Though this one could pretty much be read as a standalone piece, it's also the third and -for now- final part to what has been unofficially dubbed the "Gold and Bronze" trilogy (Part 1 is Solo-Strifer's Should've Known) in the Strifehart Kink Meme archives. Again, I would like to mention that this one here is BaschxLeonxCloud, so if you're cool with that, have at it.
This marked the third time that they would cross blades.
The first time they stood off against each other, they had been the closest thing to enemies on the same side. They did not necessarily fight for the same goal, but their hearts belonged to the same person. That fight ended before it could even begin. Neither blade were even able to meet before they were opposed by swift intervention and harsh punishment, leaving both parties without a conclusion but humbled nonetheless.
The second time they brought their swords out, they had been something akin to rivals; one who had lost his place was fighting to reclaim it, and the other who earned the spot in his absence sought to test the former's worth, was ready to defend what was now his if necessary. This time, their blades did strike against one another, with the shrieking of metal and the flying of sparks that was requisite. They had even come close to drawing blood and dismemberment when they had been interrupted yet again by a third party.
It was this second intervention that changed everything for them. Now, as they prepared to fight one more time, they did so as friends. They still had too many differences to truly like each other in the novel sense of the word – the sort that involved matching bracelets or high-fives or secret handshakes – but they respected one another, for the skill as much as the person. They trusted the other to watch their back. That was enough.
"Do I feel sorry for you," the warrior spoke in a soft utter, a smug smirk in place as he readied his sword.
Rid of its cloth wrapping, careful administration to the Buster Sword's exposed surface left it shining like new, its edge sharper than ever. Its wielder stood with his body angled a little off to the side, legs apart and grounding him as he clutched the long hilt, pulling the weapon free from its scabbard as though it weighed nothing. The massive blade sliced the air, stopping just short of waist level.
Standing in opposition to him, the guardian assumed a lofty pose with the tip of Excalibur pressing into the hard earth and his palms overlapping atop its pommel. While not comparable to the Buster Sword's size or weight, the greatsword was nonetheless a reputable weapon of kings, the blade shining like silver while inlaid with a full length of gold markings. Yet, despite the stance of his opponent, its wielder did not move to pick up his own blade just yet.
"So, you are prepared?" he answered question with question, his tone soft but firm in its challenge.
The warrior sobered a little, adopting a more serious gleam to his burning blue eyes as his grip tightened about his weapon's hilt.
"Come what may," he spoke steadily, "I am ready."
"… I see you are."
With a soft huff of amusement, the guardian moved his hand, at last wrapping his fingers around Excalibur's hilt. With a flair, he pulled the noble blade from its stone sheath. He held it up, sharp edge facing his opponent with the blade tilted at an angle.
"Now," he spoke in turn, his own expression hardening into something a great deal more serious, "come at me."
The warrior did not need a second invitation to shift his grip and lunge forward. His display was highly aggressive, his experience in battling against the Darkness – both the worlds' as well as his own – having taught him that survival meant striking first, striking hard, and making every blow count. The heavy blade was moving behind him, and he used the momentum to swing it up in an arc.
Blade met with blade in an instant, their edges screeching as length dragged forcefully across length. A lesser blade would have shattered to pieces from the collective impact, but these two weapons did not so much as crack.
The guardian stood his ground with little trouble. He was a man who believed in honor and loyalty, the same sort of man who saw to protect first and draw second. His power lay not in a powerful attack, but in the counterattack that came after an impenetrable defense, when his opponent was momentarily caught unaware. With a twist of the hilt, he forced the grinding metal to separate, taking that opportunity to thrust forward.
Again, edge clashed with edge, one weapon's greater size enough to even the odds just by a little. It was a lucky move, shielding the warrior from a particularly nasty blow. Yet the force was still enough to drive him a few steps back, out of attacking distance once more.
With the first round his to claim, the guardian allowed himself a small smile as he teased lightly, in good humor: "Amateur."
"… Yeah?" the warrior retorted, still grinning as he felt the adrenaline rush hit him, "Too bad this isn't my place to stop."
They clashed again, stronger and fiercer than ever. Though their eyes burned intensely and every strike was deadly, they laughed. This felt a game to them, each man trying to outdo the other with any impressive move they could think of at the moment. Both were of the sort to dedicate their skills to power instead of speed, and thus were able to match evenly well into the fight.
