Archive of Our Own

The desert night air is alive with the sounds of revelry and the smell of spice, chill beaten back by braziers and cooking fires and the press of bodies, packed twenty to a bench. The city square of Marsalim is fully given over to the celebration, and it seems the entire populace, from peasant to noble, has joined in.

"For the hunt is done," H'aanit says, smiling but with no lack of gravitas. Beautiful and austere, she sits next to the King in a place of high honour; the night is hers. "And the fell beast Redeye is no more. Drinketh deep, and rejoice. Now we shalt feasten." The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, and thus the feast is begun.

Servers flit endlessly between tables, filling the tables with an abundance of exotic foods and drinks Olberic has never seen before. Much of it is rich and overly sweet for his tastes, but still he indulges. This is not his first feast, and he knows the benefits well; it is good for the heart and soul to indulge in fine foods, surrounded by fine friends. Even a heart as weary as his is well at ease here.

Across from him, Ophilia and Tressa chat excitedly. The merchant girl comments on the value of spices, scribbling in her journal. Ophilia, sweet girl, is rather overwhelmed by the food; like him she's used to plainer fare. With some gentle encouragement she's soon happily trying a bit of everything.

Linde meanders over, perhaps checking on them, or seeking a bit of fuss. The girls are delighted to oblige, petting her until she's purring and rolling around like a housecat.

Primrose dances of course, captivating the city with her charms in a swirl of red silks. She stops to chat between sets, pouring them drinks.

Alfyn and Therion are, to an outside perspective, quarrelling fiercely, though Olberic would sooner call it flirting. Their dynamic is an odd one; both obviously smitten but respectively too bashful and coy to just be done with it.

Later in the evening Tressa is caught stealing a sip of Olberic's ale, and she makes such an exaggerated face of disgust that he feels no need to admonish her. Besides-

"That's what you get, brat!" -there is Therion, quick as always with his sharp tongue.

"Yuck! How can you drink this stuff?"

"It's an acquired taste," Olberic says with a shrug and a wry smile, reclaiming his pilfered mug and draining it in one pull, as if to prove his point. "You will understand when you are older."

"Somehow I doubt that..." Tressa grimaces.

"It's true, my dear girl!" Cyrus chimes in from his side, slurring noticeably, though he remains perfectly articulate. "With age and experience comes a more refined palate! You see..."

Even now, in the midst of a feast and as drunk as he is, the professor cannot resist the opportunity to launch into a lecture. Such is his passion, and only one of the many things Olberic has come to love about this enigmatic man.

Though even he will admit to tuning him out sometimes.

The knight chuckles, abandoning Tressa to her fate as he refills his flagon. He intends to enjoy this night to its fullest, draining half of it immediately. Though, he also endeavours to remain vigil, and he makes a note to keep a closer watch on his inebriated scholar.

And Cyrus is certainly well inebriated. In all their tavern crawls he's always handled his liquor surprisingly well for a man so slight, and usually he is the first to fold, preferring moderation and to keep his wits about him.

But the scholar has a sweet tooth, and it's no surprise he's taken a keen liking to the strong, syrupy coconut wine that's being served. In all the festivities of the evening, and being goaded by the other men into a drinking game, he's careened well past being tipsy.

Now he is loose-limbed and languid and so warm against Olberic's side. It is good, and rather novel, to see him so unwound, Olberic admits, but seeing Cyrus in such a vulnerable and precarious state as this invokes the fierce feelings of protectiveness that come so naturally to Olberic. Such is his passion.

"-no, he's right!" Ophilia is saying. "When I was little, I used to hate tea. It's the only hot drink we were served in the church, so I would still drink it every day. Now I quite enjoy it."

"Really?" Tressa asks skeptically. "Hmm. So if you try something enough times, you can force yourself to like it?"

Therion, on the other side of Cyrus, leans in and whispers into the mage's ear. It's something undoubtedly filthy as Cyrus goes red as a beet, laughing so suddenly he nearly spills wine down his front.

