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Outside the tent, the wind yowls as an injured coeurl.
Ice rimes atop their oiled karakul hides; he’s surprised the posts pinning it to the earth have managed to stay intact, braced against such a bloody maelstrom. A gust of wind batters against the flaps; he grinds his teeth against the shiver that wracks him.
A violent shaking rattles him from behind. For a moment, he thinks an avalanche has come to bury them all, and put him out of his buggering misery.
A quiet curse, the sounds of wool shifting, a heel knocks against his calf. Estinien grimaces. Right. His assigned tent-mate, pressed up against his back in a meager offering of body heat. ‘Twas bad enough that he was forced to apportion his buggering tent, but to be ordered to share warmth? Every movement of Ser Aymeric against his back sets him on edge, makes something within him bristle and bay, rattle about the inside of his ribs in protest. Though, he will admit, begrudgingly, that of all he might have been assigned, Aymeric is perhaps– not the worst.
“Estinien,” he hears, hissed near his ear. Estinien flinches. Gods bloody damnit. Mayhaps he is the worst. He ignores him, rolls tighter onto his side, eyes clenched tight. Perhaps if he says nothing he will leave him alone.
“I know you’re s-still awake. I can hear your teeth g-grinding from here.”
Estinien sighs. He is so unbelievably tired. “What.”
“‘T-tis too bloody cold,” Aymeric whispers, as if that is a godsdamned revelation. Limbs shifting behind him, the sound of a blanket being kicked, re-settled, and then, inexplicably– fingers, lightly grasping about his arm. Instinctively, he shrugs the hand off, rolling onto his back to glare at him in the dark, ignoring the tingling of his skin beneath his tunic.
“Aye, and–?”
“And,” Aymeric huffs, “I would p-prefer to get some s-sleep, so come here.” That clingy bloody hand, searching in the dark, grazes his arm once more. “If you would allow m-me to, ah,” he pauses, clears his throat, “hold you, ‘twill be warmer for b-both of us, surely.”
Estinien stiffens. To have him against his back is already nearly unbearable. To have his– arms? About him? All of him, pressed up against him every which way? His face warms. Something inside him thrashes about, roars up in defiance at the thought of being so– caged.
And yet, Aymeric is right. They need to sleep. Their tent coverings might as well be bloody paper, for all the shelter from the wind and the cold they offer. ‘Tis about– survival, out here in the wilderness of the highlands. Still…
“You?” Estinien grunts. “‘Tis I who am the larger of us. I’ll do it.” It seems more… dignified, somehow, if he is the one to do the– the holding.
“By less than a bloody ilm,” Aymeric whispers furiously. “You–” he cuts himself off. Estinien hears him inhale slowly through his nose, out through his mouth. His teeth chatter in the silence betwixt them.
“Well? You said it yourself,” Estinien mocks. “Do you not wish to sleep?”
A howl of wind batters against their tent; above, the pole creaks ominously. He sees the outline of Aymeric’s head turn to him sharply.
“Fury t-take me,” Aymeric whispers. “All right. Shield, lance, arrow for it.”
Estinien purses his lips. “Verily?”
“Come now, ‘tis only f-fair. Winner gets to s-spoon. On three?”
He’s always been shite at these games, something Aymeric knows full well by now, the bastard. “Fine,” he growls with a shiver. “On three.”
“One, two– three!”
Aymeric’s fingers find his hand in the dark, and then he swears loudly. “A damned lance?” He tugs his hand back, covers his face. “Gods, but I did not think you would be so predictable.”
Estinien smirks. Shield, then.
Grumbling, Aymeric flops back on his back, rolls over onto his side. In the dark, Estinien can see the outline of his curls nestled atop his pillow, the line of his spine atop the woolen blanket. Ah, he thinks, feeling vaguely sweaty, but where should I put my–? And my hands? My– legs? How exactly does one spoon?
“C-come here, then,” Aymeric says. “Gods, but it is b-bloody freezing.”
Gingerly, he lays down beside him. Grits his teeth, slowly reaches his arm over him–
– fire, crackling before his half-lidded eyes, weariness tugging at his bones from a hard day’s work, hands sore and skin cracking from the cold. Against his chest, his brother, wriggling like a fish.
