A/N: It is 3AM and I can hear my neighbors from across the complex shushing one of their intoxicated friends, who is making bird noises and chasing the flock of partridges around. Also, I feel like I failed at some points in this chapter but dammit, it's like 6000 words longer than usual so whatever.
Chapter Six
In which there are pants and several cups of wine
Shinon had started their morning before the sun was even all the way up, settling against the broad expanse of Gatrie's back and pressing his lips to the nape of the other man's neck. Absently he trailed his fingers along the blond's arm, tracing muscle and scars.
"I know you overheard Mist last night," he finally murmured into Gatrie's hair. "And I don't care if it's tradition, I'm not having any of it this year."
Gatrie chuckled. "Not any?"
The sniper took a moment to consider. "The part where you fuck me blind I can handle, the rest I can do without."
"The rest?" Gatrie rolled over so he could look Shinon in the eye in the dim light. "Are you talking about the year that you said that the thief was a—what was it? 'Fucktrumpet'?—before you realized that it was Rolf's idea? Or the year after that when I got you and you punched me, and Greil confined you to quarters for two days for punching one of his men?"
"Gatrie—"
"Oh!" The knight grinned widely. "During the Mad King's War, when you tried to knock my teeth out after I got you! That's probably what you're referring to, right?"
"Gatrie, I swear—"
Still grinning, the blond leaned in to kiss him. "The year after that I just took all your laundry after it had been finished, so it wasn't so much taking the pants off you as it was just taking your pants in general." Another kiss. "I don't remember what you called me, but it wasn't polite. And I think the year after that—"
Shinon reached between them to cover the other man's mouth. "Alright, I'm an asshole, is that your point?"
Gatrie raised an eyebrow, and the sniper removed his hand. Then he entangled his fingers in the redhead's hair and pulled him in to kiss him. "You don't always respond well to tradition," he finally murmured, rolling them over.
"Tradition?" Shinon barked, briefly struggling. "It's not a tradition, it's a stupid thing that happens every year that nobody wants to participate in but gets roped into anyway by certain people."
"That's exactly what a tradition is," Gatrie chuckled, nuzzling his lips against Shinon's neck. He was trying to distract him, Shinon realized, and he bit back a groan as the knight's teeth scraped along his earlobe.
"It is not—"
"Hush." It was Gatrie's turn to cover Shinon's mouth. "It's funny, the way you overreact." He took a moment to sweep Shinon's hair to one side and trail sucking kisses down the other man's throat and collarbone. "Endearing might be the right word for it, even if you did call Rolf a fucktrumpet."
"I'm about to call you—"
"Hush," the knight repeated. He had worked his way down the sniper's torso at this point, trailing kisses the whole way. Briefly he examined the sizable scar on the right side of Shinon's stomach, right below his ribs. "Is it bothering you?" he finally asked, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the redhead's side.
The sniper buried the fingers of one hand in Gatrie's hair, unlacing his pants with the other. The blond chuckled and repeated the question even as he wrapped a hand around Shinon's cock.
"A bit," Shinon groaned softly. He gasped as the knight's mouth replaced his hand. "Fuck, Gatrie."
Gatrie chuckled and it looked as though he were contemplating a smart remark, but none came. Instead he seemed to swallow Shinon whole, teasing and dragging it out as long as he could. Ashera, but he was skilled, though it probably helped that they had been together for three years. Still, Shinon gasped and clawed at the knight's shoulders and eventually found himself doing his best not to fuck Gatrie's mouth outright, instead growling that he needed to finish now, before people started waking up.
Gatrie hummed and obliged, and as he leaned back up, swallowing, Shinon could see the scratches he'd left all over the other man's shoulders. It was goddessdamned satisfying, staking claim to the other man despite the fact that his armour covered the majority of the marks. Grinning, the sniper pulled Gatrie in and licked a slow, deliberate line up his neck, drawing a long, satisfied groan.
"Fuuuck, Shinon." Fingers caught in his hair as Shinon bit down, right under the blond's ear, where he knew it would be visible. "Ah! Hey, watch what you're doing!" The knight pulled away and dragged him in for a kiss. "It's like you're trying to stake a claim to me, or something."
Shinon chuckled and sat up, handing the knight the ribbon he used to tie his hair and re-lacing his pants. "Well, the way you were going on about Lethe's sister the other day, I've got cause for concern. What else is a man to do?"
Gatrie knelt behind him and gathered his hair up, tying it tight. "In my defense, they're both gorgeous."
"In my defense," Shinon retorted, "you've got a track record for noticing anything that's wearing a skirt. I still stand by what I said the other day. You would compliment a tree if we put it in a dress."
The blond's lips met his neck. "You know I don't mean anything by it. I can appreciate the way someone looks without it being more."
Shinon snorted and caught the knight's hand as it snaked around his waist, lifting it and pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist. "You are an absolute fucktrumpet."
At that, Gatrie started laughing. "I love you, too."
())CRAYOLA))
She had expected him to be a bit annoyed, but what she hadn't expected was for him to start laughing, scoop her into his arms, and kiss her forehead.
"Really, Lin?"
Thank Ashera that he was taking it well, because if he had been a grouch about it she might well have lost her nerve. Marcia had reassured her that it was fine and that they had been so focused on the civil war as it was that they'd probably missed it, and then she had also reminded Elincia that Bastian would be less than pleased to hear that his queen had neglected (what he considered to be) a tradition. Still, she had been nervous, particularly because the count was nowhere to be found and as such couldn't be turned to if Geoffrey got huffy.
But he'd turned bright red as she pushed him down on the bed and unlaced his breeches, and he had stammered out something-or-other (she really hadn't been paying attention, and at this point it had happened two years in a row anyhow, with the only difference being this year's lack of Bastian) and at one point he had touched her shoulder as though to push her away. That had been terrifying, but still, she had pressed forward.
If she could rule her country and halt a civil war, she could most certainly take Geoffrey's pants.
