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[bardische]

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for Ravus

[bardische]

He's only been given a small outfit for this mission, and he understands why; they are not to be detected, in hopes of not drawing attack. But it makes him nervous nonetheless, especially when their main form of transit is a moderately reinforced trader's wagon. What armor they can wear has to be hidden beneath civilian clothing.

He'd prefer higher defenses for a charge so important. But he'd understood his Queen's concerns. This was the best strategy.

So was keeping the crown prince lightly bound. And unaware of the plan until now.

"I am General fon Ronsenburg, entrusted to move you safely to negotiations." It's no use keeping who he is secret; if the other knows anything of Dalmasca, he knows who Basch is. He also wants to be clear that he is no green soldier; he is aware of the importance of this meeting to his kingdom. "I intend to give you as much freedom as I can, but should you try to leave our custody, the mages will immobilize you. If it is not a problem, I can see to it your bonds are removed."

[disarming_prince]

Perhaps the man, the oft no longer recognized or recognizable heir of the long since conquered Tenebreaen throne, has some concept of the plan. He knows just what motivations the Dalmascans might have been given by Niflheim. If he was not being held anymore, he had suspicions. Who, after all, would turn over a general who had done such damage?

Ravus barely even looks up to acknowledge Basch, for why would he? Why should he care to?

"Do not pretend my comfort begins to figure into your considerations," Ravus dismisses. He's a prisoner and a political pawn as he has ever been. He cares not for the games they play with words.

[bardische]

Though none of it reaches his face, Basch feels his insides constrict at the way Ravus dismisses his offer. Those years in prison do not haunt him as badly as they used to, but they are there nonetheless. He held onto hope as a way to survive, but his heart knows the feeling of defeat he hears in Ravus. Especially if he thinks too long on Landis's fate.

But he also know he's in no position to comfort this man. He may as well respect both their dignity as well as he can. Even if word games are the farthest possible thing from Basch's mind.

"Do you wish to walk or ride?"

[disarming_prince]

Clearly the man does not intend to offer him a chocobo. The very fact that he could go riding off on his own would be unacceptable. Not, of course, that he could ride. With but one arm to his name and no familiarity to a bird it would be an impossible task.

"You surely could not trust me on my own were I to walk. You would have to have guards around me, and they would have to be extra attentive which would be draining. It seems a foolish gesture when it seems unlikey you mean to deliver upon it."

[bardische]

"You will have guards around you either way, yes, but there is a trade-off in speed. You may also ride in the wagon. If you do not choose I will choose for you."

He won't rise to the bait of an argument, which is easy for him because he is not much for arguments. Truly, though, keeping his charge in as much physical comfort as possible is beneficial; he needs to be presented in good shape, and frankly, despondent as his is, keeping his blood moving and his mood as good as it can be is beneficial should they need to react quickly.

That's the responsible reason, anyway. He often has a soft spot for offering prisoners what autonomy he can, if they do not present an increased risk to themselves or others.

[disarming_prince]

What even is a good mood in this situation? Is he supposed to be happy that he is captive? That he will be taken to this neutral territory for negotiations? How hard to believe.

"We both know that is not how captivity works, General. The will of the captive is not relevant."

[bardische]

No, Basch knows better than that...though it's the sort of putting his foot in his mouth he knows he's prone to. Just...an urge to decrease unnecessary misery.

Still, he knows he can only do so much, and he doesn't blame Ravus at all for being skeptical.

"Your well-being is part of my charge. Very well. We will walk for this leg." He motions at the other guards, and the nod, finding formation as the faux caravan begins. Exercise is good for restless minds, and a tired prisoner will hopefully sleep more soundly.

[disarming_prince]

“It would seem your charge comes upon you months too late,” Ravus muttered under his breath, shrugging in a way that emphasized the lack on his left side.

It was a petty complaint indeed. The damage done to the arm with the fire spells had been justly dealt in battle, one he was leading against Basch’s own nation. And when he had been captured the healers on Dalmasca’s side had done their best to save the arm, but as things had been so drawn out and Ravus so stubborn, the wound had gone bad. The loss had been the only way to save his life in the end, not that he had been glad of it.

