Basch watched, arms folded, as Sartauvoir moved through the fluid motions of his exercises. It truly was a pleasure to behold: the taut grace of a mage-knight of Mannatheihwo, tracing fire with every swing of his staff like a child’s alchemical sparkler, painting shapes in the air. He could feel the warmth from where he stood, and that scent of heat that always underscored any of Sartauvoir’s training efforts.
“You do realise, Legatus, that I am aware you’re watching me?” Sartauvoir didn’t turn, but tipped his head a little, sending the charms on his hat a-dangle.
“Well, I’m hardly being stealthy, Soranus. I’d be surprised if you hadn’t noticed me.” Basch pushed off the wall and sauntered over to stand in front of Sartauvoir. “I was admiring your form, if you want to know.”
“Were you?” Sartauvoir spun and ducked, sliding his staff around and then up in a sweeping arc to come to a precise stop just in front of Basch’s nose. “Well, thank you. I think.”
“Excellent control,” Basch tapped on the large ball at the end of the staff with a fingernail, the sound ringing out through the small training room, “but you have a few openings in your guard. Perhaps you would accept a sparring partner, sometime? I have long wanted to test my own skills against a mage-knight.”
Sartauvoir straightened, twirling his staff then planting it base-first into the ground. “I did not… I would not have expected you to offer this to me, Legatus. Should you be spending your valuable time sparring with your inferiors?” He tilted his head to one side, regarding Basch through the fall of hair about his left eye.
Basch laughed. “My time is mine to spend how I will, whether that be sparring with my ‘inferiors’ or otherwise.” He folded his arms again and tipped his head back, regarding Sartauvoir with half-lidded eyes. “Any time spent training my charges is better for the whole Legion, is it not?” He let a smile hover on his lips. “And there is pleasure for me in it, as well. I grow no younger, after all, and honing my skills against previously unknown styles of fighting serves to keep me hale and hearty.”
“Hm, I see.” Sartauvoir squinted at the light through the high window, judging the move of the sun through the sky. “Well, there are still hours left in the day, and I have no other tasks. Will you join me, then?” He held out a hand to Basch, a crooked smile hung on his lips, and Basch could not help but return it as he took Sartauvoir’s hand; warm and dry, yet crackling with a potential that was nearly tangible.
“Have you ever sparred with an opponent who favours twinned blades?” Basch said, by way of an answer. “I think you may find it quite an invigorating experience.” He dropped both hands to the long, curved swords at both hips, and then slid his feet apart in a swordsman’s stance, lowering his weight as he pulled the blades from their sheaths.
Sartauvoir eyed the blades, that smile still hovering, and leaned back into his own stance. “The mage-knights of Mannatheihwo fight with staff and blade. Let us see the difference!”
His free hand curled and a blade of fire sprung from his grasp, solidifying with a hiss and a crackle that made Basch’s breath catch in his throat.
“I had heard of your control over fire, but this is… impressive.” Basch’s eyes glinted with the flames, and without another word he dashed in, closing the distance in two long strides. He swung both swords up in a scything arc and brought them clashing down against the paired blade-and-staff, a lick of flame tonguing out towards his eyebrow as he wheeled away and back into stance.
He knew he had to compensate for Sartauvoir’s extra height, at least a head taller and that wasn’t even counting the hat, and Basch already anticipated the pleasant burn of muscle at the extension it would require to properly fight Sartauvoir.
Basch lowered himself into a crouch and began to circle, switching the grip on his blades so they faced away from him, following the line of his bare forearms, and then pushed himself up into a spinning leap, one sword following the other and forcing Sartauvoir to fall back with a hastily covered up stumble.
Sartauvoir steadied himself, then pressed in as Basch turned, bringing his flaming sword down in a low arc as his staff followed above and scored a line across Basch’s leather jerkin. “One point to me,” he said, breathlessly.
Basch laughed. “Aye, and only after my own point, which makes us even.” He straightened up then flowed away from Sartauvoir’s staff, which spun back following the same path but in reverse. He thrust up and caught the staff by it’s bladed head on his own crossed swords, then performed a cunning twist of his wrists intended to send the thing clattering from Sartauvoir’s hands.