And it wasn't really that terrible, having his arms around her and his laughter enveloping her, and she found herself laughing with him, letting him roll them over and press his lips to her neck, cheeks, forehead. Gradually they became more heated, that familiar warmth building at her core. One of his hands found its way to her breast, and he let out an appreciative groan when she hooked her legs around his, drawing him close. Ashera, but it felt good to have Geoffrey on top of her, half-naked and flushed and both of them pretending that his arousal wasn't pressing against her so intimately, moreso than usual given that his breeches were in an unceremonious pile on the floor. Grinning, she leaned up to nip at his throat. His breath hitched and his hips seemed to move of their own accord.
"Elincia," he breathed, and a moment later, "I need to g-get back t-to—"
"General," she replied, taking a moment to pull his collar aside and examine where his tan ended, "you will give me a moment of your time."
"Your Majesty—"
In response to that, Elincia bit him, relishing the way he cried out in surprise. What might have been half an objection escaped his lips as she latched onto the juncture between his neck and shoulder, and then he was breathing hard and rocking against her, letting out her name in a soft hiss as she brushed his blue hair aside to trail open-mouthed kisses up the side of his neck. When she reached his earlobe she bit down there too, sucking gently, albeit not hard enough to leave a mark. At this point he was practically whimpering, clinging to her and breathing heavily, still grinding against her. Goddess, he seemed ready to burst, the way he was thrusting against her through his smallclothes. A wicked idea seized her, and Elincia made a mental note to thank Marcia for reminding her of the Greil Mercenaries' bizarre springtime tradition. Carefully she fisted a hand in his hair and dragged her teeth along the shell of his ear, something she had noticed he particularly liked.
"Geoffrey," she purred, and that was all it took. The paladin let out a long, low groan into her shoulder, his whole body tensing before he sank into her, arms finally giving out and heat pooling between them. For a long time, he was silent, and she noticed that his ears were turning red. "Geoffrey, it's alright."
"I'm sorry," he murmured into her shoulder.
"For what?" When he refused to look at her or answer, she sighed. "General Geoffrey, look at me and explain. Why are you apologizing?"
"Don't you use your queen voice on me, Your Majesty," he huffed, finally propping himself back up with one arm and looking at her. "You know why I'm apologizing."
"I don't!" Elincia felt her brow furrowing and tried to relax. "But maybe I'm misunderstanding. Please, Geoffrey."
"I'm apologizing for..." he paused, searching for the right words. "...a lack of self-control. I shouldn't...that...it shouldn't have happened."
It was almost unbelievable, and she couldn't help laughing. When he made as though he was going to get up and leave, she threw her arms around his neck, drawing him in and kissing him.
"Geoffrey, it's just me," she murmured against his lips.
"Elincia—"
"Don't interrupt me, Geoffrey." He gave her a surprised look, and she kissed him again. "Geoffrey, it's me. You go on and on about how you're mine, and that you'll give me whatever I want or need, because you're mine. But that means that I am yours, too." Then she felt herself turning red. "And I want to do the same for you."
Finally he was smiling. "So your reasoning was that it was appropriate to call me to your quarters in the middle of the day, force me down and take my pants despite my protests, and then do your absolute best to make me lose complete control of myself."
Elincia nodded and kissed him. "See, I knew you'd understand." Then she pulled away, sitting up and glancing down. Goddess, they'd made a bit of a mess. "Really, you should be thanking me."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Oh?"
She grinned devilishly. "If I hadn't taken your pants, you'd have needed to change yours by this point." Geoffrey turned bright red at that, and Elincia lay back down, inviting him to settle back against her. He accepted the offer, curling against her side. "I wanted that, Geoffrey, and I know that you did too."
"I love you," Geoffrey breathed. "Thank you, Lin."
It would be the first time she said it to him. She caught his hand, squeezing tightly.
"I love you, too."
())CRAYOLA))
Muarim let out a heavy sigh, and from somewhere above them he heard Vika snort.
"I can't say that this is the most productive use of our time, little one."
The sage beamed up at him. "Well it's not like I can celebrate with Sothe right now."
())CRAYOLA))
He found Soren in the strategy tent just past noon, surrounded by papers. Ink smeared the smaller man's fingers, and Ike noticed a smudge on his cheek as well. "I brought you tea."
"Mm." The tactician reached out absently with one hand, flipping through pages with the other, not so much as glancing up. "Speaking of which, you bought us a rather generous satchel of tea at the last town we passed through; do you think we should include that as an expense or write it off as personal spending?"
Ike frowned, placing Soren's cup in his hand. The sage accepted and breathed deep before he took a sip, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to dissipate slightly. Every page in front of him was filled to the edges with numbers and notes, and Ike recognized what his husband was working on.
"Finances? This early in the day?"
Soren still didn't look up. "Ranulf said he would cover all our costs, and he can't well do that if we don't document our spending."
Ike leaned over Soren's shoulder, partly to examine the paperwork and partly to drop a kiss to the top of the tactician's head. "Well, I'd technically call the tea personal spending," he murmured after a moment. Carefully he caught the sage's chin and tilted his head back, and Soren finally turned to kiss him properly. "But I might say it was necessary, given the amount of stress you're under because of Skrimir."
Soren rolled his eyes and indicated the chair next to him. "I can handle him without needing extra tea, Ike."
The swordsman grinned and sat down. "But I can't handle you if you're worked up all the time."
There was a long pause, and Soren noted the tea as an expense. Ike chuckled at that, and Soren turned to kiss him again. "Are you staying here, then?"
Ike groaned. "You know what day it is. I know you know what day it is because you're in here at noon doing finances, instead of someplace where people can come and go as they please. I'm not going anywhere, not until I know for a fact that Mist and the brothers have all gotten it out of their systems."
"I'm surprised that Ranulf and Skrimir are allowing this sort of nonsense." Soren was shuffling through his papers again, and handed a stack to Ike. "Put those someplace safe, where you won't forget to give them to Ranulf later."
