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Ove yawned and scratched a bit as he walked to Roche’s tent. One of the Stripes had been fucking somebody last night, and although they’d tried to be quiet there had been just enough loud moaning to have kept him up for an hour or two in the middle of the damn night. It hadn’t been Thirteen and Sheridan, those two had silence down pat, and a good thing too, given how often they fucked. He didn’t think it had been Ves, either; he’d overheard her once or twice, strolling by her tent just to make sure she was all right, and she sounded different. (He was well aware that she was perfectly capable of rejecting unwelcome suitors, at knifepoint if she needed to, but he had a sister about her age and sometimes it was easier to have backup.) Probably it hadn’t been Shorty, or Fenn, or any number of other people, but there were still a dozen or so men it could have been, so trying to figure out who wasn’t going to get very far unless whoever it was made it obvious.
He half-hoped they would; he wasn’t looking forward to the commander’s response. Usually he was up and at it with the rest of them at dawn, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but he hadn’t put in an appearance yet, and the sun was definitely over the horizon. Probably the boss’d had his sleep disturbed too, and if the one who’d kept him up wasn’t obvious, they’d all be doing drills for getting distracted on the march. At least they weren’t heading to a battle, just escorting King Foltest on a tour of Temeria, along with most of the damn palace and what felt like half the army. There were all sorts of politics going on about expenses and some such, well and truly above his head, but the boss had stormed in and growled something about managing to not fucking bankrupt anyone a few weeks before they’d started out on this damn crusade, and he and the rest of the Stripes had nodded along and thanked their lucky stars that they weren’t involved in the actual politicking. Roche was already unhappy with it, and Ove had, unfortunately, drawn the short straw over who had to go check on him.
“Boss?” he asked, hovering just outside the tent flap. Roche didn’t hold himself above the rest of them, shared tents and cots and beds when they all squashed in for space and warmth, but this expedition had seen him with a proper tent, with two whole sections in it and a floor, wood planks connected with some kind of ties, that rolled up right proper when they packed up to head out. All the Stripes had joked a bit about the boss moving up in the world, but they didn’t begrudge him. They’d all be packed in again the next time they had something secret to do anyways.
No response to Ove’s call. No call back, not even any real sound.
"Boss?" Ove said louder, starting to worry.
Silence.
“Shit,” Ove grunted, fingering the hilt of his knife and pulling the ties on the tent flap open. The possibility that some enemy had infiltrated this far into the camp and managed to nab or kill Roche without alerting anyone was unlikely, but so was the boss being so deeply asleep as to not respond to Ove. (His voice was not what anybody would call a dainty whisper, even when he was trying to be quiet.) It was worth checking.
There wasn’t anyone in the outer section of the tent, and a few things had been knocked over or swept off the long table— an empty bottle, plates, a knife. Ove's gut knotted. Fuck.
He approached the second section of the tent grimly and opened the flap. He wasn't expecting to find the boss there, was expecting him to have been abducted in the night, and for a minute he didn't realize what he was seeing. Discarded clothes and armor, bedcovers in disarray, a long expanse of skin—
"Oh," Ove couldn't help saying, knocked for a complete fucking loop.
Roche—because that was Roche, in his bed, with a lump next to him that was very fucking obviously another person, covers pulled over their head—shot upright, nearly falling out of bed, his expression one of complete and utter horror.
That explains so much, Ove realized, still hung up on it having been the boss fucking somebody last night instead of his probable impending doom, or at least drills until he dropped.
The commander nearly stood, but sat back down almost immediately, yanking the covers further up the bed. Everybody in the Stripes had seen each others' cocks or assorted bits at one point or another, so Ove doubted it was being naked that had Roche so shy.
Though if he's got bruises on his thighs like he does everywhere else… Ove allowed, unable to stop himself from admiring the collection the commander had acquired. There was a particularly livid spot on his neck, and what looked like some actual bite marks on his chest. Lucky man. He had some experience himself with how good that kind of bruising felt while getting it.
"What the fuck, Ove," Roche said, his voice even rougher than usual, and the person next to him shook a little under the covers in what was probably a laugh.
"It's well past dawn, sir," Ove said, averting his eyes a bit, only for his gaze to catch on the discarded gambeson in the room that didn't belong to Roche. He hadn’t paid enough attention to it at the start, thinking it was Roche’s, but he saw now that it wasn’t the Stripes’ blue at all— it was blue, true, but it was spangled with lilies, and that was the prerogative of the King’s Royal Guard alone. Which also explained a whole barrelful of things.