His grip held, though, and Sartauvoir gritted his teeth as the movement had him shifting his stance, trying to keep his centre of gravity level and low. He tightened his grip on his sword and then swung it up, jarring its hilt into the twin hilts of Basch’s swords with a blow that was enough to break their hold on his staff.
Basch retreated two steps, adjusting his grip on both sword hilts as he sized up Sartauvoir. He had been right about the gap in his defences, and the last move had shown it to him. A staff was an excellent weapon for guarding, but using it one-handed reduced the manoeuvrability to the extent that even using a sword in the other was not enough to compensate. Sartauvoir held the staff off-centre, his grip further towards the bottom than the top - no doubt to make good use of the hefty blades at the head of it, and that heavy, solid ball in the centre. And then of course the flaming blade, while impressive, was more of an afterthought. They weren’t working together as one weapon, and Basch grinned, his next move clear as crystal.
Though he was not as limber as he had been once, he slid one leg back enough that it allowed him to sway to the side, bringing up one sword in a hard arc until it connected with the base of Sartauvoir’s staff head, sending it sharply upwards.
The momentum knocked Sartauvoir off balance enough that Basch was able to surge in close, but that damnable flaming sword came up and then they were swaying together, chest to chest, caught in a stalemate. Sartauvoir’s flame-bright sword gave off a rippling heat that near scorched Basch’s nose - he could smell the swelter of flame chasing bright steel and it sent a tingle of blood to his crotch. Sartauvoir panted, and what Basch could see of his eyes looked bright with challenge and battlelust, glints of flame lighting up that pale, pale blue.
Neither man budged an ilm, though Basch’s calves screamed with the angle and pressure of fighting against a taller opponent. Their eyes met, and Basch grinned savagely up at Sartauvoir.
“Ready to give ground, Soranus?”
“I should ask the same of you! We are evenly matched, I’ll give no ground today!” Sartauvoir tossed his head and Basch sensed his opening: he ducked onto his back foot, bringing both his blades round and connecting them at the hilts in a smooth movement, then he surged up and forward, taking advantage of Sartauvoir’s moment of off balance to shove, sending him stumbling back to slam into the training room wall.
Basch smacked one hilt against Sartauvoir’s hand, then the other, forcing him to drop both his weapons and then he sent all of his body weight against him, pinning him to the wall with the joined hilts across his chest. He leaned in close, breathing heavily from the mix of exertion and the sparks between them.
Sartauvoir looked down at Basch, his own breath coming hard, and then slid a thigh up to press against Basch’s crotch. “Oh,” he said, eyes wide, “you did enjoy that, didn’t you, Legatus?”
Basch rocked his hips forward, near rutting up against Sartauvoir’s thigh. He inhaled sharply at the pressure and friction; even through his trousers, it felt good. Better than it had any call to feel, though that was probably mostly down to the sparring getting his blood roused. Sartauvoir smelled of fire and sweat and the heavy furs at his collar, and Basch’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep, heady breath of him, eyes fluttering.
Without thinking about it further, he surged up onto his toes and took Sartauvoir’s mouth in a kiss. It was hard and sloppy, and their teeth clashed for a time before they got used to the angle and the height difference. Sartauvoir moaned into Basch’s mouth, making frustrated, aborted movements against the strength of the sword hilts pinning him, but Basch just smiled into the kiss, and shook his head.
“Stay as you are, soldier,” he murmured against Sartauvoir’s lips, “the thigh too, if you please.” He rolled his hips slowly, luxuriating in the press of his clothed cock against Sartauvoir’s thigh.
Shifting his weight, Basch slid one hand to the middle of his joined swords and the other went down between them, slipping it up under the sashes holding Sartauvoir’s robe closed to palm his cock roughly.
“Oh, not just me enjoying myself, I see.” He closed his fingers, taking hold of that hard cock through his trousers, and Sartauvoir’s eyes slid closed, head thumping back against the wall, the sound muffled by the brim of his hat.
“Hell,” Sartauvoir moaned, hips jerking at Basch’s ministrations, “Ser, if you don’t stop that,” he panted, “I will spend myself in my trousers and ruin all our hard work sparring.”
Basch chuckled darkly. “So soon? I wouldn’t have thought that of a young man such as yourself.”
Sartauvoir groaned again. “You can hardly blame me when your every move is calculated this way!” He opened his eyes, looking down at Basch, who twinkled up at him even as he moved his own hips languidly against Sartauvoir’s thigh. “Ser,” he appended, hastily.