He nodded, dropped them on an available chair, and kicked off his boots. "You know I'll forget, Soren."
"I can hope that one day you'll learn some responsibility regarding the business side of your business."
There was a long silence as Soren stacked pages, occasionally writing something down or sipping his tea. Finally he looked over to Ike. "What are you thinking about?"
Ike shrugged and finished his tea. "When we were younger. You were happier then. Or at the very least, not as tense." He placed his cup on the table and leaned over, resting his head on the sage's shoulder.
"I bore fewer burdens. I knew nothing of my brand, of the hardships of war." Soren took a moment to date the last piece of parchment and set his quill down.
"You were happy when we were together."
The sage sipped his tea. "I am still happy when we are together."
Ike smiled. Carefully he took Soren's tea from him and placed it on the table. Then he hoisted the sage up and pulled him into his lap. Soren gave him a look. Ike chuckled and kissed him.
"Do you remember the night we got together?"
Soren's lips curved upward. He straddled Ike's hips and pulled him close, letting his arms fall around Ike's shoulders. It wasn't meant to be a sexual gesture and Ike took it as nothing more, simply Soren being intimate.
"Yes," Soren murmured. "Very clearly. We were out hunting with Oscar, and you and I were sharing a tent, and you had the gall to try and kiss me as I slept."
"And you opened your eyes and scared the life out of me and asked exactly that. If I was going to kiss you." Ike pressed his forehead to Soren's.
"And you stammered and tried to avoid the subject and finally told me that you had feelings for me."
"And you asked me why."
Soren chuckled at that. "And what did you tell me?"
"The same things that I would still tell you now," he murmured against the sage's lips. "That I love you because you are by far the smartest person I know and that you are incredibly handsome and that you make me feel like the most important man in the world, and because you're the one who introduced me to cinnamon-liquorice tea and red wine, and you've got such perfect writing. You're so talented, Soren, and I couldn't dream of working alongside anyone else. You have a wonderful laugh and a good sense of humour if we get you in the right mood, and you're good company, even if all we're doing is sitting in the same place doing completely different things." Ike kissed his brand. "I love you because you are you, even on days that you don't like what you are, and even on days when you're upset with me for doing something reckless."
Soren was flushed, just barely, but he was grinning. "And then after that? Do you remember?"
Ike rolled his eyes. "I got all nervous and began stammering. You rolled over and said you were going back to sleep and then I made to roll you back over. And you caught my hand and kissed my fingers."
"And you kissed my brand," Soren continued. His arms tightened around Ike's shoulders as he pressed himself closer, and Ike squeezed him, pressing his lips to the other man's throat. "Yes, just like that."
"And then I got all worried about it and almost didn't go through with it, but you were underneath me and looking up and holding my hand and you just looked so damned beautiful, and you were giving me that look you always do, that get on with it look, yes, that one, right there." Ike couldn't help chuckling as Soren flicked his ear.
"And you kissed me," Soren breathed. His crimson eyes were shining, his slender fingers buried in Ike's hair, nails gently caressing.
"Hardly." Ike let his eyes drift shut. "And you asked if I was satisfied, and when I was unsure, you grabbed me and hauled me down on top of you and—"
Soren kissed him, hard and sudden, and Ike groaned as the sage's tongue delved deep, lighting fire in his veins. It was entirely unlike their first kisses; this was all tongues and teeth and rapidly-growing want, the dark-haired man teasingly grinding against Ike and chuckling when Ike gripped his hips and arched upward, seeking more friction. The sage's hands worked open his collar and then his mouth was on Ike's neck, biting and sucking and leaving a trail that would be obvious for days. Ike slid his hands to the tactician's backside, squeezing, and Soren bit down on the side of his neck harder than he had anticipated, drawing blood and groaning in response. Soren was taking great care to make sure that both sides of Ike's neck matched in terms of bruising (and really, who was Ike to complain?) and after he was content with his work, he swept his tongue across the shell of Ike's ear, followed by another, gentler bite. One hand slid down his chest, tracing the contours of muscle before Soren finally gripped him through his pants, fisting the other hand in Ike's hair and pulling his head back so he could access the commander's throat. Ike groaned, gripping Soren's shoulder as the sage teased him, all gentle touches and wet kisses and not nearly enough of the contact that he found himself craving.
It had been weeks since they'd had a whole day to themselves, weeks since they had had a chance to be truly intimate, and now that it was here it would be a shame to waste it.
"I need you," Soren murmured, pressing a final kiss to Ike's lips. He slid off the chair and fell to his knees in front of Ike, unbuckling his belt in record time. Nimble fingers unlaced his pants next, and then the sage was sliding them down, pressing wet kisses to Ike's inner thigh, drawing a shiver. Ike buried his fingers in Soren's hair, desperate for attention, and briefly he wondered how the other man was maintaining his composure when he had so clearly articulated his want just moments before, but it was Soren, and Soren was nothing if not skilled at keeping a level head, no matter what.
"Please," he breathed. It had been an eternity, and Soren was getting farther away from his goal, trailing his lips down Ike's calf, inch by inch. And while it was nice, being undressed so slowly and attentively, Ike was fairly certain that if Soren didn't touch him soon he might explode.
"Ike." Soren's tone indicated that he was smiling, and Ike looked down. The look on his husband's face was decidedly mischievous. "You know what day it is."
"You wouldn't."
It turned out that Soren would. He didn't even move quickly, but Ike was so dumbfounded that he couldn't help but watch the sage step out of reach, pants in hand, and saunter toward the tent entrance. As he passed the stack of paperwork that Ike had set aside, he picked that up too.
"I'll give these to Ranulf for you." His voice was low, heavy with want. "You best be in our tent before I get there."
Ike swallowed and nodded, and Soren slipped out.
