The high king has departed; back to his own haunts, he's gone, and the flat is once again deserted apart from prince and prince. No sign of the third prince, still; wherever Gwilym's gotten off to, he hasn't made his way back yet. This is not cramping Tiernan's style, at least.
     The lesser prince has tidied away the glasses with a low exhale, putting everything silently back into shipshape condition before looking over at you. "Well," he says softly, "that could have gone worse. Feeling ready to breathe, yet?" A dish towel's flipped onto the counter, and he paces slowly towards you; he's unbuttoning the outer of the two shirts he wears, tugging it off. It's draped over the back of a chair, and then he moves to behind you.
     The door is locked and bolted again, after all. You are alone with him. Loosely, he rests his hands on your shoulders, leaning forward against you with eyes closed. Say something, o captain ...
     Let me hear the sea in you ...

     He held his breath for what seemed like hours. Sure, he spoke, but the rest of his breath seemed trapped in his gut. His father left with hugs, with a handshake to the lieutenant and an embrace of his son. Backs were clapped and a hand mussed red hair.
     His father left with a last look to his son and a nod. What seemed to Iowerth as tacit consent given to the arrangement he has made.
     And you touch him, and he seems to deflate. Like a balloon stretched full, he was close to popping during all of that. Now, his energy zips around the apartment like you put a pin to his skin.
     Iowerth exhales as your hands come to his shoulder. His arms go around your waist and he leans against you. "I can't believe we made it through. I thought for sure he'd be able to see it, feel it... me inside you." He holds you, hands smoothing up and down your back. "But he seems to oddly approve... or at least...he is reserving judgement."
     Hands resting at your hips, he leans back to allow a kiss between you. It is gentle, it is tender. "You did so well," he murmurs with a smile. "He did not suspect...he thinks we are friends, which we are...but... I think you have passed the test."
     Fingers pressing at your clothing, your skin beneath it, Iowerth kisses you again. "I need to feel your hands on me," he murmurs. "Let's go to the bed. Take off our clothes...lie beside one another..." Each pause of phrase brings a new embrace. "I am so proud of you."
     And finally he smiles...

     "I hope so." Tiernan murmurs it, his arms dropping to slide around you, holding you, holding himself close to you. He brushes his lips to yours. "It was - is - important of me to pass any tests he might have for me, Io. You are important."
     You are important. He values you; being here with you, this closeness, this intimacy. As your tension deflates, so does his own, with an exhale like a muffled cry, eyes shutting rapidly as he buries his face against your neck. He holds onto you, arms tightening for a moment and then releasing you. To wherever you would like to go.
     He says nothing, unsmiling, looking at you with blue eyes as vast as your oceans, as far-stretching as the sky above. A hand lifts, touching your face, and then he looks down, your Winter prince; a faint smile quirking up, crooked, rueful.
     "I did nothing for which you should be proud."
     It's his belief, earnestly and honestly expressed. But you are moving, kissing him, and he sighs, leaning his weight to you. Clever hands begin to make light work of fastenings; he has explored them so many times before. Your jeans; your belt, they are loosened, undone. Flesh to metal, leather pulled away, denim opened. He is unsubtle right now. He needs to hold you in his hand, and so his palm slides in at the front, warm flesh against your groin.
     I always need you, Io. Right now most of all.

     There is no motion toward the bedroom, no departure for discretion's sake into the closeted, cloistered bedrooms. You unfasten his trousers in the living room and his hands find you as you do, grasping your hips and then cradling your face.
     "Yes, you did," Iowerth murmurs. "You handled yourself very well... and I love you... of what should I not be proud?" As you peel his denim away from his skin, he makes no move to hide himself from you, or to move you two in the bedroom.
     In fact, his hand reaches between you, reaching into the denim and pulling him out, presenting himself to you. "I need you, too," Iowerth whispers. "Not to be able to touch you... it is a kind of torture, Tiernan."
     He lifts himself, blood starting to thicken him. His large hand strokes, then relinquishes him to your hand, your grasp.