"Careful, now," Olberic rumbles, reaching across to rescue his cup, placing it on the table well out of his reach as he protests. "Slow your pace a bit."

"Oh, but-"

"Yeah, prof, take it easy!" Alfyn laughs. "You're drunk as a skunk! Never seen ya this bad. Better call it quits before y'need a hangover cure."

"Excuse you, young man!" Cyrus bristles, affecting the kind of haughty tone he might use when scolding an unruly student. "I am perfectly capable of knowing my own limits, thank you."

He is only playacting, Olberic knows, and he briefly thinks the scholar is doing an admirable job hiding the slur in his crisp enunciation, until he adds- "and I am certainly not skunk as a drunk!"

An awkward beat of silence passes as they all wait for him to realise his mistake. Cyrus flushes. "Wait..." Too late; they are all laughing at him, Cyrus included.

"I suppose I may be slightly inebriated," he admits with a bashful smile.

"Slightly?!" Therion repeats incredulously. "My dear boy,” he says as he slips flawlessly into his best Atlasdam accent, "you are positively rat-arsed!"

The thief playfully shoves Cyrus, very nearly sending him toppling over backwards. Thankfully Olberic is there, quick as a striking snake, looping an arm around the scholar's narrow waist. He pulls the slighter man tightly to his side and Cyrus flops against him gracelessly, giggling against his chest.

"Heh, look who's talkin'!"

Without missing a beat, Therion flicks an olive at the apothecary, nailing him right between the eyes, earning the thief a startled "gah!". The two descend into heated bickering. When they very nearly escalate into a food fight, Olberic is forced to scold them, voice booming. He is desperately grateful that their rowdy, ragtag group is seated far from the King.

Simultaneously, his heart is full to bursting.

Olberic is approaching drunkenness himself, and deep in his cups he often finds himself sentimental. So now, he can easily admit he has not felt this replete in a long, long while, and he is immensely grateful that they are all here, together, far from the hardships of the road, and life. If only for a night.

Best of all, at his side, is Cyrus. When he squeezes his hold on the man, Cyrus looks up at him, smiling, blue eyes full of wonder and adoration. Olberic offers up a silent prayer of thanks to whichever of the Twelve is responsible for their fateful crossing of paths as he presses a kiss to the top of his head.

"What a handful you lot are," he murmurs, hopelessly fond, face pressed against soft, perfumed hair.

"Yes, they certainly- wait, myself included?" As if he had not noticed Cyrus reclaiming his cup and taking a long, cheeky sip.

"Yourself most of all, I think," he says teasingly. When he pries the cup from his delicate hand, he sees it is already empty. "Rascal."

"Hmph." The mage huffs indignantly, but he has a coy little smile. There's a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tugs playfully on the knight's unruly forelock. "Then I suppose it's a very fortunate thing I have you to watch over me, Sir Olberic. I'm terribly thankful. But how ever might I show my gratitude, I wonder?"

This part is still tricky to navigate. That definitely sounds like flirting, but he's been wrong before. The entirety of Cyrus's experience with such is accidental, frankly. For a man so skilled in the way of speech, he seems to have little clue what comes out of his mouth, or how the words he chooses can be misconstrued. But he sounds so suggestive, in a way Olberic's never heard. Intriguing…

The knight turns his head, tapping the cheek facing Cyrus with one finger. He's delighted, can't help the laugh that escapes when Cyrus surges up, peppering his face with a dozen kisses.

"Ugh," Olberic hears distantly. It's Therion again with his barbs, somehow making his eye roll audible. "Could you lovebirds be any more obnoxious?"

In normal circumstances he might ignore him, or respond in kind, with a biting remark of his own, but drink also finds him playful. He's rather emboldened by Cyrus's kisses, so he only responds, "Aye, if that is your wish," before he leans in to kiss Cyrus, forcefully enough that he's pressed backwards, crowding the thief.