That was when they found themselves interrupted once more. It happened very quickly, and the guardian barely had time to knock the warrior out of the way before raising the flat of his blade to meet the incoming attack. With a solid whack, the ball of ice ricocheted off its surface and shot toward the cliffs where it promptly shattered on impact.
Sitting on a rock nearby, the intervening third party still had his hand out, his fingers only starting to curl inward without hurry. In his hand was the gunblade, drawn and ready. His eyes flicked back and forth, looking from warrior to guardian then back to warrior, before he slid off the rock and stepped forward.
"Starting without me?" he asked. "Perhaps I should be offended."
"You're supposed to be healing," the warrior protested.
"What," the intruder retorted with a challenge, "are you afraid of losing?"
A pause, and then the smirks were back on those faces. There was no more hesitation as the players entered the ring once more. This time, though, they made room for one more in their midst. The third member was faster than them, his attacks consequently less damaging upon impact. Nevertheless, he was relentless in his endeavors, his finger always on the trigger and ready to pull with each given opening. No holds barred.
The game was ceasing, evolving in its form, taking on a more noble air as movement flowed into movement. It stopped being a mad clash of swords, morphing instead into an insane dance accompanied by high-pitched chimes and wailing shrieks. Every one faced the other, their powerful strikes like the clapping of hands between one partner to another. And they constantly turned, spinning on their heels and sweeping their blades in the momentum.
The guardian led the way, his manner assured and confident. And they trusted in him, allowing him to guide their steps while challenging him with subtle changes of their own. But this was his dance to command, and every attempt to rebel was swiftly suppressed with a loud clanging of blades and a breathless chuckle. Neither was easy to tame, all had their pride. The battle for control went on and on with every spin and turn.
Still, the match was unexpectedly halted when the latecomer suddenly jumped up and barreled forward at high speed, tackling the two that just so happened to line themselves up for him. With that one swift and impulsive move, all three hit the ground and rolled apart with no sign of maiming damage.
And just like that, it was over.
"… that was unfair," the warrior noted between pants and disorientated blinks.
"That doesn't count," the culprit replied, propping himself on elbows as he aimed a playful glare at the two before him. "Next time, don't try to exclude me."
"Understood," the guardian answered through breathless, mirthful chuckles.
Half an hour later, the three had moved on to one of the homes where they each took a turn at the shower before they could sit down and relax. As the owner of the place, the one called Leon set his gunblade down in its usual spot before retiring to the kitchen. Pouring a generous amount of cider into a saucepan, he set it on the stove, going through his collection of spices and tossing a choice few into the steadily warming apple drink.
The aroma of the mixture was just starting to waft through the air when another joined him in the kitchen. Dressed in a worn tank top and loose khaki shorts – casual attire that seemed mismatched with his knight's disposition – the one called Basch approached him from the right. He paused when there was but half an arm's length of distance between them. In this peaceful setting, the usually strong and self-assured guardian was suddenly meek and lacking in the confidence to close that last gap.
Leon smiled freely, his eyes softening with fondness as he took the initiative. With his attention still on the mulled cider he was preparing, his hand reached to the side until he felt warm skin against his fingertips. Stroking a familiar scar on one shoulder, he finally found his way to the taller man's arm and gently pulled against it, just enough to coax him forward.
Within a few hesitant steps, Basch closed the gap at last. Pressing into Leon's back, he slowly drew his arms around the brunet, one hand encircling his waist while the other lingered on his forearm. Nothing more was done, not without consent. Spooning the younger man, he exhaled deeply, the warm breath answered with a pleased hum.
At last, Leon deemed the fragrant beverage ready and flicked the dial once more. Soggy, no longer necessary spices were removed in spite of the older blond still clinging to the cook as he was. With the final bit of debris disposed of, the brunet turned in the slack hold. One hand pressed against the edge of the counter, and the other reached up to trace the outline of the face before him. Threading through thick blond hair, he drew the man closer, bringing their lips together.
As Basch murmured about how he smelled like cinnamon and orange, one eye remained open, peering pass his head and into the living room. Sitting on the couch, the one called Cloud was watching them forlornly. He looked the part of a lonesome puppy like that, yet he did not make the same bold move for what he wanted. Sighing into Basch's lower lip, Leon raised a hand and beckoned him forward.
