Chapter 253 - 251: Blue On Red.

Chapter 253: Chapter 251: Blue On Red.

​"A gift," Gurdet repeats, voice hollow, "From Montrel. And you’re actually using it?"

​"Well of course," she scoffs, as if there were any other option.

"The one I was using didn’t fit at all, and it smelled terrible , like you wouldn’t believe, father.

Montrel said that it was important to wear one though, so I –"

​Gurdet stops listening and starts drinking.

​He’s heard quite enough.

​Xena usually hates when men offer her gifts, and once received hardly ever touches them again; even the beautiful, expensive ones.

She’s spent her life swearing that it wouldn’t be right to wear them without returning their feelings.

Gifts were meant to be sentimental, after all, and she has always openly loathed the idea of wearing something from a man who thinks she can be bought.

To her, wearing them meant she could be.

​Yes, Gurdet decides, and the blush that starts to rise up on Xena’s cheeks with each mention of Montrel’s name just serves to further confirm his suspicions.

​He is mostly definitely concerned.

...

Fuck .

I thought it was this way .

This castle is too fucking huge. After all this time Khobi really thought he was getting good at finding his way around, but the reality is that he walks largely the same paths every day, and with how dark the skies are getting even during the day one wrong turn is all it takes to have him wandering in circles.

He’s lost.

Well, shit.

How the servants get around this place so quickly he’ll never know. Any time he ever tries to take what he thinks is a shortcut he ends up going in completely the wrong direction.

It’s kind of ridiculous that after however many months he’s been here there are still hallways he doesn’t recognise and corridors he’s never walked down.

He’s not even sure which wing of the castle he’s in at the moment, and it strikes him as strange how many of the courtyards he passes are empty.

This corridor, too; it’s been some minutes since he’s seen another soul. He’s sure they’re out there --he gets the sense that the servants always are --but he sees no sign of them.

Eventually, after wandering aimlessly through a half dozen hallways that all look the damned same, he catches sound from a side corridor somewhere up ahead and hopes it’ll be a servant so he can ask them how to get back to the training grounds.

It’s not a servant.

And on account of the muffled nature of the sounds, it doesn’t become apparent until he’s almost level with them that it’s not one person, but two.

One of them is Loac.

The other is a man that Khobi doesn’t recognise, but he’s on his knees, and although it’s been a while since Khobi’s chanced upon anyone like this, there’s really no mistaking what’s going on.

Un-fucking-believable.

Khobi can hardly believe that it’s taken Loac so little time to find someone to get on their knees for him; they were in the kitchens not an hour ago.

Even from here, partially concealed as they are, Khobi can see that Loac’s still got that stupid smear of flour on his cheek from where he tried to fling some at Khobi and had it backfire on him.

He’s also got one hand fisted tightly in the other man’s dark hair and his shirt splayed open to draw the eye to the rigid lines of his tanned, heaving chest and then down past his navel to the heady rolling of his hips.

And despite himself, Khobi’s gaze is drawn , because while Loac is an asshole of the highest order, Khobi’s not completely immune to his more basal urges.

And more importantly he’s not fucking blind .

The fact of the matter is that Loac Trent possesses the kind of body cut straight from his wildest dreams; a form carved of thick lines and raw muscle, and one that in another time, and in another place, Khobi might have ached to have on him.

It’s just shame about his personality. And it turns out that Khobi’s not so good at separating the two.

(At least, that’s what he’s always thought. How it’s always been.)

In the back of his mind, Khobi’s aware that he’s lingered unnecessarily. Usually when he stumbles upon Loac like this he immediately turns tail and stalks away, and loudly, so that they get the message that they’ve been caught, but today he’s been distracted an instant too long.

(Maybe he really is getting complacent.)

And as a swordsman he should know by now that sometimes an instant is all it takes to damn a man.

Because in that fleeting moment of distraction before he tears his gaze aside, Loac’s head suddenly drops back against the wall behind him, and Khobi is treated to the sight of his body pulling taut and his jaw falling slack into a deep, low moan as he comes.

It’s insanely hot.

Khobi swallows.

Eyes clenched shut, a bead of sweat catches on Loac’s chin and cascades down his throat.

Helplessly transfixed, Khobi watches it go; heat coiling deep and insistent in the pit of his stomach.

He wants to look away; knows he should, but his body chooses now of all times to betray him, and his feet and eyes refuse to move.

The fingers clenched in thick strands of dark hair begin to loosen, and Loac’s eyes hazily start to drift open.

Through the gloom, his blue locks with Khobi’s red, and time just...stops.

The corner of Loac’s mouth curls up; the tip of his tongue peeking out from between his lips.

And then there’s his eyes.

Fuck , the bastard’s eyes .

Inconceivably, Khobi’s pulse starts to race, and though the castle around him is silent, his ears suddenly rush with sound.

Bells. Drums. Embers, crackling to life. A wolf in the wilderness, howling to the moon.

A thick shudder runs down his spine, curling and tightening as it descends and leaving his breath shaking.

After what he’s just done –or rather, had done to him –what business does he have in looking so hungry ?

(...And why does Khobi suddenly feel the same?)

Snapping free of his temporary insanity and forcing down the heat that’s started to build within him unbidden, Khobi straightens up, finding his hands uncomfortably clammy.

This time he finds his feet obey him, and he’s able to confidently stride straight on past Loac and his embarrassed companion without a word, as if he’d seen nothing, and heard nothing.

He doesn’t spare them a sidelong look, and doesn’t pay attention to the way Loac’s hand sweeps away a streak of sweat from his bare chest, and he certainly doesn’t wonder –in a fleeting moment of madness –what it might feel like to do so himself.

And while Khobi deliberately doesn’t look back, gravity needs not to be seen to be felt, and with each step he can feel the weight of Loac’s eyes lingering on him.