But at least his legs still functioned, though his balance was still a thing of question. Sure, he had been held far mores respectfully than he would have thought fitting for an enemy general, but he had still been that. An enemy. One who had spilled blood. And given that no one in Dalmasca seemed to know, and no one in Nilfheim wished to acknowledge, Ravus’s noble birth… Well, a standard cell had been agreeable enough. The space had hardly been enough for suitably maintaining his body to his old standards, or walking far enough to master the change in his balance.

That did not mean he was not about to try. If nothing else his family was stubborn. And while his status as the remaining Nox Fleuret might be a tightly guarded secret, everyone knew that ‘General Ravus Leonis’ (and oh how bitter it was to be granted a false name based on the sword representing his status had always tasted in his mouth) was quite stubborn in his own right.

He would walk until they bid him stop. Even if he was tripping more than he might have in the past.

[bardische]

Basch is rapidly of the same opinion. Not that he could have done a whole lot. The situation would have been tricky, given Ravus's past, Basch's position, and the delicate state of Dalmasca. Basch holds no ill-will toward him for leading the charge from a foreign nation, but he understands the political optics of it. He does not, however, realize the loss of the arm was another emotional wound Ravus holds.

Which is why, now, as he notices the asynchronous nature of limbs, the occasional stumble, all he reads it as is a cell too small, and another thing to consider in prison reform, should they get the chance. Or maybe it's a chance he needs to make.

So he matches pace, and doesn't draw attention to the increasing tripping. But when it gets bad enough, he calls his men to halt for a rest and a round of water and food.

"You'll ride in the wagon the next leg," he says. If the other protests, fine, but he saw that offering choice got them nowhere.

For Olivine

[bardische]

[ This month was the most pleasant he can remember of his adult life. Perhaps some is the mate bond, making him heady and pleased whenever he is near Olivine. But he thinks its more than that. He's getting used to life here, and people are friendly with him, and every day he takes his meals with Olivine and gets to take the other back to their shared room. It is a peace he hasn't dreamed of in a long time.

They make preparations for his next transformation. It makes him uneasy, having to consider if he's misjudged and something goes wrong, but Olivine's magic is strong, and he knows now he has had no desire to hurt his mate. He's more concerned about lashing out at someone he perceives as attacking Olivine.

His apprehension grows as the full moon approaches. He chooses to stay back one morning and check the locks and restraints they've installed in his room. That morning as Olivine departs, he finds himself thinking of his wolf strength and how roughly they coupled last time he was transforming. He grows hard with the thought and has to cool himself down. Just an effect of the transformation to come, he thinks.

But the thoughts only grow, accompanied by sharpening teeth, the enlarging of his cock, and his ears and tail returning. It's rapid, painful, but a sweet kind of pain that makes him pant and howl. He paces, waiting for Olivine to return, and as he does fantasies plague him.

Biting, bruising, pounding against a wall until the other is so limp he cannot move. It makes him mad, but below it, it terrifies him.

He debates just slipping away, but Olivine would come after him. He debates finding the other, but he is too transformed. But the longer he waits, the more he fears he is going to slam the other into a wall the moment he walks in.

When, in frustration, he turns and slams a fist against the table, he no longer is willing to leave this to fate. Features he damned, he flees into the hall, pulling on their bond to find Olivine, and then leave. He has to protect the other...slightly more than he needs to mate with him. ]

[massochism]

[It's a sweet and lingering month. Day by day, the two settle into a routine, together at most every juncture. And the people take to Basch easily, of course—he might notice some envy when Olivine isn't looking, a quiet regret that suggests at least some of them might know of their relationship... but certainly others just seem to wish they had as much time with His Holiness as Basch does.

Preparations are easy too; the priest may not have experience in restraints and the like, but he's not the least bit worried when he knows Basch is far more paranoid about his own strength than he is. He does dislike the idea of just leaving him in this room, restrained and transformed, but it's better than the alternative. Anything is better than the alternative.

