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The practice cages on the Umber Prince have been growing steadily less popular for years, no longer the site of raucous brawls and extravagant bets on favored champions. By now, as Lupercal's civil war gets serious, it's not unusual to see them entirely empty at off hours. Kellendvar doesn't mind. He was never here to show off anyway.
He dives into the whirling blades of the combat servitors, dodging and parrying with his unpowered axe. He lets the dance go on longer than it needs to, passing up openings so he won't destroy servitors too quickly. Replacing them is more of a hassle than it used to be.
Still, eventually his patience runs out. His axe flies in a wide arc and blank-faced, gray-fleshed heads spin away in multiple directions. One of them rolls across the floor to land at an officer's polished boot.
"Cage reset," Kellendvar says, and the remaining servitors retreat. He offers a shallow bow to the man watching him. "Claw Master."
Gendor Skraivok smiles, nodding in acknowledgement. He's wearing a plain uniform with a sword propped over his shoulder, a casual gesture that seems too studied to be real. "Kellendvar. Surely you're too skilled to find much satisfaction in these corpse puppets." He's looking Kellendvar up and down as he speaks, lingering on his bare chest and meaningless scars.
"They suffice for practice. They're not lacking in discipline." Kellendvar has suspected for the last few weeks that Skraivok was going to come on to him at some point—the captain's not exactly subtle, and he's so used to getting what he wants. Kellendvar's ready for it, but he wants to make Skraivok actually voice the demand. That's as far as his political ambition goes.
Skraivok swings up into the opposite corner of the cage. "Perhaps a more spirited opponent would do you good." His painted face suggests this is all a macabre joke, much like the upper-class accent. Kellendvar remembers the kind of fancy boy who would come down from the airships to hunt in the hive slums. The one he and his brother managed to catch had the sweetest, softest flesh.
He swings his axe in a circle, making the air hum. "Are you hear to cross blades with me, Claw Master?"
"Is there something else you'd prefer?" Skraivok asks. Eyebrows arched, voice lilting with mock surprise.
"I never learned to fence with words. I don't want to miss something important through my ignorance."
Skraivok licks his black lips. He holds out his sword toward Kellendvar, either a blessing or a threat. "Take your clothes off. Is that clear enough?"
Kellendvar waits one heartbeat, considering his options. Then his axe lashes out to hook the blade of Skraivok's sword. He yanks on it and tosses both weapons away when he feels the give in Skraivok's grip.
"You traitorous scum!" Skraivok yells. Kellendvar lunges, closing the distance between them and pinning Skraivok to the bars of the cage.
"Are you looking for someone to fuck you, Claw Master?" Kellendvar growls in Skraivok's ear. "Is that why you came looking for dangerous street scum and demanded he take his clothes off?"
Skraivok's hands come up to Kellendvar's shoulders but don't push him away, instead digging into the muscle as if he could assert control. "You answer to me," he hisses.
"And yet you are not giving me orders," Kellendvar says. He can smell the changing pheromones rising off Skraivok's skin, the sharpening focus of preparing for battle but combined with a needy musk.
"I am not," Skraivok admits. "Why do you think that is?"
Kellendvar braces himself for his next move. "I have some idea." He throws Skraivok to the floor of the cage and pounces to pin him there, grabbing his wrists and squeezing tight. "I think it means I am right."
The potential for violence is arousing, and Kellendvar grinds his stiffening cock against his captain's ass. Skraivok growls, but his attempt to throw Kellendvar off doesn't seem very convincing.
"I thought so." Kellendvar braces one forearm across the back of Skraivok's neck to hold him down and uses the other hand to yank Skraivok's tunic and trousers out of the way. He shoves his own fatigues down and jerks his cock to get it harder. Battle ready, hah. "Here. Spit."
Skraivok makes a fist but he spits in Kellendvar's palm, and doesn't even express his Betcher's gland into it. He's not really mad at all, is he? He just can't admit he wants it a little rough.
Kellendvar rubs the spit over his cockhead and pushes it between Skraivok's asscheeks. He has to shove hard to get past the initial resistance, but it's worth it. Skraivok's asshole is tight around Kellendvar's cock, and he thrashes like it hurts more than he was expecting. Kellendvar leans on the arm braced on Skraivok's nape and pushes deeper in a series of short, hard thrusts. He can smell a faint trace of blood by the time he's all the way in. "That's a nice tight hole, Claw Master."
"Don't waste your breath gloating about it," Skraivok snarls.
Kellendvar laughs. He pulls back and slams in again, Skraivok's tight hole clenching and twitching around his cock. The Claw Master's right, about this at least. Better to take what's on offer than try to get Skraivok to explain what the ploy here is. And this is just the way he likes it, almost too much friction and the body under him tense with the anticipation of worse. Kellendvar has a knife in his boot—you don't go anywhere without a blade, not if you want to live—but even now it feels wrong to kill an officer. Kellenkir would call him stupid, but Kellenkir isn't here. And who knows? Maybe that attitude is why Skraivok came to him and not one of the other bastards on the ship.
Moving gets easier after a few strokes, as that tight hole surrenders soft and hot around his cock. Skraivok groans, pushing himself up enough that he can get a hand under himself. This is what he wanted.
"Yes, there," Skraivok says, as if he's in any position to be giving orders. And maybe he is, because Kellendvar listens.
"Yes? That's what you like?" It feels good, driving into him so deep, a steady rising heat that feels somehow like a killing even though the rhythm is nothing like the same. Skraivok shudders under Kellendvar, nodding sharply. His hair falls in his face and he's panting. It looks better than his fancy paint ever has.
The way Skraivok moves makes his hair fall away from his nape, white skin above the gleaming metal of his spinal port. Kellendvar lunges for it, biting that spot possessively. Skraivok howls like he's in heat, and his asshole clenches around Kellendvar's cock. Need thrums through Kellendvar's nerves and he bites again. Another tight clutch of muscle around his cock, pulling needily at him, and he lets go, climax blistering down his spine and overwhelming his senses the way a flashbang overloads his helm.
When he comes down, his teeth are still buried in Skraivok's neck, and Skraivok is making needy, mindless noises under him. Kellendvar stays still, watching, feeling a superior officer fall apart under him. When Skraivok comes, he makes a sound like he's been gutted, muscles tight and trembling all over his body.
Kellendvar takes careful stock of where their weapons are and how easily he could get to one if necessary. Then he pulls out and shifts back to let Skraivok get up.
Skraivok sits up gingerly and starts pulling his clothes back in order rather than going for his sword. "You will not discuss this with anyone," he says.
"No," Kellendvar agrees. Of course he won't. That would just be inviting trouble.
"Next time, I'll just summon you to my quarters," Skraivok goes on.
Kellendvar rises to his feet and Skraivok follows suit. "Next time?"
"Next time." Skraivok gives Kellendvar a smug little smile as if he hasn't just been pinned to the floor getting screwed. "I trust you have no complaints."
He will never understand these fancy boys, Kellendvar thinks. But there are far worse demands an officer can make, especially in a legion like this. "As you say, Claw Master."