())CRAYOLA))
Ranulf had caught the scent of Soren long before the tactician actually arrived. Wind, fire, lighting, ink, and parchment, mingling with the steel and leather that made up Ike, traced with dragon (which was something Ranulf had often been curious about, but about which he had no right to ask) and wrapped in the undeniable scent of lust. When he spotted the other man, Ranulf grinned. There was no mistaking it. Soren had a stack of invoices in one hand and Ike's pants in the other, and when he caught the cat's eye one corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly.
"I wouldn't have guessed you'd be the one adhering to tradition," Ranulf chuckled when the sage was within earshot.
"There is much that you don't know about me, Ranulf." Soren had never said his name so casually before. He held out the invoices. "These are for you."
He accepted the parchment and flipped through briefly. Then he glanced up and raised an eyebrow at the sage. Soren's expression had always been fairly neutral, but now that tiny grin was still present, and it grew when he seemed to realize what exactly Ranulf had just seen. The cat opened his mouth, decided against causing a scene regarding finances in the middle of camp, and caught the sage's wrist, dragging him into his tent.
"Really? You're charging us for tea?"
"If you have issue with our spending, take it up with the commander," Soren replied. His expression was back to that unreadable half-scowl that Ranulf was most familiar with. "He's the one who determined it was an expense, not me."
Ranulf groaned, and then chuckled, sinking onto his bedroll and flipping through a few more pages. "You're absolutely merciless, you know."
"Mm."
"But we'd be lost without you." He meant it, and tapped Soren's ankle with his foot. "You're very good at what you do, Soren."
Ah, there it was again, and it was unmistakable; Soren was smiling, just barely, and it was for him, not for Ike. "You hired me for exactly that reason."
"I did." He sighed, indicating the spread of parchment before him. "I'll have a look at all this and see if there's anything I disagree with." Then he grinned suggestively. "I'd invite you to stay and help, but I'm sure you've got plans, if Ike's lack of attire is anything to go by."
"Mm." It wasn't an answer, exactly, but the colour that rose to Soren's cheeks was all the confirmation in the world. "I had assumed we wouldn't be marching today, given the way things are unfolding."
"No, you're completely right. At this point there's no way to get everyone under control and make progress before nightfall, and I don't plan to throw off everyone's sleep pattern even if we are capable of marching through the night." Ranulf stood, clapping a hand onto the sage's shoulder and grinning when it wasn't shrugged off. "Go on, have some fun. You've both earned a day to yourselves, but you especially, Soren. Your patience with Skrimir has been..." he paused, searching for the right word. "...astounding. I know how difficult he can be to work with, especially given that laguz tactics are what they are. He's been testing your patience and you've held together far better than anyone gives you credit for, and you deserve a chance to get your frustrations out. In fact," Ranulf smirked, "I think that's your official job for today. To get your frustrations out."
At this point, Soren's flush had spread to his ears; clearly he wasn't used to receiving praise or orders that were laced with innuendo. "My frustration is none of your concern."
"It is if it affects your work." Ranulf spun the shorter man around and opened the tent flap. "Which I know it wouldn't, but as your employer I think it's better to be safe than sorry." He lowered his voice as they stepped outside. "Now get going. I'm sure Ike is just as desperate for you as you are for him. If nothing else, you should give his pants back."
Soren muttered something in Ancient that Ranulf didn't quite catch as the sage stalked away, but he was heading in the direction of his and Ike's tent, the commander's pants half-hidden beneath his cloak. The cat chuckled to himself, remembered the stack of parchment on his bedroll that needed to be looked over, and decided that there were better ways to spend the afternoon.
())CRAYOLA))
It had been torturous, waiting, but finally Soren appeared. He grinned when he noticed Ike's state of undress and the telltale way their blankets tented at his hips, indicating his arousal, and immediately the sage shrugged off the outer layer of his robes, never breaking eye contact with Ike. His shirt joined his robes on the ground a moment later, followed quickly by his pants. Goddess, he was beautiful, and Ike reached out and caught the sage's hand, pulling him down and kissing him. Soren fit against him perfectly, tongue meeting his and his fingers finding their way back into Ike's hair. A soft gasp broke free as Ike trailed kisses down his jaw and neck, then across his bare shoulder, tracing the faded outline of a long-healed wound with his tongue.
Soren broke away, slipping beneath the blankets and curling against Ike's side, fingers tracing teasing lines into his chest. After a moment, he spoke. "I'm under orders from our employer."
"What?" Ike frowned. "I...I thought that you'd be here. You are here, you can't—"
Garnet eyes locked onto his, silencing him. "You'll like the job, Ike." As he spoke, Soren reached down, finally wrapping his hand around Ike's cock.
"O-oh?"
"Mm." Lips met his neck. "I'm supposed to get my frustrations out."
"Oh?" This was interesting.
"Something about making sure my stress doesn't impact my work." Soren leaned down, circling one of Ike's nipples with his tongue, drawing a gasp. "It's not an unreasonable request, given the nature of our contract." Then he looked Ike in the eye, grinning ferally and squeezing his length. "And so, Commander, I'll be needing your assistance."
Ike swallowed hard; Soren had never made sex seem so businesslike, but in its own way, it was arousing. "I'd be glad to help in any way I can," he breathed, arching into the sage's touch.
"Good," Soren purred, and then more gently, "On your hands and knees, Ike."
Ike obeyed, and Soren sat next to him, pressing his lips against Ike's ribs. One of the tactician's hands wandered over his body, and through his peripheral Ike could see Soren stroking himself with the other. Finally he stopped, and Ike heard him rummaging through their belongings.
Oh.
He had expected the slickness of oil spread over Soren's fingers; instead he felt the chill of half the container poured over him. The shock made him gasp and sink to his forearms, moaning as the sage's fingers followed suit, coating him thoroughly. Soren let out a pleased sound at this point and leaned over, smoothing a layer of oil over Ike's cock and whispering for the swordsman to thrust. Ike obeyed, grinding into Soren's hand and gritting his teeth; it was something, at least, but Soren's grip was loose, teasing. Not enough.
