fic: Statistical Improbabilities
Aug. 5th, 2011 06:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Statistical Improbabilities
Series: FE10
Character/Pairing: Ike/Soren
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2075
Author's note: Porn battle. Started for 11, but I couldn't finish it, but whatever, 12. I promisedblankspectrum I'd do some Ike/Soren porn for her for the last charity event, so. Yay, porn for charity.
Soren ties his hair up, a useless gesture, for Ike has it down in a second's time. He sighs, and shakes his head. He leaves it, and lets his hair hang loose around his shoulders. Their boots are on the floor, side by side. Soren's touch shows in this room: Ike's pants neatly folded upon the single, barely usable chair; the armor cleaned and neatly arrayed in a pile; Soren's things to one corner, almost apologetic in their attempt to take up as little space as possible. The only thing Ike is wearing is the one blanket over his lower half, while Soren still has a thick black shift on.
Soren takes a side glance at him. There's a considerably larger amount of marks than there were a few months prior when their biggest fear was bandits who stole cattle. His body is far more scarred, and stronger than the boy he grew up with. But he finds each side of him beautiful, and loves the strong, hard planes of the man that Ike has become just as much as he loved the leaner, thinner body of the boy he was.
The wind rises to a howl outside. A sudden draft catches in the room through the gaps in the wall. Soren frowns at it, at the newfound chill which has made its way into the room. This is only one of many of old fortresses they have taken up residence in. The Begnion army is just beyond the Glenbarough river, but the storms of the past week have kept the banks swollen, and provided a respite.
"It looks like the storm will keep us for a few more days yet," Soren says.
"Well I for one certainly hope so," Ike says. "It feels like I haven't had a break in months."
It has been a hard few weeks. The Begnion army has kept up the offensive, and beorc don't heal half as fast as the laguz. The beast tribe especially are filled with vitality, and ready to go mere days after significant injuries, while their fellow beorc soldiers are still limping along.
Soren withdraws the extra amount of oil he always skims off of the kitchen funds, hidden under his own code of ledgers and paid with his own earnings. He rubs his hands together to warm them, and pours the oil on his hands. He keeps the oil close, and places it within reaching distance by the bed.
"Is your leg still giving you trouble?"
Ike grunts. "A little."
Soren has some medicinal herb in a pouch with his things. He has mixed herbs and oils before, made poultices, but they are low on funds again. They are always low on funds. It is the choice he and Ike have made. They could have lived in the court, in mansions, even in the queen's own castle. But they chose a life of near poverty, the hard drudging, day-to-day labors of a mercenary.
He notices that the blanket has tented. Ike lays back and looks at him with this beginning of a smile. It's sensual, a suggestion.
Soren narrows his eyes at him, without any true malice, and Ike grins back at him. "Oh, you," Soren murmurs.
Ike shrugs. "Consider it a compliment."
"If you keep up this association with the scent of oil, you're going to have to start taking your meals in your bedroom," Soren says.
"I can live with that," Ike says. "As long as you're their to take meals with me."
Soren offers a wan smile. "You know my answer already, Ike."
Ike pushes down the blanket and Soren climbs under it. They're cocooned in warmth. He does not focus immediately on Ike's arousal, and instead fixes himself on the original goal of easing the pain in his leg. He rubs, slowly from his heel upwards, brushing over scars and the vestiges of blisters from all the months spent on the road with ill-fitting, worn out boots.
Ike sighs, slowly relaxing as the knot in his muscles is worn away. He isn't pushy, but instead allows Soren to take his time. He moves up the length of Ike's calf, stroking and firm up his leg, the behind of the knee, and finally to Ike's thighs. There have been more than a few jokes by the women of the towns they've passed that Ike's thighs should be considered a national monument of Crimea (then leading to other coarse jokes about monuments). Soren rests his hands on his knees and begins to suck on Ike's inner thigh. There's a taste of salt, and the faint taste of olives from the oil. Soren sucks until there is the beginnings of a nice-sized bruise spreading over the skin, then he switches to the opposite side. He's thorough in his attentions, as he leaves these marks on the territory he considers his own. Ike is patient, within reason, and Soren does not push or tease him. Instead he steadily licks a trail up his left thigh to hip, and bites down gently, raking his teeth against Ike's flesh.