“It— fucking— yes, it’s fucking past dawn, can I not sleep in sometimes?” Roche spluttered, reaching for bravado and falling short.
“Sure you can, boss,” Ove said. “We just wanted to… check on you, like. They haven’t sounded the call to get ready to move out yet, but they probably will soon.”
There was a snort from underneath the blankets, and as Ove watched in delighted surprise, an arm emerged and wrapped possessively around Roche’s waist. Muscular, with a couple but not a lot of scars, dusted with light blond hair, the hand callused but with trim, manicured nails— Ove's certainty that this was one of Foltest's guards rose even further. The PFI would never have nails that nice; hell, none of the Stripes' nails were that nice. And speaking of nails— those little crescent marks on the back of that hand, and a few reddish scratches on the arm… Ha! The boss had been a very active participant, if Ove was reading those correctly.
There were a few women in the Guard, but they all had dark hair, so this had to be one of the men. That might account for part of why the commander was so nervous, too— Thirteen and Sheridan were together, sure enough, but there were people at court who believed the Eternal Fire’s prattling or who were just happy to use anything to their advantage.
The arm shifted, pulling Roche further in, and when Ove glanced up at his boss’ face again he could see him starting to flush.
“Well, you’ve checked, and where I got such a clutch of mother hens I don’t know,” Roche growled.
“I think we learned it from you, boss,” Ove teased.
Roche opened his mouth to respond and— squeaked, squeaked and jerked forwards slightly, and nearly smacked the shape behind him, still swathed in the covers, before remembering himself. Ove watched his commander's face and ears turn even redder, and tried desperately to stifle his grin. Seemed like the boss' partner had pinched or bit him or sommat— and it seemed like Roche had maybe been making most of the noise last night.
Ove, lips trembling with his suppressed smile, said, “I’ll just be on my way now.”
“You do that,” Roche grumbled darkly, though the effect was rather spoiled by his disheveled hair and flushed face.
“And uh, boss?” Ove couldn’t resist saying as he started out the door. “Congratulations.”
Roche started spluttering again, and Ove clamped down on laughter and was rewarded when he heard the boss' partner start murmuring to him, something sleep-rough in a medium-deep voice. Ove couldn't make out the words at all, but he didn't need to— he'd intruded enough, and it would be in poor form to end all the betting pools at once.
"I'm gonna kill 'em," Vernon muttered, burying his face in Foltest's chest. Foltest liked that, as it had taken some convincing to finally get his commander to lie back down.
"Now don't do that," Foltest said, still grinning. "You'll hate finding replacements even more."
"Be worth it," Vernon grumbled, his face so red that Foltest could feel the heat against his skin.
"No," Foltest said, faux-stern, and punctuated the order with a pinch to Vernon's ass, right over where he'd bitten his boy just a minute ago. Vernon made another delightful little sound, his hips jerking forwards, and Foltest groaned quietly as Vernon's thigh rubbed up against his cock, snaking his hand around to fondle Vernon's prick in return. Foltest was already half hard again, had felt himself stirring as he'd listened to Vernon and his subordinate talking, knowing how thoroughly marked Vernon was, knowing that the soldier, Ove, could see and admire what was Foltest's— he simply hadn't been able to resist teasing.
"Ahh, fffu— Foltest," Vernon nearly whined. "We can't. We can't, the nosy bastards are right outside—"
"Let them hear," Foltest said, licking his lips and giving Vernon's balls a careful squeeze. "If they didn't hear enough of you last night, let them hear you now, hear how you're mine, dear heart, hear how good you are for me—"
Vernon did moan at that, trying to stifle the sound in Foltest's collarbone.
"One more?" Foltest wheedled, feeling Vernon's cock twitch beneath his fingers.
"No fucking way!" someone said, far too loud, just outside the tent. The man was stifled almost immediately, probably by several others of Vernon's team, but Vernon tensed, his prick softening.
Foltest sighed and let go of Vernon's cock, running his thumb across his hipbone instead. "Does my commander need to go bust some heads?"
Vernon grumbled. "No, that's just Finch. I happen to know he has an outside bet on my seeing a noble."
A single whoop of laughter escaped Foltest before he could stuff his hand in his mouth to stifle the noise.
"It's not funny!" Vernon hissed.
Foltest, tearing up slightly, choked out, "Oh yes it is."
Vernon scowled at him, and Foltest leaned in to kiss him, still laughing into his mouth.
“Shall we win him his bet?” he asked, only half teasing.