After some time Soren pulled away. A new wave of arousal overtook Ike and he moaned at the loss of contact, but at least now he'd get some relief. Fingers grazed against his entrance and Ike bit his lip in anticipation, but Soren was still intent on teasing. Ike groaned, pushing against them to no avail; Soren simply shifted with him, his touches feather-light. Soft whispers of what was to come.
"Please, Soren," Ike finally begged, and the sage chuckled.
"Please what?" Soren went right on tormenting him.
Ike groaned, spreading his legs further. "I need you, Soren, right now. Please, please touch me."
"I am touching—"
"You know what I mean," Ike retorted, and suddenly Soren's fingers were inside him, sending electricity through his nerves and making him cry out in pleasure. Ashera, he hadn't expected it, but it was far from painful, and the sage was always careful. Soren set a slow, torturous rhythm, refusing to touch Ike anywhere else, occasionally commenting on how good Ike looked, spread out and at his mercy. There wasn't much else to do but groan and be patient; despite his best efforts and planning, Soren hadn't had full control over anyone or anything since the night of their first battle, and Ike wasn't about to take this away from him no matter how badly he needed to come.
Eventually Soren shifted, smoothing one hand down Ike's back and letting it settle on his hip as he positioned himself. Wordlessly he eased in, gripping Ike's waist and groaning the whole time. It was almost overwhelming, and when he was fully sheathed Soren sank against him, pressing kisses to Ike's spine.
"Do something for me," he finally murmured, stroking a single finger up Ike's still-slick erection. He still hadn't moved, content to take in the sensation of their bodies connected so intimately, and Ike wasn't about to complain. Soren fit him perfectly, stretching him wide and filling him far beyond the point of mere satisfaction.
"Anything," Ike breathed.
"Don't stifle your voice." Soren moved just slightly, the shallowest thrusts imaginable. "You always bite your lip, or grit your teeth, or muffle it somehow. I want to hear you, and," Soren gently palmed the head of Ike's cock and gripped him tightly, "I want Ranulf to hear you, too."
The thought of it sent a thrill through him, and he felt his cock twitch. "Absolutely."
"Good." Then, gently, "I love you, Ike."
"I love you too." He rolled his hips slightly, drawing a moan from the other man. "Please, Soren."
"As you wish, Commander."
())CRAYOLA))
It had taken no time at all for Kyza to notice him, grin ferally, and stalk toward him. Ranulf recognized the look on the other man's face and knew he had no chance.
Still, it wouldn't do to be out in the open.
He got a fair ways out of camp before he slowed and let Kyza catch up to him. Then the tiger was backing him against a tree, purring deep in his chest and kissing him even as he fumbled with the shorter man's clothing. Ranulf met the tiger's tongue with equal fervour and reached up to loosen both their collars, and Kyza nipped at his lower lip before pulling away, nuzzling against Ranulf's chest as he slid the cat's pants down.
"It's good to see you adopting the traditions of our friends," Ranulf chuckled, entangling his fingers in the tiger's hair and tilting his head back, eager.
Kyza hummed, and when Ranulf's pants had been tossed aside he leaned back up and dragged his teeth across the cat's throat. "It's too good an opportunity to pass up, Captain."
"O-oh?" Ranulf gasped, gripping Kyza's hair. Goddess, they had spent six consecutive nights together, three of which had involved Skrimir as well. How on earth did Kyza still have the energy for this?
"I'd take as many chances to be with you as possible," the tiger murmured. After a moment he caught Ranulf's tongue between his teeth, sending a spark of pleasure through him. Kyza's hands were wandering, and after a moment the tiger hoisted him up, using the tree as leverage to keep him up. Ranulf groaned, hooking his arms around the larger man's shoulders and wrapping his legs around Kyza's waist. A shudder ran through him as Kyza's tongue met the side of his neck again. Kyza was hard, grinding against him and pressing biting kisses to every inch of Ranulf's neck that he could.
Between kisses he managed to ask Ranulf to take him, and the cat chuckled.
"Not today, Kyza."
Kyza pulled away just enough to look Ranulf in the eye, and he seized the opportunity to leave marks of his own on the tiger. "What—nn—what do you—Captain—mean? Ha—ah!—aven't I—"
"I always take you, Kyza." He tightened his legs around the other man's hips, and they both groaned at the friction.
"You're my superior officer," Kyza murmured, but the idea already seemed to have taken root. "I-it wouldn't be—"
"I can ask you or I can order you, Kyza." Ranulf pressed a sucking kiss against his throat, and when he felt the tiger squeeze his backside he dragged him down, forcing his tongue against the other man's. "There's oil in my satchel, and I know you'll be far gentler with me than Skrimir is. I need this."
"Captain—"
"Kyza, please." He couldn't be bothered to wait for the other man and fumbled through his bag himself as the tiger nuzzled against his neck, contemplating. When he finally found what he was looking for, he caught Kyza's chin, looking him in the eye. "I'm not ordering you, as your superior." Gently he buried his claws in Kyza's hair, drawing a low purr. "I'm asking you as your friend."
Kyza nodded, pressing their foreheads together. "I'd be happy to, Ranulf."
())CRAYOLA))
Not that Skrimir had been happy, when he came across them in camp later that afternoon, and he'd uttered a series of threats before Ranulf could finally get a word in edgewise, pointing out that he'd been doing finances with Soren (he left out the part where he had done exactly none of the work, and had only read over the first two pages) and deserved a break, and that it would have been rude to interrupt Skrimir while he was sparring. The lion had grunted at that, a look of deep concentration on his face. After a long time he inhaled deeply, taking in some scent off Ranulf's clothes. Then he frowned.
"What is that smell?"
Ranulf looked at him blankly. "You'll have to be more specific than that."