Ike understands, Soren knows this. Ike knows that this is a gift, and that he should sit back and simply allow Soren to do this–to claim him and revel in the fact that Ike is his. They've always had this sort of understanding together, and so he doesn't have to ask. His hair will have to be washed before this is over, so he doesn't hesitate to take his still oily hands and loop it around and around Ike's cock. He breathes over it, warm, his lips almost touching before he bends low enough to take Ike in his mouth. Ike is a quiet lover. It's another thing they share, along with lack of sunny disposition and penchant for traveling light. Soft, slow groans, a grunt or two. He isn't the type to keep the neighbors awake.
Soren takes him in slowly, working the underside with his tongue. He takes Ike in as deep as he can, using his oil slicked hands at the base, working up until Ike is completely slick. He pauses a moment, only to wrap his dark, thick hair over his cock as well.
Soren has always known Ike is fond of long hair. Otherwise, he'd have long ago cut his and not suffered the inconveniences that comes with long hair. Ike draws a sharp breath in. He reaches out, curling his scarred fingers in Soren's hair. Soren thinks he'd even let Ike pull his hair until his scalp ached, if he so wanted. He's never asked, though. His thumb strokes along Soren's cheek.
"That's enough, Soren," Ike whispers.
Soren nods. He lets Ike's still erect cock slip from his mouth, undoes the knot of his hair that spirals over the shaft, and reaches for the bottle of oil to lubricate his hands once again.
"No, let me," Ike says.
Soren lets out a little whimper in the back of his throat and it isn't entirely from pleasure as Ike fills him up, two fingers at a time. He thrusts in at a quick pace, eager to ready Soren's body for him, eager to take him. Soren sees something like stars before his eyes, but he knows is just viscera, the various humors that make up him.
Ike never manages to be fully gentle. It isn't for lack of trying, but he is strong, inherently clumsy and Soren's body is fragile. Even when he holds himself back, Soren ends up getting bruised. But if he gets bruised, it means that Ike wants him all the more. So he takes it, and tries his best to not let Ike realize.
Besides, any bruise or soreness is worth knowing that Ike wants him. The world can crash down around them, Tellius can burn, but as long as Ike wants him–needs him–Soren can survive another day, no matter what happens.
"Ready?" Ike asks. There's an eagerness to him, a raggedness to his breath.
"Yes, Ike."
Ike leans back, and Soren climbs on top of him. He drops his hips, and bites his lower lip. Even with preparation, there's quite a size difference between them. He draws in a ragged breath.
"Soren–"
"I'm fine–just move–"
Ike does. He grips onto Soren's hips and Soren is filled up entirely. Soren rolls his hips, meeting every thrust. Any discomfort is overpowered by the sheer intimacy, the pleasure of their bodies fitting together so tight. Ike's hands run up his back, feeling him. Claiming him. The light is dim, but he catches Ike's gaze. He always wants to be face to face, where he can study each expression. Partly, of course, because he loves to watch the pleasure reflected, but also to make sure he's not mistaken, that Ike really does want him, love him. He knows this, but sometimes it's hard to believe that something good could actually come out of this world full of selfishness and cruelty. Out of all the other women and men he could've had, he picked Soren, and that is a statistical improbability even with all Soren has ever done to prove his loyalty and devotion.
They can't kiss in this position, but it lessens the chance that Soren will get hurt–or at least come out with broken bones, at least. Besides, they still find ways of closeness as Ike takes Soren's hand in his, fitted together against his hip. Their grip tightens as they both go faster, urging on. There's no declarations, no passionate words or cries. Ike only said the words once, and that was almost as a gruff afterthought. Ike is, as he has always said, not a man of eloquence.