“Stop that,” he chides, a mere whisper, mindful of his parents sleeping mere fulms away. “Go to sleep.”
“I can’t,” comes the whine, muffled by his shirt. Small hands grip around his back. “Too cold.”
He adjusts their thin blanket, wraps it more snugly about tiny shoulders. Sets his chin atop his messy white curls. “Mam said she would make lamb stew tomorrow, did you hear?”
“Really!?” his brother whispers, too loud. At his feet, his father gives a loud snore. Both of them tense, waiting. But he merely rolls over, breathing evening out to a mere rumble.
“Aye,” he whispers after a moment, relaxing. “Think about that– the warmth of it, how it will taste.”
Quiet shuffling. A long sigh. “Now I’m hungry.”
Estinien snorts, wraps his arm about his back, closing his eyes. “Go to sleep, Hami–”
– he snatches his hand back as if burnt, holds it against his chest as the scars on his forearm smart and prickle and ache. His eyes sting, ash dusts his tongue, settling as the falling of new snow, thick and choking. Not now, he thinks, clenching his eyes shut, willing himself to be still as the small part of him that has any capacity left to feel reels as if struck, edges of the gaping emptiness where once he was whole trembling, threatening to crumble. Gods, do not think of them–
Frozen fingers snatches at his arm, jerking him from his thoughts, tug him forward until he collides with the long line of Aymeric’s back. His arm is subsequently pinned to Aymeric’s chest. Estinien spits out a mouthful of curls with a scowl.
“Taking too long,” Aymeric grunts, shuffling his arse back against him for a moment which seems to last an eternity, before finally stilling with a contented sigh. “Much b-better.”
He tries to tug his arm out, but Aymeric holds fast. A snarl of irritation gets stuck in his throat, but then again– he had asked for this, had he not? To spoon. He huffs, eases his struggles as best he might.
For a long while, Estinien lies perfectly still, listening to Aymeric’s breaths even out, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath his fingers. Heat seeps between them as a plume of steam, filling in every crevice and divot. It is warmer; that, at least, he will concede.
He supposes it is not terrible. To hold someone. He cringes at the mere thought. If Aymeric were anyone else surely it would be unbearable. At least he keeps himself clean. His nose is filled with the scent of what he can only imagine to be some posh hair cream worth his entire year’s wages; some mixture of furymint and cloves that isn’t entirely– unpleasant.
And the weight of him, the feel of him, ‘tis… fine. Yet strange, foreign, something that sets his every muscle on edge.
Aymeric shifts his arm with a sleepy murmur; his bare fingers flutter along the underside of his wrist, barely brushing. His whole arm erupts in goosebumps, pins and needles traveling up his skin, down the back of his spine, settling somewhere around his tailbone. Fury’s tits.
He barely contains his sigh. He’ll get no sleep on this night, of that he is certain. Too bloody unusual. Still, he tries to force himself to relax, to sink further into their meager shared pillow and let the heat sink through him, to ignore– everything going on here. Willing himself to just rest, if only to get this over with.
Aymeric shifts, grumbling, twisting his torso, shoulders, flicking hair into his face. Estinien blows it away, pursing his lips.
“Will you stop?”
“Apologies,” Aymeric grunts, and then does something with his hips, something that makes his back arch back against him like a bloody cat, stretching, readjusting, dragging his arse directly over his front.
He feels a faint stirring from within his trousers, as a great beast waking from a long winter’s sleep. Gods damn it all, he thinks, eyes trained on the vague shadow of the top of their tent. Buggering Borel, and his godsdamn bloody fidgeting.
“Stop moving,” he hisses, suddenly– overwarm. He pins him tight with his arm. “And go the hells to sleep.”
Aymeric huffs; a sound of frustration. Wiggles, squirms out from under his arm, and then turns, for some godsdamed reason, to face him. He can just barely make out his eyelashes as he blinks, face mere ilms from his own.
“Forgive me,” Aymeric whispers. “You are rightfully the victor, yet I doubt I will be able to sleep in such an arrangement.” His arm lifts in the dim light, hovering hesitantly above them. “For the sake of being well-rested upon the morrow, might I–?”