A startled "mmmph!" is the only noise Cyrus can make, wide-eyed and tapping against Olberic's shoulder in mild protest. He feels a brief pang of guilt, involving him in his teasing like this; the man is prudish in nature, uncomfortable with such public displays of affection.

But to his surprise, the mage relents when the knight does not, looping his arms around broad shoulders and sighing softly. Emboldened, he tilts his head, deepening the kiss ever so slightly.

"Get a room, you two!" Tressa squawks, while Alfyn whistles at them. Therion makes exaggerated gagging noises even after they've broken apart.

"Oh, let them be," Primrose says as she slips into the seat alongside Alfyn on the bench. She pours herself a cup. “I think they're just precious."

"Oh yeah? Swap seats with me, then," Therion grumbles.

"Oho! Jealousy ill suits you, dear one. Fret not; you'll steal your man's heart one day."

"What-!!"

Good grief, she may as well have set a bomb off at their table. Easy as that they are arguing again, and the two are forgotten.

Olberic drains the rest of his ale, sighing contentedly. That had been rather exhilarating, and well worth the teasing that usually rankled him so. When was the last time a mere kiss had him so worked up? The way Cyrus had yielded to his advance, the way he'd looked at him afterwards…

He feels an urgent tugging at his sleeve. Cyrus is looking up at him again that same way; adoring, but with a hint of something dark, something much less wholesome. He's visibly ruffled, face flushed. He looks…

The mage crooks an elegant finger at him, and Olberic obliges, leaning in close to hear him over the din. He's most assuredly not expecting shy, sweet Cyrus to lick the shell of his clipped ear, letting out a little huff of warm breath that goes straight to his cock.

Gods alive…

He inhales sharply and looks about discretely, hoping that that could have been mistaken for a whisper. Here he'd thought kissing in public would be the boldest thing either of them would do tonight.

Dimly he's aware that he's squeezing the mage so tightly he threatens to break him in half.

"Cyrus, what-"

"Take me to bed," he whispers urgently.

"You- you jest..."

"I certainly do not."

Olberic clears his throat, conflicted. If he's far gone enough to act this brazen, in the company of their friends- and the entire city, he might add- then a tactical retreat would be best…

"Please."

The knight stands so abruptly he jostles the long table.

"That's enough excitement for one evening, I think,” Olberic announces, carefully stepping over the bench, stoic exterior belying his racing heart.

“Leaving so soon?” Primrose asks. “H'aanit will be joining us in a moment.”

“Mm. I'm, er, quite tired,” he lies his arse off, grunting as he lifts Cyrus from his seat. The man is tall, but slender as a sword, so it's no trouble at all for Olberic to scoop him up. The motion elicits a breathless laugh from him, and raucous laughter and whistles from his companions.

“Both of you?” she asks, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him and smirking knowingly around the rim of her cup. Witch.

"...aye. Give our regards to H'aanit," he says stiffly, attempting to remain straight faced as his friends mercilessly tease and holler at them, turning to beat a hasty retreat. Cyrus is laughing as he waves and calls out his farewells.

He weaves them through the crowd, and around tables and servers with all the grace of Sealticge as he makes his way to the edge of the square.

"We will be embarrassed, come morning.”

"Mm, likely so," Cyrus murmurs against his neck. "Though, why should we be? It's no secret who butters my bread."

"Easily said, while in your cups," he says mildly. "And in the light of day?"

"Hehe. Well, if a little teasing is the price I must pay to have you, then so be it. I can take it..." -his mouth is close to the knight's ear again, the clipped one that's so sensitive, his breath hot- "Perhaps you've noticed, but I've become rather proficient at taking it.”

"Gods, you-!" Olberic nearly stumbles down the stairs. He doubts he's ever been so hard in his life. "Who knew you could be such a scoundrel..."

The inn is blessedly quiet, its keeper and patrons still partaking in the festivities no doubt. Thank the Twelve for that. There's no witnesses and no one to get in his way as he carries his scholar upstairs, pausing only when Cyrus fumbles with the door.