     I love you...
     He says it with his eyes, looking at you as your hands cradle his face. It is strange, how such a gentle touch can make him feel so vulnerable - so completely open to you. It makes speech difficult (well, more difficult - he isn't all that talkative at best, and when you are touching him, he gets even less so) and he smiles. Almost as if he is denying to himself the knowledge of that smile, it seems.
     I love you...
     He begins to sink, pressing his lips against your skin; the blue sea-dragons that permanently live beneath your surfaces, touching them, relearning them, memorizing them with fingertips, with lips, with the occasional lap of the flat of his tongue. It means pulling away from your hands on his face, and you can feel his hesitation in doing so - but he does so anyway, almost stoic in that resolution for a moment.
     Tiernan descends, and with him, so does denim. A hand grasps your root even as you begin to thicken, to harden, and his lips trail against stiffening flesh as he settles on his knees. Blue are the eyes that look up at you, shining from beneath.
     "Hail, my prince, my liege," Tiernan says softly, barely above a whisper. "King of my heart, my flesh, the man whose bed I will occupy or sleep at the foot of. My love and my lover, my friend. Let your trust in me be always justified, my desire as endless as the oceans you command."
     For him, it is a long and flowery speech - but it is heartfelt; it comes from his heart, and he makes a harsh sound as he finishes speaking, a choked almost sob. His arms go around your thighs, his cheek pressed to your belly as he leans up against you for a moment; and then he sinks again, tongue laving along your cock. He intends to worship you. Unsteady though his voice may be, when has his purpose ever wavered?

     The residue of a king. The presence of the departed king still seems to linger on the air. It rests upon his shoulders - he, the inheritor of those energies. It hangs on him like the sheet of earlier, an invisible mantle that envelopes you both as you lower to your knees.
     Are knights to be anointed thus?
     His legs widen as your mouth lowers. With a rush of blood from his head, he has to maintain his balance. And he stiffens against your tongue, his flesh like his legs flaring. You can feel him waver slightly as his balance maintains itself against a wave of lust.
     For Iowerth, it is a physical, watery wave. Your mouth is a tidal tug. His hips curl forward, sliding his flesh against your mouth as you look up to him from your knees. As you speak. His eyes half-mast as you speak, and his hands come down to your head again. It rests upon your crown, his fingers lightly moving against your skin in that still gentle way.
     "You are the sea that pulls me," Iowerth breaths, his voice barely audible, his breaths deepening and quickening. "You are the ..." he has to steady himself against another wave, that wave of energy ending in his cock, stiffening him again. "...you command the seas inside me... my blood...my magic... my seed. For where you go, I am sure to follow with all three."
     He closes his eyes, steadying himself. His hips curl forward and back, slip side to side as your tongue and mouth claim him, move over him. He chokes a sound as well, a sound in his throat that becomes a groan in his gut. Here in the main room of the apartment, he does not care now who might walk in. His love is displayed. His lust is displayed. His heart, his cock out for all to see.

     His mouth works against your skin. Blue eyes are veiled by dark lashes, and his voice sighs out of him, against your flesh, around your flesh. His service is made plain to you; his desire, his loyalty, his need. He is a prince, and no submissive, curbed spirit - but willing is his oath to you, requiring no compulsion but his own.
     One strong hand wraps slowly around the base of your shaft, his mouth playing against the head of your cock. It's hard not to feel greedy at this, at the touch of your cock against his lips. More than merely exciting; more than merely enticing. "I love you," Tiernan whispers.
     He says nothing more, with his heart voices, brought forward to be worn on his sleeve as he worships your flesh. Strong arms curl around your thighs, holding himself in place, attached to you. Wetly, he slides forward, mouthing against and around your cock as he suckles with slow, firm pressure - first at the head of your cock, holding it between his lips while his tongue plays against and over the tip in maddening metronomic conduction of pressure. Back and forth, tic-toc...
     And he is sliding forward. Your lover sighs in the back of his throat again, swallowing you whole as if to keep you in his throat forever. He uses the counterweight leverage of his arms and your thighs as he begins moving himself on and off of your erection. Tiernan's eyes are closed, now; he operates on instinct. It isn't the first time he has been with you in the dark.

