tender, receptive. Every sensation is heightened and raw. He is hoisted onto Ike, his hands fastened behind him—he squirms and begs and his commander answers with teeth to his neck. It remains the next day, and they hide their marks with cloth or collars. Theirs is a secretive affair, but marks of another sort may surface, an exchange of knowing glances, subtle references, innuendo…
"Really, what's the matter, Soren?"
"I'm starved," he blurted.
"Oh… well, so am I," said Ike, and then he stood up. His knees popped with the stretch— Soren was too preoccupied staring at his legs to notice the open hand extended before him.
"How about we eat first and talk this over later?"
Soren studied his hand as he had studied the gourd—and then he took it and prayed Ike could not feel the sweat through his gloves, allowed the commander to help him to his feet, and felt his own joints creak loose.
"I hate sitting still for too long," Ike said. "I don't like the stiffness. But you know that already."
Soren nodded.
As they left the rolled-up maps and outlines and plans to the shaded icebox that was their tent, one of them did not loosen his hand.