He kicks it shut behind him hard enough to rattle in the frame, embarrassingly eager.

Then he is tumbling them together into the bed, mouths meeting in a desperate and messy kiss, teeth and tongues clashing, hands roaming freely. Cyrus tastes so strongly of coconut wine and figs that it's cloying, yet terribly addictive.

The way the scholar gasps into his mouth is even sweeter.

They have never kissed like this before. Olberic knows he must tread carefully here, and he won't push him too far. Cyrus's obliviousness, inexperience and shyness regarding intimacy lend him an innocence that Olberic is loath to tarnish.

He is forced to rethink some of those notions, however.

"My dear..." Cyrus croons, voice like honey. He cups the knight's face so gently, so affectionately. "Get your cock out and give me a good seeing to. Hard as you like.”

Devil! Of course he's still as verbose as ever. Drink has not eroded his speech as it has his grace and inhibitions, it seems. Just what was in that wine?

Gods, he needs a moment to think, but between the ale and lust and Cyrus under him, saying such filthy things, it's damned near impossible. He staggers to his feet, making an excuse to bar the door. Trying in vain to compose himself, he leans against it, taking a heaving breath.

Olberic should have rebuffed him the first time- should rebuff him now. He should, t'would be the gentlemanly, noble thing to do. His scholar is clearly not in his right mind, and Olberic should not think otherwise just because it is so agreeable to see him so... so horny, there is no other word for it.

And yet, he is wavering, for he is weak, and his pretty mage is his greatest weakness of all. How can he be expected to resist such a demand? Olberic desires him terribly, and he would do anything he asked, anything- kill for him, die for him. This man has him wrapped around his little finger, if only Olberic knows it.

This would not be anything like their previous careful lovemaking; Olberic is not in his right mind, either, and he fears he will hurt him without a clearer head to restrain himself. It feels like there is fire burning in his blood. Despite his ardent words, Cyrus has no idea what he's asking for.

When Cyrus calls his name in a needy, breathy voice, he almost breaks, the Flame take him. He almost dare not look at him, though he reluctantly does. Weak, so weak.

"You are troubled," Cyrus says from the bed, looking entirely too guileless for a man that had, just a moment ago, demanded to be fucked. "Why is that?"

"You are drunk."

"And so are you."

"I don't wish to hurt you-"

"You shan't."

The knight groans and scrubs a hand over his face. Stubborn, vexing man!

"I- nor would I take advantage-"

"Oh, Olberic, my dear, don't be so daft," the professor says tersely, clumsily getting to his feet. "You are a sweet man to worry so, but you needn't. I am not some fragile waif."

His point is somewhat undermined when Olberic has to grab his shoulders to steady him.

"And it is not the wine that makes me desire you so," he says, milder now, hands straying inquisitively over the broad expanse of the knight's chest, idly smoothing out the wrinkles in his loose shirt. "Though it certainly makes it easier for me to express such things."

He says nothing, transfixed. His head is swimming. He is losing this battle.

"The truth is, I am yours, as you are mine. I trust you, of course. Do as you will with me. I welcome it."

Foolish, reckless man, blast him and his silver tongue, he is flirting with disaster, doesn't he realise- Olberic will ruin him- his resolve is crumbling-

"So! If you're quite done brooding…?" he trails off, one hand straying to toy with the laces of his trousers, where he's still so hard-

Olberic snarls as he grabs him by the waist, lifting him as though he weighs nothing, and tosses him backwards, sending him sprawling against the bed with enough force to knock the wind out of him, the frame creaking. The knight looms over him like a fearsome predator. Cyrus sits up on his elbows to watch him approach, wide-eyed and stunned, but no less eager.