"On the tactician. Soren." Skrimir inhaled again. "He smells different than the other beorc, and it isn't just because he's a mage or because he smells like Ike. I can't place it."
The cat chose his words carefully; Skrimir was not known for his ability to keep a secret. "It's simply the way he is. His blood, perhaps, or something like that."
Skrimir nodded, seeming to understand. "He's Parentless."
Ranulf tensed, but didn't deny it. "That's rude."
Skrimir shrugged. "Well, he is. There's nothing else he could be. A crime against the Goddess. Parentless. It's a shame, really, he seems—"
Fury took hold of Ranulf. He growled low in his throat and lashed out, striking Skrimir in the jaw. The lion was caught off-guard and stumbled. Ranulf hit him again, and then a third time, until Skrimir was finally sprawled on the ground. He hadn't fought back and now he was just looking up, bewildered. Ranulf bared his fangs.
"I don't care if you are the future king of Gallia. You will never use that word again."
"Well, what am I supposed to call him, then? Branded?"
And Ranulf kicked him hard in the temple. Skrimir fell, and Ranulf didn't bother to see if he was alright; Skrimir had taken harder hits before and been fine.
People were starting to gather. Ranulf stalked away.
())CRAYOLA))
"I'm sorry."
Soren raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
Ranulf looked away. "I…Skrimir is not in ideal fighting or marching condition right now. It's my doing. I take full responsibility. I apologize."
The sage looked at him incredulously. "And what did he do to warrant you attacking him? I assume that's what you mean when you say it's your fault."
Ranulf gritted his teeth. "I would rather not say."
"Ranulf." Soren's eyes were boring into him. He had no choice.
"He called you Parentless."
The sage snorted. "Is that all? Really? I had hoped for better reasoning."
"It is not right to call you that. You are half beorc and half laguz. Nothing more." Ranulf finally met Soren's eye. "On his behalf, I would like to apologize as well."
"It means nothing, coming from someone who has done no wrong." Soren's eyes were softer now. "But I suppose that I appreciate the thought."
Ranulf placed his hands on the sage's shoulders, squeezing. "It isn't right. The way that you're treated simply because of a birthmark, or because you smell like a Goldoan. It's—"
"Goldoan?"
The cat frowned; had Soren not known? "Yes, Goldoan. You smell like a dragon." Then he shrugged. "It would explain your affinity for magics, and why your hair is the colour that it is, and why your mark is red. And why you're so terrifying on the battlefield. You fight with that same ferocity, but maybe I'm just reading into things too much.
He laughed, and Soren exhaled suddenly, laughing in his own way. It seemed too peaceful, as though Soren should have been giving him the cold shoulder the way he did to everyone else. But then, he had been warming up lately, ever since they had taken Mugill.
"Thank you for telling me," Soren finally said. "I have…I suspect that Stefan is descended from Gallia; his sense of smell is too great for him to be Goldoan or from one of the bird tribes. But neither of us had any leads regarding my...lineage. And no Goldoan has had a child for centuries, or so all the libraries say. Not that it matters."
Ranulf snorted. "Dheginsea has a knack for hiding things he doesn't want people to know, whether it's about his whole country or simply the birth of a single child." The cat scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I happen to know that there's a cask of wine in storage that we've been saving, and I could use a drink after what just happened. Would you care to join me?"
Soren didn't vocalize a response, but he did stand, motioning for Ranulf to lead the way.
Half a mark later they were seated in the strategy tent, three jugs of wine on the table between them and drinking from mugs Ranulf had pilfered from the mess tent. Soren had been mostly silent, content to sit and drink and listen to Ranulf as he babbled about nothing in particular. He shrugged off his outer robes and cloak after his second refill, and Ranulf took a moment to grin and tease him about love bites on his neck. The sage's expression shifted at that point, and he cocked an eyebrow, lips curving upward.
"I thought you made your orders perfectly clear." His voice was like warm silk, and Ranulf briefly wondered what it would be like to do this more often. "I was to get my frustrations out."
The cat burst out laughing. Soren had a point. "I'm just glad to see that you did, is all, although I'll confess I do think that I heard you as well. But I was worried that Skrimir might get to you and spoil your mood before you reached Ike."
There was a long silence.
"How can you bear to have that brute as the heir to your throne?" Soren finally asked. He held out his empty mug, and Ranulf refilled it, ignoring the bluntness with which he'd asked.
"Well, it's not unusual," he replied. "It's how we choose our kings."
"By picking the loudest, strongest person instead of one who shows even the slightest semblance of intelligence?" The sage huffed and took another long sip of wine. "If I have to continue explaining why charging in blind is not a valid strategy—"
Ranulf rumpled his hair gently, and Soren glared at him, swatting his hand away. "It's not as though anything has ever happened to make Skrimir think otherwise." He shrugged, downing the last of his wine. It was Soren's turn to provide the refill, which Ranulf accepted. "He trusts us, to some extent, and I think that's why he's so reckless. He doesn't believe that we would ever let him down, on the battlefield or otherwise."
"I suppose." Soren sighed, slouching against the back of his chair. "Herding cats would be easier than this. I don't know how you deal with him all day."
Ranulf blinked; had that been a pun? Soren's expression was blank as he stared into space. It had to have been coincidence. The cat sipped his wine. "He's not that bad, once you get used to him," he finally offered. "A bit boisterous, maybe."
"Boisterous." Soren chuckled at that. "Right."
"Well, what would you call it?"
"A severe lack of restraint."
"A lack of restraint isn't that bad." When Soren shot him a look, he considered. "It adds an element of unpredictability, if nothing else." The sage didn't look convinced, and Ranulf sighed. "But I know that you don't like things being unpredictable, if it can be helped."
Soren downed the rest of his wine and helped himself to more. "I abhor it. I will acknowledge the strategic advantage it might give, but in most circumstances it is not particularly helpful."