“If you keep calling me that, it will be me doing the spending,” Basch returned, biting down on his lip, hard. “Very well, then. As you will.” He took a reluctant step back, removing his weight and his sword hilts from Sartauvoir’s chest, and immediately felt the lack of pressure and heat at his groin. “Unfasten your trousers.” Basch’s gaze drew slowly downwards, to the obvious tenting in Sartauvoir’s trousers. “Slow has its benefits, but that can come later, at our leisure.” He looked up again, a glint of challenge in his eyes. “Unless you would rather we part here to our own bunks? Alone?”
Sartauvoir hissed out his frustration, but obeyed, both hands dropping to fumble at the fastenings of his trousers. “You didn’t have to drop the swords,” he said under his breath, with a glance up at Basch.
“Oh, is that so? I shall remember that.” Basch pulled open his greatcoat and worked at his own laces, finally getting them open and pushing his trousers down enough to free his cock to the chill air. He palmed it, slicking leaking precome down the length with a low moan; the leather palms of his fingerless gloves giving an edge to his touch that made him shiver.
As Basch jerked himself, Sartauvoir stuffed his gloved fingers into his own mouth, coating them with saliva ‘til he judged it would be enough, and then moving down to finger at his entrance. The leather was just wet enough to give a little lubrication, and the thick push of his fingers made him groan as both slipped inside. The stretch burned and stung, but he couldn’t stop - all thoughts focused on Basch’s cock in front of him, and the sight of the head of it appearing and disappearing with the rough slide of Basch’s hand.
“Now,” Sartauvoir gasped, taking hold of Basch’s wrist and pausing him in his movements. “Do you have the strength to hold me?”
Basch’s eyes darkened, and he nodded sharply, then surged up against Sartauvoir once more, this time lifting one of his thighs and pulling it about his waist as best he could with trousers in the way. He slid the same hand down and round, pulling on Sartauvoir’s arse cheek to give himself space, then guided his cock in with his other hand.
Sartauvoir’s knee bent a little to even out their heights, and his eyes rolled back in his head as Basch entered him. “Oh-” he groaned, mouth falling open to pant out his pleasure, “oh yes, that’s- that’s good.” His hips canted upwards and he pulled his leg tighter around Basch’s waist, sealing them together as Basch began to move, fucking into him with long, slow strokes.
With his free hand, Basch reached up and took hold of Sartauvoir’s neck, pulling him down for another deep and punishing kiss; even as he fucked him with deliberation he took his mouth with a fervour that made Sartauvoir gasp. The slide of tongue on tongue, the press and bite of teeth, the needy, desperate sounds Basch made, all gave an intimacy to their coupling that Sartauvoir had never felt before. Basch kissed him like a dying man, wringing every moment of pleasure from both their bodies until Sartauvoir felt his orgasm began to build.
His dick rubbed up between their bellies, the soft pressure of leather and fabric nearly enough to tip him over the edge, but his own desperate hand did the rest of the work, rubbing his palm over the sensitive, leaking head and down a little, then back up and over and over until Sartauvoir shuddered into orgasm, spilling his seed with a low groan, muffled into Basch’s mouth.
Sartauvoir’s whole body seemed to clench and tense, tightening around Basch’s thick cock as he continued to plunge in and out, the blunt head of it dragging against his prostate again and again.
Basch pulled away from the kiss, still holding onto Sartauvoir’s neck, only to lean in and bury his face in his chest. His pace grew erratic and he grunted as his own release took him like wildfire, leaving his legs shaking and his hips twitching, head bowed and fingers digging into Sartauvoir’s arse cheek ‘til he was sure there would be reddened marks from his blunt fingernails.
They stayed that way for some time, breath slowly returning to normal. Sartauvoir raised his unsoiled hand and tilted Basch’s head back up and kissed him, lazy and almost dreamy, both their eyes sliding closed as they relaxed against each other, all breathy sighs and soft lips and the gentle brush of beards and moustache.
With a wistful sigh, Basch opened his eyes to regard Sartauvoir, both their faces near hidden from the world by the large brim of his hat. “Would that we could stay this way forever, but I fear that my legs may give out at any moment.”