“No,” Vernon insisted, although he kissed Foltest again, soft and sweet, before sitting up and turning to put his feet down on the floor. “If we take too long someone’s going to find out that you’re missing, and the hue and cry will be heard in Aedirn.”
Foltest sighed, letting his gaze drag up the pale skin of Vernon’s back, over the scattered tattoos and darkening love bites. The thrill of possessive pride over seeing his coat of arms on Vernon’s back never ceased to dizzy him, and he had to sit up and kiss the inked skin of his hound’s shoulder blade, draw his tongue across it and feel Vernon shiver.
The problem with lovers, Foltest reflected, as he heatedly watched Vernon sort through through their clothes, is even after having just fucked them, I always end up wanting them more. Foltest wanted to lock himself in his rooms with Vernon and not come out for a week, see if he could make his boy scream.
There was another murmur of voices from the exterior of the tent, and Foltest sighed again. His fantasy would have to remain just that— he was the king, and privacy and time to himself was not something he was allowed to have.
"Here," Vernon said, dumping most of Foltest's borrowed guard uniform at his feet. "I'll distract my men, and we can loosen the edge of the tent here, and you can sneak out."
"Ashamed of me, Vernon?" Foltest asked gently.
"No!" Vernon said, before visibly realizing Foltest was teasing him. "No. But if you walk out there, one of those fools is going to recognize you, and you know how soldiers gossip."
"Well, the phrase is 'gossip like watcherwomen'," Foltest agreed.
"Washerwomen, sire," Vernon said after a second.
Foltest blinked. "Oh. Hm. Either way, gossip like soldiers should be an acceptable substitute."
Vernon snorted in amusement, and leaned down for another kiss, which Foltest gladly granted him.
“If you walked out there now, like this, I don’t think a single one of them would notice me, even if I were walking out directly behind you,” Foltest murmured, raking his eyes hungrily over Vernon.
Vernon shivered, licking his lips. “I—”
“Please?” Foltest asked, running his hand across the jut of Vernon’s hip bone, tracing the dagger tattoo on his pelvis with a fingertip. “I only ever want to show you off, dear heart, and I never have the opportunity.”
You’ve done shit a lot more dangerous than this, Roche told himself as he stood on the wooden mat of his tent, just out of reach of the entrance. He heard more excited muttering from outside and grimaced. He had done shit a lot more dangerous than this, but the boys were going to be milking this one for years, and he was about to walk out there bare-ass naked and deliberately make it worse.
Of course, the Stripes were so nosey that he needed to give them something they would focus all of their attention on— the absolute last thing he needed was one of them wondering where his… companion had gotten to and deciding to go looking.
“The things I do for love,” he muttered, adjusting the grip of the bucket he used to store his wash things and striding out of the tent, bare as the day he’d been born, though rather more decorated.
“Boss!” at least two Stripes yelped from the middle of the little knot that had formed in front of his tent.
Roche grimly noted the flash of sun on metal as people hastily tucked away handfuls of orens. He knew it was a fool’s errand to try and stifle the low-level gambling and gossip among the Stripes— but right now, as he strode forwards, towards the bit of stream that the Stripes had staked out for laundry and washing, he almost wished he were fool enough to try.
Somebody—it might’ve been Fenn, and that grated—whistled, long and loud, as he walked past. Roche tried not to blush by sheer force of will, but he was quite aware that it was an utter failure. His face felt hot enough to fry an egg on. He wanted to make a dash for the creek and maybe drown himself to escape this, but he was committed to giving Foltest time to sneak away.
“Seeing someone from Velen?” Fenn actually said, out loud. “Someone’s been chewing on your ass but good. Might wanna tell ‘em you don’t want t’ eat people you’re fucking.”
“We don’t—” Silas started up, hotly, only to be cut off.
“I told you,” Ove murmured.
Before Roche could turn around and ask what exactly Ove had told the rest of them, embarrassment temporarily overcome by irritation, Shorty clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“Good morning, boss!” he said cheerfully. “Sleep well?”
Roche growled. “Would have slept longer if I didn’t have a unit full of interfering busybodies.”
“Sure you would’ve,” Shorty agreed amiably. “You’d hate us for being useless if we weren’t, though.”
Roche could admit that this was true, but he wasn’t about to say it. Especially not when they were sticking their noses in his business.
“Ves is gonna be sorry she missed this,” someone muttered, an undertone of glee in their voice.
“I daresay the lieutenant is immune to the charms of anybody here,” Roche said loudly, deliberately misinterpreting. He was so glad Ves had been off on business of her own last night.
“She might be, but there’s at least one Temerian who’s not,” called Igo. Roche could hear him grinning. “In fact I’d say they found you irresistible.”