The day that Basch chooses to stay back is one he expects to be excruciatingly long, but he makes no argument against the security. When he leaves alone, it feels odd; when he finds himself in conversation, it feels odd. Some ask about the blond, warmth in their gazes, and at least he can assure them that he's just fine, that he had other obligations as he sometimes does.

Something changes, and he can't exactly define when. A little tingle of sensation grazes across his neck and shoulder, where the mating bite had been—it's faded to nothing on his skin, but he can still feel it, sometimes. That feeling brings with it the wish that the mark was permanent, the thought of his skin gently marred and discolored as a display of where he belongs. Maybe he'll talk to Basch about it after the transformation is over...

But his thoughts don't subside, either. Distracted, he manages to get through most of his daily tasks before the feeling of want is debilitating. It's embarrassing how many times he realises his mind has wandered—enough that, as he's considering what it would be like if Basch used those restraints on him, or if he drove him into the wall, the local he's speaking to expresses worry that perhaps the priest is feeling under the weather, and if he is, he should take the time to rest. Cheeks hot, Olivine thanks them and promises he'll get extra rest.

Instead, his first stop is somewhere a little out of sight; an empty space used for festival preparations that goes mostly ignored when those aren't happening. It's just a small side building near the church he can hide in for a moment and either take care of or wait out his throbbing cock. A few of the common props are still set up, and he leans on one to catch his breath. Panting, he presses a hand against his belly as if to soothe it, lost in the thought of Basch pounding against it from the inside, pinning him down and taking again and again and again until he can't even think of moving...

His body aches with yearning, arousal almost enough to risk soaking through his pants. It takes every ounce of rain he still has to ignore the instinct to shove them down, to at least dig his fingers into the pliant, aching depths of his body or wrap them around his cock. God, why is it so much more intense this time? Is that the mating bond? These are among his chief thoughts when Basch is coming to find him, the light tug of their bond resounding back with at least some of that intensity. At least there aren't many people in the church today, so the other will be able to maneuver without being spotted fairly easily.]

[bardische]

[ The thought has crossed his mind, too, taking Olivine back to the room they've made just in case and using the restraints for a very different purpose, holding the other caught and ready as Basch takes him.

He's flushed from arousal and shame. He's in a daze, and it's all he can do to follow the gentle tug of their bond, pulling the hood of the cloak he thought to pull on down over his face. A single person greets him, but he waves them off, claiming illness.

The bond flares, and he squints at a building he's never been in. It doesn't matter. He pushes inside, and when he sees Olivine there, smells how hot and wet the other is, he very nearly does lift him and shove him against a wall. Instead he stands rigid as a statue, eyes dilated, trembling as he clenches his fists. ]

Olivine [ he growls, want and anger and shame vying in his voice. ] I -- have to go. Now. I...I'm sorry.

[ The cloak has slid back, and his arousal is abundantly clear in all its monthly glory. ]

[massochism]

[the door opens and Olivine freezes, more out of surprise than anything. after all, people usually don't come here, so he was sure he could just stay a little while and—

and Basch steps into view. relief floods in first, followed by another pang of hunger, heartbeat picking up.]

Basch? [his head tips up to look at him, brows furrowing at those words. to go... it's the last thing he wants, obviously. but for a second he considers it.] What happened...?

[the question is answered as his gaze drifts over the other, down to where his arousal stands, proud and demanding as ever. breath catching, he swallows back the well of saliva on his tongue.]

... don't go. [softer, his cheeks hot as he steps forward.] If it's just that, you don't need to go, Basch. I want it, too. I'm your mate, remember?

[bardische]

[ Hearing Olivine plead so softly makes Basch's throat dry, at once aching for his love and wildly turned on by the thought of being begged -- and then giving what is asked.

Olivine steps closer, and it takes all of Basch's willpower to step back. Because he wants to tear his clothes off, press his teeth to every inch of skin. Claim his mate and care for him and--

His voice is tight, hunger and anguish warring on his face. ] Olivine I -- I want to ruin you. I want to leave you bruised and scabbed and so weak I have to carry you back to our den, and I want you unable to walk until I'm human again.