It did not take a second for him to find Basch's mouth replaced by Cloud's, the younger brunet pressing with need. Instead, he could feel much softer kisses trailing up his neck, a steadying hand on his waist keeping him on his feet despite the added force to the exchange. It was an altogether different setting from the sparring session of earlier, the roles so similar yet so different.
Basch was gentle, no matter to whom he gave his affection. He treated the flesh under his hands, his lips and his tongue with an almost reverent care, too cautious against driving the other away. His grip was strong, but his caresses were tender to the touch. The quietest of his moans hinted at how much he loved and desired, all the while holding himself back from hurting the very objects of his passion. Feeling the man wrap around him like a warm blanket, Leon felt safe and protected.
Cloud was fierce, going in with clawing nails and biting teeth alongside all that he did. He moved with desperation, so terrified of the prospect that he could lose the ones he treasured so dearly that he was intent on making the most out of every second that ticked by. He held back nothing, bruising skin and drawing blood, releasing inner masochistic desires in the others that they never realized they had before. With the man clinging to him like a lifeline, Leon felt himself to be needed.
The two of them balanced each other out like that, neither man able to replace the other in his heart. Leon loved them both dearly, and a part of him would always be grateful that he did not have to, ultimately, sacrifice one for the other. He would never know what compelled them to compromise as they did, but it worked out.
What happened in the bed stayed in the bed; what happened outside of it stayed outside. Away from their public life and prying eyes, the pair of blonds that did not like each other all that much comfortably desired one another instead. And if they were still fighting for dominance, they kept it at the minimal, still keeping the brunet they both loved deeply out of their little battle for power. The proud, stubborn asses.
Regardless, it was Leon – always Leon – who led the way, steering them in the direction of his choice. This was the kitchen, after all, and it would not do for them to upset anything breakable or otherwise messy to clean up afterwards. Despite being the one who was taken by both blonds, he knew enough from experience to keep either one from actually peaking. Not yet, his reprimanding touches told them. Just wait a little longer. Always, reluctantly, they heeded him; later, they would be grateful for it.
They paused long enough to reach the bedroom, to properly shed their clothes and avoid an embarrassing situation involving shredded fabric later. Bare against one another, they resumed from where they left off, this time without anything to be too concerned about. While Leon had never quite got around to purchasing a larger bed, the futon he got instead was enough to accommodate them all. And they used that to their full advantage.
Cloud had a thing for bondage, but Basch despised it. They compromised by using hands – only hands – to restrain, and whatever devilish trick the younger blond used, he managed to even persuade the older blond to be in on it. Basch's large callused hand wrapped tightly around Leon's wrists, holding them together and above his head while Cloud worked his way over the helpless body beneath him, delighting in every sensitive area he could find, relishing in every pleasurable moan and cry that he heard.
For his efforts, Basch was rewarded in kind. Leon had discovered with past experience that the man was particularly aroused by certain hotspots over others; that slight protrusion of skin just behind his teeth most certainly was one of the most effective ones. And despite himself, Basch seemed to really enjoy receiving oral stimulation as well. While Cloud was initially put off by the very thought of that demeaning posture, he was just starting to come around, raking his teeth over heated flesh with given opportunity.
Leon never spoke of what particular pleasure he preferred, instead reveling in the caresses that they pampered him with. He was too used to either one, too adaptable to his situation, that he guessed, maybe, he did not really have a kink of his own. He was just satisfied with what he had, content in the company of the two blonds who were so very careful – even Cloud – when they finally went about preparing him. He knew each man by their girth, by their hesitation, by their final shuddering orgasm that left all three in an uproar of elation.
And when, at last, they were done, they lay down together, lost to a haze of drowsiness and remnant lust. Cloud was on his left, Basch was on his right. Cloud's arm draped over the cooling skin on his back, his hand clutching onto Basch's forearm. That forearm was just over his waist, Basch's hand laid gently over Cloud's hip.
It felt peaceful like this, in the lazy minutes that drifted by.
"… I want cider," Cloud eventually muttered in a childish, sleepy tone. And with a soft chuckle, Basch pressed closer against Leon's shoulder to slap the younger blond on his backside.
They couldn't be happier.