Roche grunted, torn between flattery and deep, deep embarrassment. He could almost hear Foltest murmuring in his ear, about how much he wanted Roche, about how much he wanted to show it, and had to remind himself that the eyes of every Blue Stripe and probably a few other soldiers with spyglasses, attention drawn by the ruckus and kept by the entertainment, were trained on him and he really should not work himself up into a state like this.
"Does anybody else have anything clever to add?" Roche asked, spreading his arms wide. "Or can I bathe in peace?"
Nobody actually said anything further, which, well, you couldn't say the Stripes had no self-preservation instincts. Roche marched down to the creek, trying not to hide his offense, and winced as a thigh muscle reminded him that it had been stretched further than it should have been last night. Melitele, he was getting old. He’d been in far more athletic contortions before and had barely even remembered them the morning afterwards.
The water was chilly, but Roche took his time washing up, listening to the murmuring of the Stripes as they continued gossiping as they began breaking down the camp and packing up to get ready to ride out. They were trying to be quiet, but his hearing was still quite sharp, despite how much Finch and Ves liked to tease him about being an old man. Nobody seemed to have actually realized who he’d been fucking last night, which was an embarassingly welcome relief, if only the smallest one. Two of the boys started arguing about whether or not he’d been doing the fucking or not, and Roche hid his face in his hands with a heartfelt groan. New betting pools. Fantastic.
“Now, what are you blackguards up to?” came a deeply familiar baritone, and Roche's head snapped back up in horror.
No. He wouldn't. Unfortunately, Roche knew all too well Foltest would. How the fuck did he get dressed and back here so quickly?
“Your Majesty!” Finch said, overloud. There was quite a bit of sheepish chatter, and Roche buried his face in his hands as he heard Foltest speak again.
“Come now, I want to keep up on gossip as much as any other soldier,” Foltest said, his smile audible. “Especially when it concerns my favorite commander.”
I’m going to kill him, Roche thought. I’m going to be executed as a regicide because I am going to kill him.
There was some murmuring, but Thirteen, gods damn him, said, “The boss had a damn good time last night, sire,” and Roche could just hear Foltest beam.
Roche roughly finger-combed his hair and gathered his bathing kit before stomping back up to the assholes. Foltest was heartbreakingly gorgeous, as usual, sunlight burnishing his hair to an astonishing rye-gold, his grin wide and white. He wasn’t wearing any jewelry, and was in a fine but plain linen shirt and tunic, with dark gray woolen breeches and tall leather boots. Roche stared, trying to figure out where they’d come from, and abruptly remembered the satchel he’d been toting when he’d shown up at Roche’s tent last night. He’d brought food, and a bottle of wine, and— possibly a second set of clothes.
Foltest gestured, and Roche’s gaze caught on the black leather riding gloves that he was wearing, and Roche could feel his face heat again as he remembered digging his nails into Foltest’s hands as Foltest had been fucking him.
“Vernon!” Foltest said brightly, smiling directly at him.
“Sire,” Roche grunted, trying by force of will alone to not turn bright red.
“I see your men weren’t exaggerating,” Foltest continued, eyes sparkling.
Roche couldn’t quite meet Foltest’s gaze, a rush of heat going up his spine. He knew— he was covered in Foltest's marks, and the evidence of Foltest's claim was as arousing as it was embarrassing. He heard a low ‘oooooh’ from the damned peanut gallery, and straightened self-consciously.
“Really, sire, we’re just teasing,” said Silas, and before anybody could kick him to make him shut up, he continued, “The boss is so devoted to you, and to the job, see, that a bunch of us had bet that he hadn’t—”
Thank Melitele, somebody’s brain caught up with their reflexes and Silas yelped, the end of his sentence mercifully lost.
“Betting, eh?” Foltest said, raising a brow. “Though I can certainly say I’ve never had any cause to worry about Vernon’s devotion,” and the look on Foltest’s face suddenly made this whole fiasco worth it.
“Sire,” Roche acknowledged, and bowed his head. He made a face at the sight of his cock, his skinny legs and bare feet, the ugly scribble of Ves' first tattooing attempt across his toes and the charms against drowning on the bridges, and looked up again. "It’s still best not to encourage gambling— and on that note, I'm going to go get dressed."
Foltest laughed and waved a hand. "Dismissed, all of you."
Stripes scattered, and Roche smiled at Foltest as he walked past his king. He could just hear Foltest murmur—
“I can’t say I see the harm— and we could always rig the outcomes.”