     How he remains on his feet is a mystery. Perhaps he stands merely due to some law of physics created by the tug and pull of your mouth. In a trance he stands, his hands resting lightly on your head. His eyes closed, he falls into the sea of you, his mouth filling with water. He makes the choked groans of someone drowning.
     Within your mouth, the seadragons roll, sliding magicked forms along your tongue. Your mouth hums with it, the magic you raise from him. The sound of the sea is in his ears, his breaths begin to pound from him and you can taste it, the first drops of spray.
     In a single drop, an ocean is contained. Salty-sweet, like the resin of some strange flower, it makes itself known against your tongue. Curling his hips forward, Iowerth tenses. He braces himself, his body tightening. The gentle touch upon your head also tightens, his fingers curling against your scalp, tangling in your hair.
     And then the tightened string of him stretches. He, too, moves with instinct, his hips snapping forward and back in rapid strokes. If you wish him to hold back, you will have to release him... for his release is coming. Quickly.

     He could, he knows; he could release you and all would be prolonged. But tonight - no, not tonight. Not now. He wants you, craves you, needs you so terribly. He wants to urge you on to your release. Come for me, his eyes hint. Let me taste you; let me drink of your essence, even as it maddens me...
     But no. He manages to hold himself back; forces himself back, his hand wrapping around the base of your shaft and squeezing as he draws away. Tiernan licks his lips of traces of you, of his own saliva, pushing himself up to his feet and rucking up your shirt roughly with both hands. "I want you," he whispers, his mouth seeking to claim yours. The sea is rising to cover his vision. His world is dwindling in its focus, narrowing to you and nothing else. There is nothing of kingdoms, here. Nothing of parentage, royal or common, light or dark. There is you. It is all he wants.
     His tongue slides against yours, teeth scraping a little in his passion. Desire makes him clumsy tonight, but he pulls back, hands on your shoulders as he looks at you. Nothing is even right now. Everything shakes a little, trembles, even his sight. He steps back, twisting at your shirt, buttons popping as he bares your skin to his mouth again. "We should go," he mumbles, "couch. Or - floor. Something." He is not able to make it to the bedroom, right now. His own clothes are agonizing to him, and one hand frees from his ravishing of you to do something about that.

     There is a great whine that fills the room. They might have heard that in the backroom of the bar. "So close," he looks down at himself but then you are there, your hands squeezing him, your mouth at his mouth. His mouth is rough, gnawing and stealing your breaths, sucking down your words.
     "God damn," he groans, his mouth pulling his mouth from your with an audible sound. Your mouth, his mouth reddened with the force of it. His eyes are opened now, but he does not see. Eyes are dilated, his focus unclear. All focus is in his cock, standing rigid. You can see his pulse pounding. It lifts and lowers with it, wavering.
     "Couch," he grunts, and his hands come around you, hands at your rear. Iowerth pulls you to him, writhing, thrusting against you as he walks you, staggers you more like, to the sofa. The two of you fall, piling onto it, onto one another.
     Now it is a wilding writhe. Hands, arms, legs all in motion, clothes kicked off and pulled, torn and removed, tossed. Iowerth's mouth locks on yours, suckling your mouth, your tongue. His tongue invades your mouth, the metal ball rolling and chiming against your tongue, your lips.
     Hands pulling at your shirt, his mouth descends -- chin, throat, chest. The rolling metal chime spirals around your nipples as his mouth tugs there. "I love you... my dark... beautiful ... Tiernan. You tinker with me," Iowerth grins against your skin, his periwinkle eyes lifting to look at you as he descends to your navel. "I am just like one of your creations. I move when you wind me...move as you wish me..."
     You had started to free yourself. He completes that process, yanking down your pants. Iowerth's mouth surrounds you suddenly. Like the grasping of a sudden whirlpool, his mouth becomes a vortex pulling you under. Suckling strongly, his mouth moves swiftly over you from root to head. There, upon most sensitive skin, the metal compass rolls even as his tongue spirals around you.