Kneeling between his legs, Olberic silently appraises him. There's too many buttons on his waistcoat, a lost cause, blast it. He shucks it up to his waist instead, quickly moving on to tug off one of Cyrus's boots, tossing it aside carelessly, while the scholar unfastens the ties and wriggles one leg out of his trousers, and that's good enough-

-then he's taking the scholar's cock into his mouth, to the base, lathing his tongue hard against the underside on the upstroke. Cyrus makes a guttural, wanton sound and Olberic descends on him again. He watches greedily, seeing the scholar's eyes roll shut as he hums around him, reveling in the way his head falls back against the pillow, mouth agape in a long unabashed moan. It is all terribly unromantic, and utterly thrilling.

"Oil," the knight demands, between long licks from root to tip. Quick as anything, Cyrus is handing him the tincture bottle- when, and where did he- from his robes? Flame, Olberic realises, he still has those on, too...

Somehow Cyrus being almost fully dressed seems much filthier than if he had him completely nude. He's going to keep him this way.

They've never even made love above the covers before, yet now he's going to fuck him like this. How did this happen? Foolish man, he tried to warn him, can't he see that Olberic means to thoroughly debauch him?

Cyrus is not complaining, seemingly uncaring or oblivious to his own state of dress, content to watch Olberic like he's the most fascinating thing in the world. No doubt, he'll have something to say about it in the morning; the professor is fussy about his wardrobe and his preening at the best of times. When he realises what they've done…

Oh, nothing for it: he is certainly going to hell for this.

"You will tell me," he rumbles, voice little more than a growl as he coats his fingers with viscous oil, nudging at his thighs. "If it is too much."

The mage nods, spreading his legs obligingly, and that is all Olberic needs. He breaches him with a finger all the way to the last knuckle, tearing a gasp from the scholar. When the knight adds a second, he feels him shiver from head to toe.

The frenzied urgency that gripped him but a moment ago has abated somewhat. This requires patience, and his ugly, baser desires are momentarily satisfied at having Cyrus so pliant, so ensnared. The man is his, by his own admission, and he shan't let him go.

He is going to tease him a bit, though, and serve him right, for being such a brat. He will take him apart, slowly, then all at once.

This part is not exactly new to them by virtue of necessity. Though the knight would take care to make it sweet, he's never unraveled him in this way.

Perhaps he may not be dextrous enough to pick a lock, but he's unquestionably a dab hand at this. The principle is rather the same, Olberic supposes; precise movements, patience, a little pressure here, then a lot, just so. The difference is that, done right, this is not just means to an end; there is treasure in the opening itself.

Namely, that he soon has Cyrus moaning obscenely and writhing bonelessly on his fingers. Each press and pull sees him further and further unwound.

When he adds a third and presses in roughly, the scholar's back arches off of the mattress, hips rocking back urgently against his hand.

"Gods...! Oh, gods, oh, O-Olberic-... ahh...!"

A more blasphemous prayer there never was.

Olberic builds him up in this way, expertly, slowly, pressing teasing kisses against his length, lapping slowly at the leaking tip. Just until he's a hair's breadth from coming undone, voice rising in pitch and volume, only able to gasp his name-

“Olberic…!”

-then he drags him right back down, harshly withdrawing his fingers.

The whimper he makes is heartbreaking, though that's the only protest he voices. He's trying to urge Olberic closer, oh, the sweet fool, Cyrus thinks he's finished. As it happens, he's only begun, and he slowly kisses his inner thigh, smirking, until he starts anew with a single digit and more oil.

It doesn't take long to have him teetering again, pent up as he is, though it is no less satisfying... for Olberic. Meanwhile, Cyrus remains pliant but is visibly teeming with frustration, groaning into his hands as he's realised his predicament, his neglected cock twitching.

He works him again, and again and again, until Cyrus finally snaps, snarling at him.

"Come now, th-that's quite enough!" He’s a mess, flushed and panting, desperate. Idly, he notices the little white ribbon vainly trying to keep his wild dark hair in order and ponders the metaphor of it all.

"Hush," Olberic says firmly, sinking his teeth into the exposed meat of the scholar's thigh, just above the stocking, hard enough to leave the stark impression of teeth on pale skin.