Sartauvoir huffed out a laugh, eyes soft. “Aye, well I suppose that’s what happens when you fuck after a rather intense sparring session.”
“Yes, let’s go with that.” Basch let go of Sartauvoir’s arse and let his leg down, though not without grazing his palm down the full length of his thigh to the knee. “Such long legs,” he remarked. “They afford you an excellent reach.”
“Reach, is it? Hm.” Sartauvoir hissed as Basch’s soft cock slipped out of his arse, then pulled a face as he felt his seed begin to make its way down his inner thigh. “Would that we could indulge in a hot bath,” he said with an over-dramatic sigh. “I don’t particularly care for the feeling of cold spendings oozing down my legs. Long as they are, it seems to last an age.”
“Alas, we’re fresh out of hot baths in this castrum. Someone really ought to have that seen to.” Basch fumbled with his trousers, tugging them up with a grimace of his own as he tucked himself back in, damp stickiness and all.
“Somehow, I suspect we may have to just make do with a lukewarm shower.” Sartauvoir made to begin pulling up his trousers, then paused with a grimace of disgust. “Oh, this really is intolerable. Pass me that towel, would you?” He waved in the direction of the railing on the opposite wall where a small towel hung, then blushed to the tips of his ears as he realised the full import of his words. “Ah- uh, I mean. Please would you pass me that towel, Legatus?”
He fixed his eyes firmly on the ground, cataloguing the hooks and eyes on Basch’s boots before Basch moved in close and tipped his head back up. “None of that, please. I think we have moved past the need for such formality, do you not? You will call me Basch, and no more ‘Legatus’, thank you very much.”
Sartauvoir’s lips twitched in a wry smile. “If you insist, Ser- ah. Basch.” He flushed harder, but managed to bring his eyes up to meet Basch’s, which were twinkling with a mixture of amusement and fondness. “Basch,” he tested, wetting his lips with a flick of his tongue, “pass me the towel, would you?”
“That’s better.” Basch turned on his heels and fetched the towel in short order. With gentle but sure hands, he cleaned up his own mess from Sartauvoir, and dabbed at the stains on both their clothes with little effect. “Well, I hope you have a change of clothing somewhere in your barracks. Or at least, that you can pilfer a little extra water to get this out…”
“Hm, I’m sure I can manage. If anything else, judicious application of some well-controlled fire may burn away the stain.”
Basch raised an eyebrow and let out a low whistle. “Your control extends so far? I know I said I was impressed before, but that’s another level entirely, Soranus.”
Sartauvoir grinned, a hint of red at the tips of his ears. “You can call me Sartauvoir, you know.” He reached out to touch Basch’s wrist, thumb gliding down the inside of it. “And if you want a more, ah, intimate demonstration of the full extent of my control, I will be more than happy to schedule something for you.”
Their eyes met, promise dancing between their gazes. “Now that is intriguing indeed. What would the demonstration cover, pray tell?”
With the tiniest twitch of his hand, Sartauvoir allowed a gentle blue flame to dance down his thumb to Basch’s wrist; contained and restrained, it flickered between them and Basch gasped at the heat of it, keeping his hand in place with only his prodigious self-restraint.
“So warm,” he murmured, wetting his lips and unable to keep his eyes from the tiny flame. “And yet I can tell it does not touch my skin more than superficially. It will not burn?”
“Nay, not unless I wish it,” Sartauvoir looked down and then up at Basch under his lashes, “or unless you wish it, Basch.”
Basch swallowed, trying to tamp down images of flames coating Sartauvoir’s hand, and how it would feel tracing the lines of him with that heat. “And how do you test this control of yours? I’m sure we could come up with some novel methods, between us.”
“You mean how well would I control my flames, were you inside me?” Sartauvoir’s words were bold, but he ducked his head, cheeks as red as the tips of his ears.
“Mm, or you inside me, perhaps?”
That had Sartauvoir looking up again, sharp as a blade, and the flame winked out, leaving them both bereft. “I believe I would enjoy that… A novel method indeed.”
“Next time, then?”
“Aye, next time. And perhaps at our next sparring session, I can show you the height of my powers. I believe you would enjoy seeing my, ah, transformation.”
“Transformation, is it? You’ve piqued my interest, Sartauvoir. I would be delighted to join you.”