But he doesn't need words when there's deeds and expressions and actions, and Ike is full of these. It's beautiful and sublime, the way it feels to no longer be alone and have Ike clinging tight to him, taking him. Just three years ago, this would've been nothing more than some foolish, impossibility. A dangerous dream he couldn't allow himself to entertain, and yet plagued him often.
He guides Ike's hand to his own cock and they both close around it, their hands entwined around the head and pumping him. He lets out a slight moan at this, a more ragged breath, a gasp. They are never very loud, even at the most passionate of moments when he knows climax is near, and he tries to time his own release with Ike's for another intimacy, another shared closeness.
It's a whisper of Ike's name, that's all, as he feels the warmth of Ike coming inside him. Moments later, in their hands he comes. The come spills over Ike's chest as Ike lets go and rests his arm. Some falls to the bedspread below, and even to the floor where Ike's fingers dangle over the bed.
Soren reaches out for washing cloth he keeps nearby, within his store of private things such a purloined oil.
"Leave it," Ike mutters.
"It'll make everything sticky," Soren said. "And you'll go out smelling like sex before you bathe, and Shinon will make drunken remarks at you all day long."
"I don't mind smelling like you," Ike said.
Soren reconsiders this, and it only takes a second to decide. Hygiene be damned, having Ike go out smelling like sex would be a good thing if it meant one more venue of a claim to stake on him.
"At least wash off your hands," Soren says, as a compromise.
Ike grunts and takes it, washing not only his hands, but where he touched on Soren's back, hips and thighs after he'd fingered him.
Ike holds his large, calloused hands up for inspection. "Good enough?" Ike asks. It's half exasperated and half affectionate.
"Yes," Soren says primly.
He fits his body close, nestling towards Ike. In a short time, Ike will fall asleep–he always does—and Soren will stay awake and watch him sleep, and remind himself that they have survived another day, that Ike has chosen him, and that he is loved.
Series: FE10
Character/Pairing: Ike/Soren
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2075
Author's note: Porn battle. Started for 11, but I couldn't finish it, but whatever, 12. I promised
blankspectrum I'd do some Ike/Soren porn for her for the last charity event, so. Yay, porn for charity.Soren ties his hair up, a useless gesture, for Ike has it down in a second's time. He sighs, and shakes his head. He leaves it, and lets his hair hang loose around his shoulders. Their boots are on the floor, side by side. Soren's touch shows in this room: Ike's pants neatly folded upon the single, barely usable chair; the armor cleaned and neatly arrayed in a pile; Soren's things to one corner, almost apologetic in their attempt to take up as little space as possible. The only thing Ike is wearing is the one blanket over his lower half, while Soren still has a thick black shift on.
Soren takes a side glance at him. There's a considerably larger amount of marks than there were a few months prior when their biggest fear was bandits who stole cattle. His body is far more scarred, and stronger than the boy he grew up with. But he finds each side of him beautiful, and loves the strong, hard planes of the man that Ike has become just as much as he loved the leaner, thinner body of the boy he was.
The wind rises to a howl outside. A sudden draft catches in the room through the gaps in the wall. Soren frowns at it, at the newfound chill which has made its way into the room. This is only one of many of old fortresses they have taken up residence in. The Begnion army is just beyond the Glenbarough river, but the storms of the past week have kept the banks swollen, and provided a respite.
"It looks like the storm will keep us for a few more days yet," Soren says.
"Well I for one certainly hope so," Ike says. "It feels like I haven't had a break in months."
It has been a hard few weeks. The Begnion army has kept up the offensive, and beorc don't heal half as fast as the laguz. The beast tribe especially are filled with vitality, and ready to go mere days after significant injuries, while their fellow beorc soldiers are still limping along.