"I understand." Ranulf grinned at him, and Soren raised an eyebrow. "You'd prefer if he could be unpredictable in a foreseeable way."
It sounded ridiculous, and Soren must have realized it too, rolling his eyes. "That would be ideal," he finally said, and it was so absurd that they both started laughing.
Finally Ranulf nudged him with his shoulder, and the sage didn't pull away. Goddess, he had to be drunk at this point; they'd gotten through at least four pints of wine each, though aside from the way he was leaning into Ranulf there was no indication that he was anywhere close to intoxicated. The cat carefully, carefully let his arm fall around the sage, and was rewarded when Soren shifted toward him, letting Ranulf partially support his weight. For a long time, they sat like that, and then Soren chuckled to himself.
"If nothing else, he'd make a good battering ram should the need arise."
Ranulf burst out laughing at that. "See, you understand."
"More or less." Soren shifted again, and Ranulf couldn't help taking advantage of the situation just a little, burying his fingers in the sage's dark hair and pulling him in. Whether it was apparent or not, Soren was out of sorts, and whether he'd remember it tomorrow or not (though hopefully what he did remember would be pleasant), Ranulf was intent on proving that he was no threat. Soren turned to eye him suspiciously but didn't pull away. The cat pretended that nothing was unusual, taking a long swallow of wine.
"Just be patient," he finally said, letting his claws gently trail over Soren's scalp. "Skrimir will come around. He does like you, and if nothing else he respects you as a warrior. He doesn't stop talking about how powerful you are when you're fighting." Ranulf sighed. "It's a bit irritating, honestly. I haven't been with anyone but Kyza in ages—which is fine, don't get me wrong, Kyza's great—but now Skrimir goes on and on about you whenever he gets a chance. It makes it hard to keep going." He swallowed, realizing what he'd said. Soren was giving him a bemused look, and he felt himself turning red. "When he's talking about you while we're, um." He cleared his throat, realizing that recovery was impossible. "You know, I'm not sure why I brought this up."
"Because we've both had too much to drink." Instead of cutting them both off, though, Soren poured them the last of the wine and settled back against him, letting out the softest sound when Ranulf resumed his attentions. "I'll forget you said anything on the subject."
"You will not," Ranulf replied, grinning. "Your mind is like a steel trap; nothing escapes. I do appreciate the sentiment, though. I know it's not, uh...not typical conversation between colleagues."
"It isn't," Soren agreed, tilting his head so Ranulf could access the back of his neck. "Completely inappropriate conversation to have between colleagues, in fact."
Was he hinting at something? "What about friends, then?"
Soren stiffened slightly. "What about friends?"
Carefully, Ranulf continued. "Us. I mean...everyone seems to think you're completely stone-faced, unshakeable. Even my men can't get a good read on you, and cats are fairly good at that sort of thing, so that makes them uneasy. No, hang on, hear me out." Soren had made as though to stand, and Ranulf tightened his grip slightly. The sage relaxed somewhat, though not completely, clutching his cup in both hands. "Beorc in particular have a hard time reading you, but I like to think that at the very least I understand your situation, even if I can't fully relate to it. I understand your reasoning, why you're so careful to not let anyone in, and I don't blame you in the slightest. But I always thought that maybe you'd be more relaxed around the people you trust. Willing to have casual conversation, let other people touch you, that kind of thing."
"I would call that an...accurate assessment," Soren murmured into his wine.
How on earth had he gotten this far without the sage shouting at him, or storming away? Ranulf took a moment to thank his lucky stars that Soren wasn't an angry drunk. "We don't all hate you, y'know."
"Excuse—"
"Soren." He leaned his head against the sage's, still gently massaging tiny circles into the other man's scalp. "I can honestly say that you come across as a Spirit Charmer, both in personality and scent. I wouldn't be surprised if you were one, even though Ike tells me you've never made a pact. It makes some people want to avoid you, but it's because of your strength, not because you're half-dragon. It would take a lot of doing for any of my men to correctly identify you." He paused, considering. "It's also in part because you are completely, undoubtedly Ike's. Neither of you has let that be even slightly ambiguous."
Soren was quiet, and after a moment he placed his cup on the table. Outside, they could hear the sounds of campfires being extinguished, and more faintly, the last shouts of those who had opted to celebrate the mercenaries' ludicrous holiday. Ranulf downed the last of his wine, placed his mug next to Soren's with some difficulty, and frowned when he realized exactly how far away from sober he had gotten. After a moment's contemplation he managed to stagger to his feet, dragging the sage with him. Just enough to move away from the table and settle on the ground, leaned up against a crate with Soren's cloak wrapped around them and only mild protests from the smaller man. They might have been able to get the attention of someone outside the tent, but seeing him drunk was one thing that Ranulf didn't want his men to experience, even less so with the Mercenaries' tactician as his drinking companion.
Besides, eventually Ike would find them, and he was unlikely to make any assumptions about the situation. Until then they had to be patient or sober up, whichever came first. Ranulf pointed this out, and the sage didn't say anything, just sat there, half-leaning on him.
The dark-haired man's pulse was racing, and Ranulf was sure that his mind was moving just as fast, and really, why wouldn't it be, given the unlikely way the evening had unfolded? But he wasn't sure what he could say that might comfort the sage, so instead he opted to keep trailing circles over the nape of Soren's neck and hope for the best.
"Thank you," Soren finally whispered. "For..." He gestured vaguely with one hand, seemingly at a loss for words.
Ranulf squeezed. "I know."
"You do," agreed Soren.
())CRAYOLA))
"Really, we're at least a few weeks behind, what with the rescue, and the job with the Alliance, and all the walking we've had to do." Mist was grinning widely from where she was safely perched atop a stack of crates. "And Rolf and I both had sore throats for a while and were exhausted. You should be thankful that I even remembered at all, and you should be doubly thankful that I waited until the very end of the day to come after you."
"I am absolutely not thankful," Boyd retorted, glancing around. "Every year, Mist."