Estinien huffs. Bloody cheater. “No,” he says, out of principle.
He can feel Aymeric’s pout. “Estinien. Come now, be reasonable.”
“You be bloody reasonable,” Estinien hisses. “Learn to– be spooned. Like a man.”
And then Aymeric grabs his buggering arm, shuffles closer like mud stubbornly clinging to the treads of his boot, with intent. Estinien growls in annoyance; pries Aymeric’s hand from his arm and pins it to the ground beside his head, looming over him with a snarl.
“I said. Nay.”
He can see the outline of Aymeric’s eyelashes narrow, squinting at him. Feels his hand twitch beneath his own.
Foot traps his shin, hips thrust upwards– and then he’s flipped into the blankets, arm braced over his throat, Aymeric’s thighs bracketing his hips. A triumphant grin, etched onto Aymeric’s posh bloody lips. Anger boils in his gut, adrenaline floods his veins, heart pumping–
“And I said,” Aymeric drawls, “be reasonable, Esti–”
Elbow meets ribs. Aymeric swears, flinches back. Estinien smirks.
None would call what follows hence a dignified affair. Aymeric’s fingers claw at his hair, hips are bruised, a solitary punch is thrown with all the grace of a drunken tavern brawl.
“Cheating bloody bastard,” Estinien snarls some time later, face shoved in the sheets as Aymeric pins him from behind. He knocks his head back, relishing in Aymeric’s pained grunt as he hooks his arm behind his head, pulls him down for a choke. Another whiff of his stupid buggering hair cream– Aymeric blocks the choke, twists his head, plants his shoulder and rolls them once more–
He wheezes as Aymeric pins him, hooks his legs with the top of his toes, arms trapped to his sides. His heart pounds, and even as he struggles against his grip he knows he’s lost. Aymeric knows his advantage in close quarters, the sodding cur.
“Do you yield, ser?”
Estinien grimaces, twists his wrists– but nay, both are pinned tight, with no hope of escape. He always forgets how bloody strong Aymeric is. Futilely, desperately, fundamentally incapable of admitting defeat, he arches his hips, tries to gain leverage to roll him off–
Aymeric’s hips pin him back down, and then he grows still. ‘Tis then Estinien realizes his miscalculation.
“Ah,” Aymeric breathes. Estinien sighs. Bloody typical.
“‘Tis your buggering fault,” Estinien grouses, grateful for the darkness masking the heat of his ears. “Wriggling and squirming about as a fish on ice like the sore sodding loser you are.” He blows his bangs from his eyes with a huff. “Release me.”
Against his wrists, fingers tighten. “I will,” Aymeric promises, voice hoarse. “Once you admit defeat.”
Estinien tenses. Grinds his teeth. Below, his cock throbs, crushed between Aymeric’s hip and his navel. The air seems thick, as the earliest morns amidst the moors in the East, mist lying heavy in his throat. He swallows. Looks to the side. Says nothing.
“Who were you calling a sore loser?” Aymeric goads, and then shifts just so–
Another cock, hard as a bloody rock, digging into his navel. Estinien stares hard at the side of the tent, feels every onze of blood in his body pick a direction: north, or south. At least Aymeric appears to be similarly affected, though how that is better is unclear.
A long moment passes with naught but their harsh breaths sounding betwixt them.
“There is,” Aymeric starts, and then clears his throat, awkwardly. “That is to say, there is another way we might,” he pauses, hips shifting. His thigh brushes against his cock in a way that makes every hair on his skin stand on end. He hears Aymeric’s breath hitch. “Share warmth,” he finishes weakly.
‘Tis passing strange, how each thought refuses to fully form, as water leaking through a sieve. “What are you talking about,” he manages, throat unbearably dry. Aymeric’s thumb brushes against his palm; he feels his arm break out in goosebumps.
“I mean to say, if you are unwilling to concede, an alternative has–” Aymeric coughs in that infuriatingly polite way of his “– presented itself which might lead us to, ah.” Estinien sees him lick his lips out the corner of his eye. “Mutual satisfaction.”