[ A whine creeps into his voice, apology and wild, firey need and overwhelming onslaught. ]

It was never like this. I -- I should go. [ But there's a question in it this time, eyes meeting Olivine's. If the other gives permission, he will be helpless to resist. ]

[massochism]

[The first thought he has as Basch explains why he thinks he should go is who cares? But he doesn't want to seem blase or reckless, much less make Basch feel foolish, so he bites the words back even as the suggestion sinks in bone deep, kindling the need already burning there.]

Basch.

[He can hear that question, and it means a few things. One, that his need runs just as deep as Olivine's, and two, that he trusts the priest to make this decision and, by extension, trusts himself to not go too far—not beyond his promise, anyway. He doesn't think Basch would hesitate to stop if he actually sounded scared, either.

So he steps forward again, an answer as much as the words he's about to say, as the way his hands rise to cradle his wild wolf's face.]

Any way you want me, I want too. You can already smell how much I do, can't you? It makes me so happy that you want to do so much.

[bardische]

[ His eyes widen, his ears flattening slightly in surprise and restraint as Olivine cradles his face. His nostrils flare at the comment on his smell, and sure enough, Olivine is even more heated than he was before Basch's admission. ]

Yes [ He rasps, barely above a whisper. ] I can smell you. I don't -- It makes me glad and desirous you want but -- I'm frightened.

[ There it was. Frightened it would be too much, that he'd go too far, that he'd hurt or lose Olivine. But the images of tying the other up, of bending him into precarious positions and rutting hard, letting them both pant dazed in the glow of his knot, of pushing his body hard are creeping back in.

He places a padded hand over Olivine's, turning his sunken face to kiss the palm. And then to bite it, a whine vibrating against where his sharp canines just barely pierce skin. ]

[massochism]

[his thumbs stroke Basch's cheek, expression changing very little as he explains. it's more or less what he would have expected—worrying over truly harming him or some such. silly, really, but he does understand.]

You don't need to be frightened. Not with me.

[he can handle anything the other wants, he's sure of it. Basch would never really harm him. and that little bite only goes to show, the scrape of canines against his skin breaking just enough to raise little red marks.

it makes him lean in more, until he's actually able to press against the taller man some.]

People don't usually come here, but... we should probably try to get somewhere a little more secure, if we can.

[not just if Basch can, honestly. they're working against both of their libidos now, and it's not likely to end well.]

Pirate au thing, jazzhands

[massochism]

[sunlight shimmers across the water as the boat approaches its secluded island destination. Olivine can't help but find it soothing, at least cubist to everything that led up to this moment. Harsh words and stern tones still echo in his mind—not new, but never quite losing their sting. At least this will give you a chance to honor us. Maybe they can teach you the obedience we never could—

The sea breeze ruffles the many layers of his outfit, causing coins to jingle and green and white to flicker between golden accents. It's enough to bring his thoughts back to the moment, brushing a lock of hair behind an ear as his gaze turns to the port they're nearing. Now, he supposes he should go through the bits and pieces of information he has about this balmy, beautiful isle.

Which... he has to admit isn't all that much. The texts governing this place are few and far between, and they speak in cryptic warnings about the hardships and dangers of being lesser in this society. Slaves, pets—it should frighten him, perhaps, to think that's the role he'll be placed in. Instead, he finds himself tentatively intrigued by the prospect.

Sometimes, freedom bears a chain of its own, he thinks. Hopes, anyway. As a young man trained to perform, kept away from normal society at length, he can only guess what they might expect of him here. They were right, though. Depending on those whims, this place might just suit him well despite his uncertain position.]

[bardische]

[ At times, it’s difficult to remember life before he came here. Failed, disgraced — this was a punishment he would bear no matter the cost.

No one here remembers what he was. Few outside this place would either. Here, against all reason, he has become everything his heart was not: wealthy, indulgent, even cruel.