"Ah! You- did you- you bit me?" He sounds hurt as he stares at Olberic in confusion, blue eyes wide. Too much then, he hesitates, readying his apology- "Do it again."

Fuck.

Is this man a divine being, perfectly crafted and descended from the heavens just to please Olberic? Or is he a wretched, beautiful demon, crawled forth from the depths of the gates, sent to torment him, stoke the fires of his lust until he damns himself?

Either way, while the knight might play at control, if Cyrus commands, then he obeys.

Olberic surges upwards, crawling over him to bite and suck firmly at the skin under Cyrus's sharp jawline. The academy robes get in his way, but he has no intention of removing them.

The scholar lets out a choked noise from between clenched teeth, seemingly pained if not for the way he lifts and turns his head away, giving Olberic better access. The nimble fingers of one hand clutch tightly at his hair, the other sneaking down to work at the laces of his trousers.

"You- will be the death of me," the knight pants out between bites, aiding in freeing himself. Then he's pressing them together, working them, hand still slick with oil.

“Curious- I was just, ahh!- just thinking the same myself. Mmm… Do you, hhnng… do you have any intention of putting this to use?” he quips between gasps, sassy little- then he's squeezing his length firmly, and there goes the last of Olberic's restraint.

Blast, where did that oil get to… oh, to hell with it, he's used plenty already.

With a feral growl he leans back to manoeuvre Cyrus just how he wants, pushing his long legs up, apart, around him, and with no fanfare, puts it to him in one long, unrelenting slide. Cyrus yields so easily to him, panting, clawing at his chest, eyes rolling back.

Hot, he's so hot inside, soaked with oil, gripping the base of his cock so tightly. Olberic groans, dares to look down to where they are joined, marvels at the way he's stretched obscenely to accommodate him. No minor feat, as he is a large man, in multiple aspects.

"That's it, that's it... perfect..." he sobs, chest heaving, sounding so relieved, so fucking content, like this is all he's ever wanted in life.

He tries to take it slow, damn him, he still tries to be a gentleman about it, to give him a moment, but this wanton scoundrel he's unleashed is having none of it, using the wiry strength in his legs to try and fuck himself. So Olberic plants his hands either side of the mage’s head and immediately sets a furious pace, the bed protesting loudly, thudding against the wall, almost unable to withstand the force. Brand, how does Cyrus take him so...

Cyrus moans and moans, deep from within his chest, blurring into one long sound, utterly shameless. He's always been vocal during their lovemaking, unsurprising given the man loves to hear himself talk, but he'd at the very least try to preserve his dignity by bashfully turning his head into the pillow to muffle himself.

This demon in the guise of his handsome professor doesn't care one whit about his volume. Even if by some miracle no one overhears them, if the inn remains empty, his smooth voice will be wrecked in the morning.

It is good, so wretchedly good. His hand slips against the sheets and he slams it against the headboard instead, bracing himself there as he keeps up the frantic pace. The heel of Cyrus's boot digs into Olberic's lower back, sending a perverse thrill through him. They are both just about fully clothed, why, why is that thought so appealing?

The scholar doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. They scramble for purchase, twisting in the sheets, in his hair, at his shoulders, his hips, tugging, urging him faster, deeper, and the loyal knight does his level best to satisfy him. He's gasping, writhing, almost, almost there-

“Olberic! More- yes, don't stop, I- I-”

Perfectly buffed nails rake up Olberic's back, hard enough to leave marks through his linen shirt as Cyrus goes taut as a bowstring. Keening, his still clothed leg twitches like a jackrabbit’s, and he's quivering within and without as he cums, coating his navel and waistcoat in his spend, hells, he's going to be furious-

That's what does it, that's the thought that sends Olberic over the edge, then he's roaring Cyrus's name as he fills him, his orgasm so intense he's sure it takes with it bone, blood, organs, his very soul.

The strength in his arm holds, keeping him braced over Cyrus as the last of the tremors course through him. The scholar cups his jawline, guiding him to press their foreheads together, the tenderness contrasting sharply with their filthy, drunken fuck.

