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“You really are a diabolical genius,” Gerrard told Olarr, giving a companionable nudge of his elbow into his side. “Thanks, captain. And” — his head tilted, his eyes studying Olarr’s face — “please tell me you’ve been doing this with Slagvor, too?”
There was an instant’s silence, hurtling out between them — and Olarr’s eyes darkened, the smile rapidly fading from his mouth. “No,” he said, far flatter than before. “Slagvor is not a fool, and well knows the visions mushrooms can bring. If he once fears that his food has been tampered with, he will seek out the orc at fault at once. And” — he sighed, even heavier — “even if he cannot learn the truth of this, he shall yet find someone to punish. Mayhap whatever poor orc who has been wounded of late, and thus has been forced to make Slagvor’s food instead.”
Right. Gerrard’s own mirth had abruptly drained away too, because of course Olarr wouldn’t set up one of his own kin to be punished. Olarr’s fierce loyalty to his Bautul clan had become more and more apparent these past weeks, and it seemed to inform every one of his choices and actions — except, maybe, for this. For how he kept coming all the way out here, going to such obvious pains to keep seeing Gerrard, despite all the rubbish he was dealing with back home. Despite Slagvor.
“So whatareyou doing about Slagvor, then?” Gerrard asked now, his voice lower. “How are you using all your prudence and cunning for yourself? For your own kin?”
Olarr’s mouth was still tight and thin, his eyes now gazing blankly at the earthen ceiling above them. “I do all I can to help my Bautul brothers amidst this,” he finally said. “I make myself as strong as I am able, so I can wield my power for their sakes. And I seek to uphold Grimarr, as he seeks to defeat Kaugir, and end this war.”
Right. This Grimarr and his goals had consistently come up these past weeks — it was clear that Olarr had a lot of respect for the fellow — but Gerrard still felt himself frowning, his fingers drumming against his swollen belly. Here Olarr was, blatantly encouraging Gerrard to plot against his commanding officer, while Olarr himself was still doing… what? Essentially nothing? Against a cruel despot of an orc who’d horribly killed many of Olarr’s kin, including his own lover?
Olarr still wasn’t meeting Gerrard’s eyes, but his expression was heavy with sadness, or maybe even guilt. And Gerrard felt something catching, twisting in his own belly, because he knew what that guilt felt like. That… helplessness. And it had been Olarr who’d pulled him out of it, and helped him to start feeling… alive again. Himself again.
“How about another rematch, then?” Gerrard asked, waggling his brows at Olarr’s grim face. “You wanna bet I can beat you this time?”
The warmth instantly flashed across Olarr’s eyes, and he jerked a relieved-looking nod as he sat up, pulling Gerrard up with him. “Ach, we shall see, warrior,” he said lightly. “Or mayhap you shall once again find yourself on your knees, screaming upon my stick.”
Gerrard scoffed a bright, disbelieving laugh, but then blinked at the sight of Olarr reaching sideways, and gripping at Gerrard’s own sword. Not the wooden practice blade, but his familiar sharpened, shining steel.
“But to make this more fair, this time,” Olarr continued smoothly, “mayhap you shall wieldthisagainst me.”
Gerrard frowned at the sword, and then at Olarr’s face — even given Olarr’s impressive healing abilities, he still didn’t want to risk causing any lasting injury, right? But Olarr was gently smiling now, shaking his head. “I trust you, warrior,” he said, husky. “I ken you shall not grievously wound me. And I wish to see you fight with this again. I wish to see what you can do with it.”
He wanted to see Gerrard win, maybe, was the unspoken truth in that statement, and Gerrard rolled his eyes, even as he swiped the sword from Olarr’s hand, and leapt to his feet. “You’re gonna regret it, captain,” he said lightly. “Especially onceyou’rethe one on your knees, yeah?”
Olarr had the audacity to look pleased by this, curse the calculating bastard, so Gerrard lunged forward as swiftly as he could, sweeping his sword across Olarr’s chest. Close enough to make impact, damn it, leaving a bright line of red behind on Olarr’s grey skin — but he hadn’t even seemed to notice. And instead, he was fully grinning at Gerrard, flashing him all those sharp white teeth, as he swept his own wooden sword up into his hand.