     Hands clutch at you. It is like drowning, truly; he is maddened by it, struggling to get further in rather than further out. But you have become so active on top of him, all he can do is breathlessly try to keep up - try to ride this new current to its destination, a half second out of time with you, responding to kiss with kiss, touch with touch. He groans as his arms are caught within his shirt, as your mouth descends.
     This, then, is the heart of the maelstrom. But he chose this; he chose to go there. Tiernan squirms beneath you, and cotton fabric tears. Impatiently, he yanks it away from himself, hurls it to one side without looking to see where it lands - and his hands in turn land back on your flesh, dragging up to cradle the back of your head. He is breathless, making not so quiet little growls and gasps as you descend along him. "I ... would never ... want you to do anything but be yourself, Io... be my prince, my king, my captain," he begs. Pride can go to hell. "Never ... let yourself be controlled by me ... or anyone else."
     You descend further, and his head is filled with heat and light. Blue eyes roll back in his head as Tiernan groans so loudly that noone could be in doubt as to what is being done to him. His flesh is filled with blood, engorged to full hardness. As you finish freeing him, he whimpers; escape at last! And from the frying pan, into the fire. Muscled thighs spread, in invitation, in need.
     "I love you ... my sea captain, my dragon," Tiernan whispers down to you. His fingers thread into your hair, tugging lightly; and he is shaking. You can taste him, the salt and the slightly sour-sweet, his essence and his sweat. "Deus... Io..."

     Though he knows himself, he knows that to say such is to step into the void. It is not a place one goes, or a thing one may have. Not truly. He finds himself daily, it is a ritual. And you are part of that ritual, part of that discovery. He has learned that he does need someone, that he is capable of love, that he desires (greatly), and that his power is as much creation as destruction. You have shown him this, that the seas can rage and caress... sometimes, like now, simultaneously...
     He is not shy, not reserved in his enjoyment. In letting you (or anyone else near the doorway) hear it. His mouth moves loudly, flesh is suckled with the gusto of starving man upon the skin and fruit of peaches. He groans as he swallows you whole, his mouth sounding from the root to tip as he slides his lips.
     The taste of you only encourages him. He does not consider what might happen should his father turn in his tracks, should his brother return early. Let them come. Iowerth does not care. Wantonly, his desire, his lust, his impure and pure enjoyment is on display. For you, for all to see. Certainly to hear.
     Sweet decadence. With the slow swirl of his tongue from orbs along shaft to your crown, he delights in delighting, sliding that metal compass around your latitude and longitude. Lips purse at the head, suckling just that, quick thrusts accompanied by little chiming taps of that same compass at the tender and sensitive cleft. And then your cock, as his, is left to pulse untouched, unsuckled as his mouth heads elsewhere.
     He knows the sea, but the sea is unknowable. Like a human soul, or an immortal soul for that matter. Iowerth knows your skin, but he will spend a lifetime trying to know it. He sucks the globes of your balls into his mouth, leaving them after gluttonous swallows to flit that tongue at your anus.
     He is unafraid and he realizes how foolish it is to fear. With you with him, he is captain courageous. His father will simply have to learn to accept it. How shocked would they all be if they walked in on his feasting on you like this...
     He smiles against your flesh...

     Tiernan's groan is heartfelt; it is as if you suck his soul out through his cock, or at least give it a damned good try. You move, and nervelessly, his fingers slide from your hair. His toes dig into the cushions, body trembling. "Io," he whispers. He is more than merely erect. Traces of his desire, his arousal, are oozing from him; he is coated in his own sweat, trembling like a racehorse.
     Such delightful tortures do lovers inflict upon one another...
     Fear? Fear doesn't exist, here. If his mother were to walk in right now, he wouldn't even notice, his eyes blind to anything that is not you. Tiernan sighs, expelling breath and taking another, shuddering. "Io. I need ... oh, deus." Words are not his to command tonight. The couch seems somehow not big enough; the world seems to be spinning too fast. He reaches down for you, fingers brushing where he can, thighs spread so inevitably far. "Io..."