The headache from earlier returns with a vengeance. Buggering Borel. “Must you speak in bloody riddles?” He hisses. “Speak plainly, man.”
A pause. Aymeric’s fingers loosen on his wrists, some of the weight lifting from his hips. He could roll out from under him right now, if he so wished. He could tumble Aymeric off of him, stalk out into the night and relieve his suffering should he so choose, and yet– he cannot bring himself to move, just lies there beneath him, as prey cornered, motionless. Waiting for his inevitable demise.
Aymeric’s fingers slide down his arm, dragging over the heated plains of his skin. Estinien shudders, struggling to maintain what remnants of what composure remains.
“If you wanted, I mean,” Aymeric says, infuriatingly vague.
“Wanted what?” Estinien grunts, frustration boiling. He’s doing this to torment him, of that he is certain.
Aymeric’s fingertips dip lower, skirt inward, from arm to the patch of skin above his hip, dancing along the bone there. Estinien’s hips jerk of their own accord, a gasp held tightly behind bitten lips.
“You know,” Aymeric murmurs, and then, inexplicably, rocks their hips together. He does gasp, then, a sound forced out of him like a punch to the gut. “Together?”
It hits him then– two men alone in their tent, pressed together as they are… ah. He must mean that.
Embarrassingly, he feels something flutter in his stomach– nerves, perhaps. “You mean–”
“Aye,” Aymeric breathes, inching closer. Estinien can feel his breath ghost over the skin where his shirt has slipped down his collar, feels the weight of him pressing him into the blanket, thighs thick and solid where they’re yet braced about his hips. For Halone’s bloody sake–
“Why?”
Aymeric snorts. “What do you mean why.”
“I mean,” Estinien growls. “Why.” Never has he understood the appeal. The act itself is impossible to avoid, every damnable way he turns in the barracks it seems some poor sod has his cock out rutting against an accomplice with all the grace of a pair of rabid mutts in heat, yet never has he seen a reason to partake. He’s seen the way it makes fools of grown men, how all thoughts of duty and discipline dissipate as smoke in the bloody wind in the face of such acts. More akin to a disease that rots the mind than something to seek out willingly.
Aymeric pauses above him. “For– pleasure?” He shifts his hips, as if uncertain. Estinien grabs his thighs with a clawed grip so that he will stop moving. “Respite, from this bloody frozen nightmare?”
Estinien frowns, unimpressed, though his heart pounds against his ribs. “Can do both of those things alone.”
Aymeric’s fingers skirt over his hip bone, slip downward and settle there atop the hem of his trousers. “For efficiency, then.” His thumb pets along the skin there, back and forth as one would polish a lance, infuriatingly slow. “To– share warmth, as ordered.”
His eyelids flutter of their own accord; he resolutely pins his hips against the ground to avoid the inane urge to press up into his touch. “And you– do this often, do you? Share warmth.” He wonders vaguely with whom Aymeric might have chosen to partake in such activities, in the cold winter nights. Not that it is of any concern to him. Just– for curiosity’s sake.
Aymeric freezes. “‘Tis– ‘tis not so unusual,” he insists, voice stuttering. “Not often, but on occasion, I do find myself in situations where–”
It all becomes blazingly clear once he recalls Aymeric’s last assigned tent-mate. He snorts. “Haurchefant?” Not that he was paying the two of them any attention in particular. Just a passing detail, noted with disinterest and filed away.
Even in the dark, he can see Aymeric’s embarrassment. “He is very, ah,” he pauses. “Insistent,” he finishes, weakly.
“Incessant, you mean,” Estinien grouses, memories of his wandering bloody hands fresh in his mind. He thinks of those same hands, dragging down the front of Aymeric’s shirt, gripping at the back of his thighs as they move together in the dark–
“Well?” Aymeric asks, voice strange, as if knocked down in the training yard, struggling to catch his breath. “What say you?”
Estinien sighs. His bollocks ache, cock still trapped beneath Aymeric’s hip. His face feels so hot he fears it might melt straight off his bones. He bites the inside of his mouth, struggling to form a single bloody coherent thought. Logically he knows there are a million reasons why he should not, yet cannot for the life of him recall a single one. Mayhaps his mind has already started to rot.