The steel did give Gerrard a considerable advantage, he soon discovered, even more than he’d expected. Not only was the sword more familiar, more at home in his hand, but it made his swings faster and cleaner, with more power and weight behind them. And he could see Olarr working harder to stave him off, the sweat already beading on his brow, as Gerrard charged in again and again, gaining more ground every time.
“Sorry,” he gasped, wincing, after wedging the steel deep into Olarr’s shoulder, spurting out blood in its wake — but Olarr only shook his head, and swung again. And again and again, a little less precise every time, as Gerrard leapt and dodged and parried. Using his speed and stamina to his advantage, working to tire Olarr out, until…
Until Gerrard saw his opening, and shot forward. Not swinging for Olarr’s sword this time, but instead slipping up beneath it, and — yes — shoving the flat of his blade against Olarr’s neck.
“Got you,” Gerrard gasped, grinning, between heaving breaths. “Regret it now, captain?”
For an instant, Olarr looked genuinely astonished, even angry — not a surprise, since Gerrard knew he still struggled with all that Bautul rubbish about losing, especially to a human. But he could already see Olarr working through it, his breaths deepening as his expression gradually cleared again, shifting into a wry, warm appreciation.
“Ach, I may have regrets upon this, warrior,” Olarr replied, voice thick. “Though I ken this hangs most upon what you do with me next, ach?”
He’d even arched a taunting eyebrow, the prick, because he damn well knew Gerrard still couldn’t risk going anywhere near him with his cock, or his seed. Which instead meant he’d had to keep finding creative uses for his hands, and his mouth, and his words. And no matter how much he meant to still take the advantage — to make Olarr pay for his audacity, to make him beg and plead — it always ended up like this. With Gerrard shoving Olarr down to the fur like this, looming up over him, and then…
Smiling at him. Spreading his hands wide against that warm silver skin. And watching as Olarr’s dark eyes shifted, shimmering with… gratitude. With trust.
“Gonna put you in your place, of course,” Gerrard said, the words at laughable odds with how his hands were already stroking, slipping over all the hard lines of Olarr’s bare body beneath him, smoothing over where some of those fresh wounds had already begun to heal over. “Gonna have my filthy way with my wise, clever, handsome captain, aren’t I?”
Olarr’s eyes shifted again, flaring with hunger, maybe even longing — because that was another thing Gerrard had learned these past weeks. Olarr’s value to his clan — and perhaps to his past lovers — seemed to primarily lie in his strength and bravery in battle, rather than any other attributes he might possess. And Gerrard would perhaps never forget the way Olarr had blushed and moaned the first time he’d called himclever, or the way he’d startled at being calledhandsome.
“Ach, no, human,” Olarr had protested, with a highly betraying twist on his mouth. “I am marked and scarred all over, and my face is hard and heavy and ill-pleasing, most of all to fair, well-formed men like you. Bautul are not —”
Gerrard had cut off that rubbish with a biting little kiss, a too-traitorous caress of his hand to Olarr’s jaw. “Handsome,” he’d insisted, into Olarr’s mouth. “Love looking at you. More than any human I’ve ever met.”
Olarr clearly hadn’t believed it, but Gerrard had been vaguely surprised to find he’d meant it. And every time they’d met since, he’d made a point of saying it like this, saying it and meaning it to Olarr’s disbelieving eyes, as his hungry hands roved all over that big, powerful body.
“So handsome,” he said now, smiling again at Olarr’s face, stroking both hands down his taut, trembling sides. “With your silver skin, and your gorgeous eyes, and your” — he bent down, gave that pointed ear a light little nibble — “your pretty elf ears. You should see yourself in the moonlight. Just like a son of your goddess, yeah?”
Olarr’s blush had already crept up his neck, darkly colouring his cheeks, and when he tried to shake his head, Gerrard caught it with another kiss, drinking up the warm, sweet taste of his mouth. “Don’t you argue with me, captain,” he murmured. “I won, remember? So now you need to listen to me. Accept your defeat.”
Olarr’s eyes were shining when Gerrard drew away, blinking at him with reverence, with worship, with… with affection. And yes, Gerrard wanted that, craved that, needed that look in Olarr’s eyes. That promise that this wasn’t about plots or treason, about pity or revenge. It was about trust, about friendship, about pleasure. Aboutcare. About enjoying this while it lasted, pretending it could last forever…