"Not every year; I didn't get to you at all during the Mad King's War."
Boyd eyed the crates contemplatively; he doubted that they would be sturdy if he were to climb them too, but he wasn't about to let Mist just get away with this. "Fine, you have gone after me every year, except for the Mad King's War, for five consecutive years, and—"
"I wouldn't go after you if you were targeted by anyone else." Mist adjusted her position slightly and beamed down at him.
Boyd pretended that her skirt hadn't revealed as much of her legs as it had, and hefted himself up on an adjacent barrel. "I am widely loved and as such, I am not targeted. Except for by you."
"Please, widely loved?" Mist laughed. "You're a total pain, Boyd, that's why I target you." She held his pants out in front of her, inspecting the waist. "They're so loose without your belt, so you're an easy target. I can fix that, if you like."
"I'll get you back," Boyd threatened.
"In your dreams, Boyd." When he made a grab for his pants she lifted them out of his grasp effortlessly. "You can't take the pants off someone who doesn't wear any." Her grin widened even more, if that were possible. "Why do you think I always wear skirts or dresses this time of year?"
It was a fair call, and he couldn't believe that he'd never realized it before. Mist had never been on the receiving end of Steal Your Tentmate's Pants Day, and not once had it occurred to him that it was because she only wore skirts in the spring and summer. He grinned and carefully shifted his weight onto the stack of crates she was sitting on, reaching for his pants. "I'll give you that that's clever, kiddo."
"Kiddo?" At once she had thrown his pants to the ground and was hopping down to his level. He swallowed hard and looked away just a bit too late as her skirt lifted. When had her legs gotten that long? "Excuse me?"
He spun her around and gently shoved her off the crates, jumping down and scrambling for his pants. Mist was faster, and she stepped in front of him and jabbed a finger into his chest, standing on her toes to glare. "Excuse me?" she repeated.
Grinning, he caught her around the waist and hefted her up. "You're so short." Then he leaned in, making sure she could see the way he enunciated. "Kid-do."
Instead of fighting, she looked him straight in the eye, their noses almost touching and her bare legs pressed against his. She was scowling and had the same look on her face that she had had during the last battle, right before she'd thrust her sword through a man. "Just because you're bigger than me doesn't mean I'm a kid, and frankly, if I'm the one fixing all your clothes, Boyd, and packing your bag, and giving you extra at meals, I'd say you're the kid."
Boyd snorted and leaned against the crates. "Whatever you say, kiddo."
She was livid, even though she was trying not to show it. "Please. You can't even defend your argument so you're defaulting to an insult. You're such a child." Her hands met the wood on either side of his head, and if he hadn't known he was holding her up he'd have felt almost...pinned. "If you're an adult and so much smarter than us kids, why can't you stop a kid from stealing your pants on a day that you should know is coming?"
He opened his mouth to retort, but she actually had a fair point there. Instead he let his nose touch hers, barely, and he tightened his grip on her waist. Goddess, when had she gotten this curvy? Still, he knew he was bothering her, and it served her right after knocking him down and taking his pants.
"Kiddo," he breathed. Was she turning red? She was certainly slipping, and he hoisted her back up.
"Asshole," she murmured back, but her heart didn't quite seem into it. Her hands fell to his shoulders. "I was just having some fun."
Boyd frowned; she seemed legitimately hurt. "I'm sorry."
Mist looked at him long and hard, daring him to call her a child again, and in that moment he realized that she really wasn't a child, not even in jest. Sure, it was fun to heckle her, and she certainly could put up a fight when he teased her. But maybe now hadn't been the best time. He pressed his forehead to hers. "I'm sorry, Mist. You're not a kid."
"No?" It was hardly more than a whisper, her breath against his lips and her arms loosely draped over his shoulders.
A terrible, wonderful realization seized him, and he pulled away just enough to look her in the eye. "No." He did his best to look non-threatening, and he squeezed her. "You're too curvy."
Her eyes were a bit softer. Inquisitive. Still, she had a response for him. "If you're trying to call me fat..."
Definitely a terrible thing to realize, but despite the way they teased each other, he couldn't be dishonest. "It's nice." He squeezed again, enjoying the way she flushed. "I like it."
"Boyd." Mist's voice was stern, but she was tracing lazy circles on the back of his neck now, looking at him intently. "Don't lie to me."
"I would never," he murmured. Carefully he turned to deposit her on one of the barrels and give his arms a rest, but she was suddenly holding onto him, bare legs hooked around his own. Grinning, Boyd leaned back against the wood. Mist was still watching him. Anticipating.
She swallowed. "Never?"
"Never."
Her fingers found their way to his hair and he couldn't help the sigh that escaped him. She was still staring at him, and after a moment she managed to stammer out a question. "H-how much do you l-like it?"
It was his turn to blush, and he craned his neck toward her, letting his fingertips spread over as much of her as he could without losing his grip. "I-it's great."
"A-and—and do you—um—like m-me?"
Ashera, he could feel her breath on his lips, and he tilted his head just slightly. Briefly he wondered if he would be any good at this. Mist had both hands in his hair now and her breath caught slightly, and he squeezed her again. Her legs tightened around his. She was quivering, and he smiled, hoping that she didn't realize how nervous he was. "So much."
Her ears were bright red, and she gripped his hair and pulled his head back slightly, enough to look him in the eyes again. "O-oh?"
"Kiss me, Mist," he breathed. "Please."
"I-I-I don't kn-know what I'm—"
"Neither do I."
Her mouth was suddenly on his, her legs around his waist, one hand fisted in his hair and the other on the back of his neck. She kissed him over and over again, and gradually they lasted longer, became more passionate. Boyd groaned as Mist's lips massaged his open, his tongue hesitantly meeting hers before he seized the opportunity to delve into her mouth. Her hands were shaking and she was kissing him as deeply as she could, and in that moment he realized that they absolutely could not let Ike know about this.