“Fine,” he says gruffly, staring at the dark wall of the tent, the picture of disinterest. He cock twitches. “Since you won’t bloody shut up about it.”
Aymeric’s fingers lift from his hip. “We could go back to as we were, we need not–”
“I already said yes, didn’t I?” he barks, heart beating so fast he fears it might erupt out of his bloody chest. “So– get on with it.”
“Right,” Aymeric says faintly, and then shifts, inexplicably bows his head so that his nose brushes over his cheekbone. “Right, I’ll just–”
He had expected– well, he’s not sure what he expected. A hand on his cock, or at the very least to simply rut mindlessly together as he’s unfortunately oft borne witness to, but right as he opens his mouth to goad him once more, a soft pair of lips brush against his jaw, and then seal over his own.
Never has he understood why people do this. Still he does not, even as he lies here with Aymeric’s lips pressed to his. ‘Tis but a strange instance of pressure, awkward and stiff. Unhygienic, surely. Utterly unremarkable.
Then Aymeric grinds their hips together, tilts his head, darts his tongue past his lips, and suddenly, as levin igniting every nerve in his body, he understands.
Later, he will not admit to the noise that escapes him then: some manner of pathetic whimper that Aymeric mercifully swallows with his tongue.
What in all seven hells, he thinks weakly as Aymeric cups under his jaw, fingers hot below his ear, thumb slipping down the side of his neck into the collar of his shirt. What is he– doing to me–
His thoughts melt away as butter down the side of a hot pan, dripping to the floor below, lost in the folds. All of his rage, all of his rancor, the turmoil in his heart, the agony of bitter memories; all desert him, stifled beneath Aymeric’s touch, unimportant under the weight of his hips pressing him down into the blankets, the feeling of his cock grinding against him, of his tongue sliding hotly against his own. He flounders, tries to cling to it– his burning desire for vengeance, that which has defined him for so many years– but it slips from his grasp, leaving him strange and weightless, untethered. Terrified.
Aymeric pulls off of his lips with a quiet gasp, panting against his mouth. “All right?” he asks, brushing their noses together. He realizes his fingers had wandered to the ties of Aymeric’s shirt, had tangled so tightly there he’s started to lose sensation. Stiffly, he releases him, curls his fingers instead into the blankets below.
“M’fine,” he manages, hoping that Aymeric will not notice the trembling of his limbs, the rapid pounding of his heart, thrashing against his ribs as a wild animal caged. He can feel his dark thoughts, lurking somewhere at the back of his mind, already regaining shape and form, twisting back around his heart–
“Good,” Aymeric says roughly, and bends to kiss him once more. His thoughts scatter as quickly as they reformed.
It feels… dangerous; the way Aymeric moans quietly against his lips, the way he shifts his knee under his thigh so that he might rock against him with more leverage. Like if he were less disciplined, he might spend the rest of his days chasing this, this primal press of skin against skin, hopelessly addicted, forsaking all other cause in favor of these few moments of utter bliss.
Guilt gnaws at him, sharp and sudden as the edge of blade, serrated edges poking at his innards. I should stop, he thinks anxiously. I must not forget, I must not let myself become– distracted–
He almost pushes Aymeric off of him right then and there, almost puts a stop to it afore this whole business can go any further, afore the last remnants of his sanity leak from his buggering ears, but then Aymeric’s hand snakes down between them, and his palm presses against the hard line of him straining against his trousers, and all his breath deserts him at once.
“Fury,” he wheezes, hips jerking into his touch. Aymeric’s lips descend to his neck as his fingers drag along the length of him through the fabric. He feels the indentation of teeth against his skin, and shudders, arousal washing away what misgivings yet linger. His fingers have wound their way into Aymeric’s thick curls; he trembles as nimble fingers tug at his laces.
The cool air against his cock is the sweetest relief, felt but for a moment afore calloused fingers brush against him, testing.