It is a secret he guards as carefully has his past. A facade built from the moment he realized his role here. There were those who came here who has no business being here, and yet no other hope. And he was in a unique position to shield them, sometimes to even smuggle them away. His position of leadership here meant he knew who was going too far as well, could quietly have masters change or pressure the worst offenders off the isle.

Everyone knew there was a prized new pet arriving. A political token, and a man so beautiful Basch knew many would find him in their tastes. From what he knew of the Church, this man would have been sheltered, socially less aware. It was a recipe for a nightmare.

So Basch made sure he greased the wheels. Talked up his taste in beautifully, robust, large-chested men with dancer qualities. How much he’d want to use and corrupt this pure innocent lamb. And then he’d made sure to be the one to win his contract.

So when the boat comes to the harbor, basch is there in the front, in rich fabrics that show off sun-tanned skin, healthy muscles, and sun-streaked golden hair. He smells of smoke and tropical flowers, rings on his fingers and jewels on his neck. Power he has learned to perform over the years.

And when the man walks down the plank, he will grin and growl ] That one is mine.

[massochism]

[they've certainly sheltered him—the attempt was made to shelter him from everything, in fact. but if that had worked, perhaps he wouldn't be here today. there certainly wouldn't have been the undercurrent of hope for some kind of positive outcome.

of course, in the same way that they've shielded him from any knowledge of what's to come, who he's been auctioned off to, the entire island has been shielded from just what a perfect pet he could be. an embarrassment, sent off to distant shores for redemption where "redemption" had no soft face. and yet he finds himself intrigued, even excited.

Basch isn't hard to spot in a crowd, and perhaps the thing Olivine finds most surprising is how close to the front he is. naturally, as one of the most powerful men in the land, there's no shortage of lore and history written about him. cruel, indulgent—the thought makes his heart flutter when matched with his visage. he's gorgeous, after all, absolutely befitting of his station; sun-kissed skin feels a pure contrast to his own milk-white, and it accents everything about him that settles squarely in the priest's own tastes.

he's saved from any wandering thoughts and the pounding in his chest by the older man speaking, though.]

Ah? [it's such an absent little sound in response to those words, cheeks already slightly flushed (though one could pass that off as due to the sun on the trip). a young dancer from a church wasn't the sort of man he expected this man to show any interest in.

his surprise doesn't last long, though. he's a good boy, after all. after a cursory scan of the crowd, jealousy and envy on their faces that never really register as what they are, he offers a soft smile and a polite bow, not stiff but certainly traditional to his homeland, emphasising the twinkling shuffle of jewelry. granted, he'd rather it be traditional to this island, but that hadn't been something he'd found in his research. beyond that sound, he doesn't speak yet. isn't sure if he's allowed, really. pets are rarely expected to exercise their voices, aren't they?]

[bardische]

[ He doesn’t frown or react at all — a feat that took him several years to learn.

Usually newcomers protested, or boasted to cover up discomfort. What had they taught this man, this nearly boy still, that he was so ready to be submissive? Perhaps Basch’s reputation was even worse outside the island where there was little to compare him to.

And gods above this beautiful dancer is going to be in danger here. The contracts prevent others from bedding them against their will, but if he can be tricked, it will still be a threat. Beautiful, polished, polite — he is a rarity here, among men at least, and will fit many of their unsated tastes regardless of is own. If he even has his own. Basch has rescued more than one cut from the cloth of no desire at all. They were some of his happiest companions, and he missed a few dearly.

He knows his role now, though, knows the script to follow. He also is eyeing that pale skin with the protectiveness of a father, aware there will be sun burn and heat sickness if they linger.

So he grins, making a point of eye contact with the more envious members of the crowd, as he draws a collar from a pocket. Thin, adorned with clinking coins that match the dancer’s aesthetic — thank you for the research to his dear friend and head “servant” — and steps forward to clasp it around the man’s neck. ]

With this, the contract is sealed, and you are mine until it is fulfilled.

[ It is not just a formality. There is magic in this place, and the spell is now complete.