They remain that way for a while, still joined, heaving breaths meeting in the middle, until the tension leaves their bodies and they can breathe normally again.

They are sweaty, their soiled clothes hopelessly wrinkled, but he just doesn't have the energy to care. He rolls them onto their sides, embracing his mage tightly. Cyrus nuzzles into his linen covered chest, draping an elegant leg over Olberic's hip.

“Are you well?”

“Mm… indeed. That was… splendid… magnificent, beyond compare,” he says dreamily, sighing contentedly. Olberic can hear a rough edge to his voice already. “Though I fear I'll be quite sore in the morning. Brute.”

“Hmph. You asked for it. You were rather bossy yourself.”

“Hehe, I suppose I was. I apologise, my dear.”

“No need for that.” He gently kisses his forehead, tucking dark hair behind his ear. “It was… exciting, having you speak so plainly.”

“Oh? Then I shall strive to be more direct with you.” Cyrus smiles, placing a hand on Olberic's cheek. It is strange, being so intimate when they are both so disheveled. “It’s easy enough when I'm… er, rat-arsed, as dear Therion put it. Still though, best to not make a habit of it. We would never leave bed.”

Olberic chuckles, silently agreeing. He strokes the silk covered thigh draped across him, thumb idly rubbing circles at the pale strip of flesh above it, where he'd left a bite mark. The scholar's not quite rat-arsed, but he's still a far cry from sober. It presents him with a good chance to pick at his brain a bit.

“What was it, then, that awoke such a fierce hunger in you tonight?”

The scholar snorts, a most undignified noise, pulling back to look at him.

“You, you daft man.” Cyrus tugs sharply at his forelock. “Has it never occurred to you that I might desire you, just as much as you desire me? The wine just greased the wheels, as it were.”

“Is that so?” He rubs his hairline. Still a brat. “Tell me of your desires, then.”

“And reveal my hand so soon? I think not. You'll just have to find out…” He looks exceptionally smug, while his fingers play at the laces of Olberic's shirt, dipping between them to tease at skin. “All I shall say is that you are solely responsible for my new found appetites. As you know, I wasn't keen on the idea of intimacy before, but after a few tries with you, well…”

“Hmm. An acquired taste, is it?”

“Hehe. Just so.” Cyrus shifts to lean on his elbow, eyes half lidded as he looks down at the knight, a vulpine smile forming on his lips. His fingers tug at the laces more purposefully. “And after having had my first taste of you, over time I found myself craving more, and more…”

Olberic swallows, now recognizing that distinctly unwholesome look.

“And what is it you crave now?”

Olberic is reminded of his earlier fanciful thinking, when he'd pondered the nature of this man- divine or devil, and he's decided that he is both. A contradiction, yes, but isn't that just Cyrus? A man shrewd enough to be able to discern motives at a glance, yet still so oblivious as to not notice the attention he garners wherever he goes. He still has no clue that half his students are in love with him- that Olberic had been in love with him.

He's one of the kindest, sweetest men he's ever met, up there with Alfyn. A gift from the Twelve he is, sharing his warmth, his love and affection with Olberic, patiently tending to his needs and easing his burdens.

As this night has proven, he can also be a fucking devil whose sole purpose seems to be to drive Olberic insane, evoking such a fierce lust in him it tests the very limits of his control, his sanity.

Cyrus sits astride Olberic's hips, using all his weight and strength and leverage to fuck himself at the perfect angle, and Olberic is all too willing to oblige him, pulling him down by the waist as he simultaneously bucks upwards with his own considerable strength.

His head is pulled back, Olberic's fist in his silky, messy hair, bringing a nice arch to his neck as he gasps, moaning… still dressed, still spattered with cum, still filled with it, Gods…

When they are done, Cyrus eases off of him, wincing, and collapses face first against the pillows. By the time Olberic's recovered enough to make a go of cleaning them up, the mage is snoring, finally satisfied, thoroughly exhausted.