He was not prepared for this whole– encounter, that much is painfully bloody obvious. But never in his most sordid imaginings could he have pictured what ‘twould be like to be touched, gentle fingers softly stroking his cock as lips mouth at his collarbone with a noise of utmost satisfaction. He bites at the blanket to stifle his moan, mortified. He means to kill me, he thinks deliriously. He means to slay me, here in our tent.
“Good?” Aymeric asks breathlessly, stroking over him in those firm, maddening strokes. He pants harshly, twists his fingers in his hair. All his mind has devolved into incoherency, his capacity for speech mysteriously absent. He nods sharply, certain Aymeric will feel it, nipping at his jaw as he is. Said man hums, clearly pleased, and then swears softly, braces his brow upon his shoulder, reaches down, fumbling–
The sound of relief Aymeric moans into his skin is not one he will soon forget. There is something about it– the honesty, mayhaps, from one usually so guarded, which makes his gut clench, makes his fingers slide down his spine, digging protectively into the warm skin beneath his shirt. And then Aymeric has the brilliant idea to roll his hips forward.
“Hells,” he curses, feeling the hot length of him rub against his own. Gods, but he’s huge, he thinks nonsensically, sweat dripping from his brow. Of course he would be. Perfect bloody Borel with his perfect godsdamned cock–
“Estinien,” Aymeric gasps, grinding them together, fingers trailing down over sweat-slicked skin to assist.
His name, upon Aymeric’s lips, said with such pleasure, such unabashed wantonness–
Swearing, he surges up to kiss him once more, to silence any further utterances afore he truly loses his mind. Aymeric melts against him, molding to him as barely-formed steel, moaning softly into his lips as he strokes them, so godsdamned slowly.
Never before has he taken such care with his release; always does he seek to get it over with, to disperse the lustful haze from his mind as quickly as possible that he might return to more productive tasks. Unclear, now, if ‘tis Aymeric which makes his bollocks feel as though they’re about to combust, or the godsforsaken pace, absolutely maddeningly slow, those damnable fingers hardened by bells upon bells of pulling bow strings and swinging swords attending him with such deliberation.
Rough thumb catches over the head of his cock, smears leaking wetness down the side.
I’m going to spill, he realizes with startling clarity, though it be mere minutes since they started. He’s going to spill over Aymeric’s hand, his big buggering cock, going to sully his perfect bloody skin–
The thought sends a bolt of levin through him, straight to his core. “‘Meric,” he gasps, and then curses, head thrown back, fingers twisting in his stupid perfect curls–
It hits him not all at once, as it usually does, but in waves– rolling tides of pleasure, spanning from cock up his spine, stealing his breath from him as he tenses and spills betwixt them. Vaguely, from his daze, he hears Aymeric groan his name, hips stuttering, and then the mess atop his abdomen grows, that girthy cock of his twitching against his skin as he bites down on his neck to muffle his cry.
Every onze of tension in his muscles releases all at once, leaving him boneless and panting, utterly spent. He wearily searches his memories for the last time he felt so relaxed, and comes up empty. Even the weight of Aymeric collapsed atop him as a dead fish is pleasant, in its own way.
His– companion makes a noise of satisfaction atop him, noses at his neck. “All right?” he asks again, voice a mere rumble, and he likes not that hint of smugness in his tone. It does much to settle the sudden uncertainty welling in his stomach.
He bucks his hips; Aymeric flops to his side with an undignified oomph. “‘Twas nothing bloody profound,” he lies. In truth he feels as if struck in the head by a dragon’s tail, thoughts scattered to the bloody wind, several notions he once thought unshakable utterly shattered, but Aymeric need not know that. His head is big enough as it is.
He feels like he should be annoyed with him, for this– distraction. But ‘tis hard to do so after spilling so forcefully he can barely move.
Aymeric grumbles to himself as he wipes himself off, splashes his hands with water from their canteen, hands him the rag, delicately folded. Weariness washes over him swiftly; he haphazardly swipes at the mess upon his stomach, tugs up his trousers, rolls over on his side with a yawn.
It’s not until a good while later, eyes drifting closed as he stretches contentedly against the wall of heat at his back, that he realizes there is an arm wrapped around his waist, a knee lodged firmly betwixt his legs, a nose shoved into the curve of his neck. He huffs.
Bloody cheater.