But he still needs to sell it to the crowd. He takes the man’s upper arm roughly, noting that despite his elegance, he is a rival for Basch’s physique, likely wider in the chest even if he is narrower in the waist. Not delicate. Good. ]

Out of our way. I am eager to break in my new toy.

[ Several hungers simmer in the crowd and he grins. ]

Privately.

[massochism]

[He's learned some things, at least. Honestly, being so polite is the easy part—it's by nature, after all. Alongside his curiosity, it shines in the sun.

Which, it turns out, he is surprisingly resilient to—they had provided him with protective creams, layered with magic to protect pale flesh from the sun. It's a different tingle, compared to the tremble of magic through his body when the collar locks on place.

That threatens to make him dizzy for just a moment, as it resonates with the power embedded in his gemstone. Testing, confirming that there is no conflict. His breath hitches in the slightest measure then, and Olivine nods his understanding as the binding magic roots itself in every nerve.

There's another soft noise that escapes him when Basch takes an arm. He does not pull, and that feels... notable somehow? A curious decision. Of course, the older man will be able to feel the shiver his words bring, even if he misreads their origin.

What an exhilarating thought.

Without missing a beat, the dancer's body shifts, snaking its way closer with another pleasant jingle. The strength there under his soft face is not hidden by any intention on the least. Fingers rest on Basch's shoulder, selfishly taking in the swell and curve of muscle, and his gaze shifts away from his new "owner" only briefly to peer over the crowd. It's hard to say if he understands the words he's heard, at first, but he isn't afraid by any means. No, his faint breathlessness is quite the opposite.]

[bardische]

[ Basch entirely misreads it. Why wouldn’t he? While he knows some come here out of interest, they do not come as political prisoners. He hears that breathlessness and only assumes fear.

Perhaps, too, he is blinded by guilt. He thinks he is adding to the man’s fear with his rough and lecherous presentation. It is a necessary evil, and one he has never come to forgive himself for.

So he makes this brief, a possessive arm over Olivine as he leads them through the crowd. The island is not huge, but there is a carriage waiting there, as his manor is in a more desirable and remote place.

The carriage is plush, with equal options for privacy and … exhibition. Basch chooses the former today, not letting on that the seats can open and an assortment of toys and restraints rest inside. No, much the opposite, he leads Olivine in sits him down almost like a child. ]

Sit here, pet. I wish to look at you.

[ Which allows them both some space as he takes the seat opposite. He does dip into a fine cooler set beneath one seat, drawing out an iced drink for his, well, pet. He hates this part too, but it makes things easier later; there is a truth spell brewed into the drink, and a mild one for if not compliance, then suggestibility. Basch can’t take care of anyone if he doesn’t know their needs or limits. ]

Drink. We do not want you wilting in this tropical sun.

[massochism]

[there's curiosity there as Basch guides him through the crowd, though it's shielded somewhat by the mask covering his mouth. they'll find that middle-ground at some point, surely.

sooner than might be a worry, in fact. it isn't Olivine's first time in a carriage, but it's certainly a first for one so... plush and stately. there's a beauty to it he can't quite describe, though he's not that surprised given his lack of understanding about the world in reality. sitting makes that curiosity more plain, though as he's brought to a seat he settles down and nods understanding.]

Ah. [his fingers are delicate when they take the offered drink, his first words soft and calm. if he was frightened before, there's none to be seen now.] Thank you for your concern, though my skin is pale in spite of tropical sun.

[an absent informing, as he lifts the drink to take a sip. it's an unusual trait, certainly; maybe it's related to his gemstone, though the dancer isn't entirely sure anyway. he's not concerned about any spells brewed into the drinks, either, noting only a strange sensation that makes his tongue feel... tingly and impatient, somehow. it's fine, surely.]

[bardische]

I take care of what is mine, [ he says, eyes trained on Olivine as he takes the drink. He is so different from what Basch is used to, and after all this time, different still makes him uneasy. Different means he is not as confident in his ability to serve and protect. ]

Tell me how you are feeling. The sun, your journey, your contract.

[ Straight to business. Finesse takes a good deal of effort, and he's used a lot of it today. ]