Soren withdraws the extra amount of oil he always skims off of the kitchen funds, hidden under his own code of ledgers and paid with his own earnings. He rubs his hands together to warm them, and pours the oil on his hands. He keeps the oil close, and places it within reaching distance by the bed.
"Is your leg still giving you trouble?"
Ike grunts. "A little."
Soren has some medicinal herb in a pouch with his things. He has mixed herbs and oils before, made poultices, but they are low on funds again. They are always low on funds. It is the choice he and Ike have made. They could have lived in the court, in mansions, even in the queen's own castle. But they chose a life of near poverty, the hard drudging, day-to-day labors of a mercenary.
He notices that the blanket has tented. Ike lays back and looks at him with this beginning of a smile. It's sensual, a suggestion.
Soren narrows his eyes at him, without any true malice, and Ike grins back at him. "Oh, you," Soren murmurs.
Ike shrugs. "Consider it a compliment."
"If you keep up this association with the scent of oil, you're going to have to start taking your meals in your bedroom," Soren says.
"I can live with that," Ike says. "As long as you're their to take meals with me."
Soren offers a wan smile. "You know my answer already, Ike."
Ike pushes down the blanket and Soren climbs under it. They're cocooned in warmth. He does not focus immediately on Ike's arousal, and instead fixes himself on the original goal of easing the pain in his leg. He rubs, slowly from his heel upwards, brushing over scars and the vestiges of blisters from all the months spent on the road with ill-fitting, worn out boots.
Ike sighs, slowly relaxing as the knot in his muscles is worn away. He isn't pushy, but instead allows Soren to take his time. He moves up the length of Ike's calf, stroking and firm up his leg, the behind of the knee, and finally to Ike's thighs. There have been more than a few jokes by the women of the towns they've passed that Ike's thighs should be considered a national monument of Crimea (then leading to other coarse jokes about monuments). Soren rests his hands on his knees and begins to suck on Ike's inner thigh. There's a taste of salt, and the faint taste of olives from the oil. Soren sucks until there is the beginnings of a nice-sized bruise spreading over the skin, then he switches to the opposite side. He's thorough in his attentions, as he leaves these marks on the territory he considers his own. Ike is patient, within reason, and Soren does not push or tease him. Instead he steadily licks a trail up his left thigh to hip, and bites down gently, raking his teeth against Ike's flesh.
Ike understands, Soren knows this. Ike knows that this is a gift, and that he should sit back and simply allow Soren to do this–to claim him and revel in the fact that Ike is his. They've always had this sort of understanding together, and so he doesn't have to ask. His hair will have to be washed before this is over, so he doesn't hesitate to take his still oily hands and loop it around and around Ike's cock. He breathes over it, warm, his lips almost touching before he bends low enough to take Ike in his mouth. Ike is a quiet lover. It's another thing they share, along with lack of sunny disposition and penchant for traveling light. Soft, slow groans, a grunt or two. He isn't the type to keep the neighbors awake.
Soren takes him in slowly, working the underside with his tongue. He takes Ike in as deep as he can, using his oil slicked hands at the base, working up until Ike is completely slick. He pauses a moment, only to wrap his dark, thick hair over his cock as well.
Soren has always known Ike is fond of long hair. Otherwise, he'd have long ago cut his and not suffered the inconveniences that comes with long hair. Ike draws a sharp breath in. He reaches out, curling his scarred fingers in Soren's hair. Soren thinks he'd even let Ike pull his hair until his scalp ached, if he so wanted. He's never asked, though. His thumb strokes along Soren's cheek.
"That's enough, Soren," Ike whispers.
Soren nods. He lets Ike's still erect cock slip from his mouth, undoes the knot of his hair that spirals over the shaft, and reaches for the bottle of oil to lubricate his hands once again.
"No, let me," Ike says.
Soren lets out a little whimper in the back of his throat and it isn't entirely from pleasure as Ike fills him up, two fingers at a time. He thrusts in at a quick pace, eager to ready Soren's body for him, eager to take him. Soren sees something like stars before his eyes, but he knows is just viscera, the various humors that make up him.