He's not quite sure where to begin salvaging the mess they've made after all that.

The morning brings with it various challenges. Facing his friends is first and foremost, and the task he finds most unsavoury. While he's gotten used to it with time, Olberic can still be a bit prickly when it comes to their teasing, especially where Cyrus is concerned. But there's no avoiding it; he needs their apothecary. He's made himself presentable, and he descends the stairs with the straight backed, grim resolve of a man condemned to death.

It is crowded in the common room, but he soon finds his companions. Only the four women are seated there, with no sign of Alfyn or Therion. A nuisance, as he'd rather hoped to retreat after obtaining medicine for Cyrus. Their cheeky thief being absent is a relief, leaving him to contend with their cheeky dancer instead. Primrose is already smiling devilishly as she sees the knight approach their table.

“Good morning, my love,” she greets him as he sits, pouring him a cup of coffee. It's late morning, and they've long since cleared away the food. “Rest well?”

He hears stifled giggling from behind the book where Ophilia and Tressa are pretending to read.

“Indeed,” he replies, proceeding cautiously, sipping his beverage before clearing his throat. “I apologise for leaving before you could join us, huntress.”

“Thou needst not, my friend. So long as thou enjoyed thyself, then I am most glad, for that is the purpose of a feast." At least he need not worry about this front; teasing is not in H'aanit’s nature. “Though I'm tolde thy scholar dranketh too much, and that thou had to carryeth him away like a maidene. Wolde that I could have seen such a thing! Perhaps thou sholde carryen him down as well?”

Blast it all. He sits alone amongst a nest of vipers.

“Is he coming down soon? I bought him something last night!” Tressa says excitedly. She's still half hidden behind her book, but he sees her eyes fill with mischievous glee. “Or does the maiden need a kiss to wake up?”

“...you know how he is in the morning,” he grinds out, feeling his face heat as the girls titter at him. He hides behind his cup, drinking deeply.

“There, now, dandelion,” Primrose says warmly, patting his large hand with her dainty one. “We’re just having a bit of fun. You make an adorable pair, truly.”

“Oh yes, I quite agree,” Ophilia says wistfully, delicately resting her chin in her hands. “It's so romantic. Just like the fairytales, the ones about the sorcerers of old, and their loyal runemasters.”

She's a good girl, so he thinks she's being earnest, but honestly, this is just the worst. Somehow this is far more embarrassing than anything Therion could have thrown at him.

“Where is Alfyn?” Olberic asks, desperately trying to salvage this disaster of a conversation as his face burns. “Cyrus will need a hangover cure.” And a salve for his neck. And arse.

“Hehe. He's indisposed.” Primrose rolls her eyes. To no one in particular she asks: “What is wrong with men these days?”

He's not sure what that means. Did something happen after they left last night? The knight thinks he's better off not knowing.

“Mm. Coffee will have to suffice, then.”

“No need, here he comes… oh, dear."

They quiet as the scholar gracelessly slumps into a vacant chair next to Olberic, rubbing at his temples. He's a mess. His terribly wrinkled robes are drawn tightly about his neck, hiding the evidence of Olberic's teeth on him. At least he's upright, the knight thinks, gently rubbing his back.

“Scholar, if I may… to use thy parlance, thou looken like hell.”

Cyrus grumbles in response.

“Professor!” Tressa says brightly. He sees Cyrus wince. "I got you a present, look!” She rummages through her huge backpack, proudly showing him her latest bargain: a bottle of coconut wine.

“Oh, my- that was… kind of you…” The scholar trails off as he stares uneasily at the bottle, taking on a distinctly green shade. “I... ugh-” He claps a hand over his mouth suddenly, standing abruptly and rushing off.

“...oh no.” Tressa frowns, looking down at the bottle in confusion. “I don't get it. I thought he really liked this stuff?”

Olberic sighs, clapping her gently on the shoulder as he moves to follow his mage.

“You will understand when you are older.”