Ike never manages to be fully gentle. It isn't for lack of trying, but he is strong, inherently clumsy and Soren's body is fragile. Even when he holds himself back, Soren ends up getting bruised. But if he gets bruised, it means that Ike wants him all the more. So he takes it, and tries his best to not let Ike realize.
Besides, any bruise or soreness is worth knowing that Ike wants him. The world can crash down around them, Tellius can burn, but as long as Ike wants him–needs him–Soren can survive another day, no matter what happens.
"Ready?" Ike asks. There's an eagerness to him, a raggedness to his breath.
"Yes, Ike."
Ike leans back, and Soren climbs on top of him. He drops his hips, and bites his lower lip. Even with preparation, there's quite a size difference between them. He draws in a ragged breath.
"Soren–"
"I'm fine–just move–"
Ike does. He grips onto Soren's hips and Soren is filled up entirely. Soren rolls his hips, meeting every thrust. Any discomfort is overpowered by the sheer intimacy, the pleasure of their bodies fitting together so tight. Ike's hands run up his back, feeling him. Claiming him. The light is dim, but he catches Ike's gaze. He always wants to be face to face, where he can study each expression. Partly, of course, because he loves to watch the pleasure reflected, but also to make sure he's not mistaken, that Ike really does want him, love him. He knows this, but sometimes it's hard to believe that something good could actually come out of this world full of selfishness and cruelty. Out of all the other women and men he could've had, he picked Soren, and that is a statistical improbability even with all Soren has ever done to prove his loyalty and devotion.
They can't kiss in this position, but it lessens the chance that Soren will get hurt–or at least come out with broken bones, at least. Besides, they still find ways of closeness as Ike takes Soren's hand in his, fitted together against his hip. Their grip tightens as they both go faster, urging on. There's no declarations, no passionate words or cries. Ike only said the words once, and that was almost as a gruff afterthought. Ike is, as he has always said, not a man of eloquence.
But he doesn't need words when there's deeds and expressions and actions, and Ike is full of these. It's beautiful and sublime, the way it feels to no longer be alone and have Ike clinging tight to him, taking him. Just three years ago, this would've been nothing more than some foolish, impossibility. A dangerous dream he couldn't allow himself to entertain, and yet plagued him often.
He guides Ike's hand to his own cock and they both close around it, their hands entwined around the head and pumping him. He lets out a slight moan at this, a more ragged breath, a gasp. They are never very loud, even at the most passionate of moments when he knows climax is near, and he tries to time his own release with Ike's for another intimacy, another shared closeness.
It's a whisper of Ike's name, that's all, as he feels the warmth of Ike coming inside him. Moments later, in their hands he comes. The come spills over Ike's chest as Ike lets go and rests his arm. Some falls to the bedspread below, and even to the floor where Ike's fingers dangle over the bed.
Soren reaches out for washing cloth he keeps nearby, within his store of private things such a purloined oil.
"Leave it," Ike mutters.
"It'll make everything sticky," Soren said. "And you'll go out smelling like sex before you bathe, and Shinon will make drunken remarks at you all day long."
"I don't mind smelling like you," Ike said.
Soren reconsiders this, and it only takes a second to decide. Hygiene be damned, having Ike go out smelling like sex would be a good thing if it meant one more venue of a claim to stake on him.
"At least wash off your hands," Soren says, as a compromise.
Ike grunts and takes it, washing not only his hands, but where he touched on Soren's back, hips and thighs after he'd fingered him.
Ike holds his large, calloused hands up for inspection. "Good enough?" Ike asks. It's half exasperated and half affectionate.
"Yes," Soren says primly.
He fits his body close, nestling towards Ike. In a short time, Ike will fall asleep–he always does—and Soren will stay awake and watch him sleep, and remind himself that they have survived another day, that Ike has chosen him, and that he is loved.