     The couch, while built for and by men, was never truly designed to contain two men thus. Though one might assume the manufacturers considered sex as part of the activities that might occupy this sofa, it was not foremost in principle design.
     But you make do...
     His mouth lifts from you as you call him, but only for a moment. Pursed lips squeeze over the crown of your cock, your arousal devoured as surely as your skin. With your skin. With a roll of his eyes, he groans vibrations against your shaft. It does not last long -- he doesn't want you to come, not yet. Lifting his mouth from you with an audible pop, Iowerth puts a knee to the sofa, his other foot anchoring to the floor.
     He smiles at you, periwinkle eyes suddenly open, fixing on you. He rubs his cock against your opening, sliding his own oils against you. It's a tight fit -- always. He is no small boy, your king to be. He makes small thrusts. Open for me. "I find myself in you," Iowerth says, closing his eyes briefly as he pushes midway. Again, short quick thrusts followed by a longer one, sending him further inside. It continues until he can go no further. "Duw... and when I'm here... I don't want to be anywhere else... what is it... that makes me need you so much..."
     His hands stroke your erection, sliding against your skin, the slickness of your arousal, then he squeezes at the base. He bends his head, fiery hair short and jagged, mussed by your hands and darkening with sweat. He watches you beneath him. "You are so ... fucking handsome... I can't take it... it makes me weep, fuck, come... and weep all over again..."

     He never would have thought of himself as a size queen. He never really gave much thought to sex at all. Until he met you. And since then, he can't get enough.
     Maybe it's because of your family; that potent fertility triad, its strength echoed down in its inheritors. Maybe it's just something about you, your tie to the dark and rolling seas. Or maybe he's just that fucking lucky. He doesn't know. He doesn't care.
     All he knows is that you exist as a hum within his blood, a bubble moving rapidly under his skin until you and he meet in a tangle of overheated flesh piled onto flesh. All he knows is that he wants you inside of him; even when it's too much, even if it hurts a bit. He can face the pain. There is too much pleasure attendant with it for him to say no.
     Tiernan makes small gasping, groaning, growling sounds in the back of his throat with each little thrust of your cock against him. You command him to open and will he or nil he, he gives way; his body concedes your right, your strength, your presence. His head is buzzing, now. He is making strange noises he has never made before, no, not even for you, so overwhelmed is he. So desperate.
     "Io," Tiernan groans your name as you grasp at him, twisting beneath you with such agonizing delight. Your words, the feel of you, it is building up almost like the taste of blood in the back of his throat. It is too much. And he wants more.
     "Please," pride again has gone to the devil, "please... you're everything, Io ... meat and drink, flesh and blood ... I don't need more than you, wouldn't know what to do with it. Oh, deus." There is moisture in his eyes. He would curse himself, if he could think that clearly. He squirms, muscles flexing to tighten and release, and his groan echoes again.

     The sofa was not the wisest choice. Sweaty flesh both slides and sticks to it. But it makes such a profound slapping sound as his body piles on yours, in yours, pushing you against the leathered body of it. One hand grasps the back of the sofa, to anchor there and keep you both from sliding off onto the floor.
     Hips move forward and back, side to side. Each thrust is slow, but deep. On the end of each deep thrust, he makes a series of wild pops within you, uninhibited, primal, before the tempo is slowed again. "This... is only... the beginning, my love..."
     "Only the beginning..."
     He is the fertile oceans. The oceans that gave birth to all life. Dark, abysmal seas, no matter how dark, how cold are still full of teaming life. He is a child of the creative destruction, the destructing power of life, and the struggle for balance in between. The sea represents this. He represents this. The way you and he fuck represents this. It is a struggle. Arms and legs, cocks and hips and backs.
     Iowerth pops those thrusts within you. "I am going to straddle you, take you. In my bed, we are both kings. Even when our bed is a couch." He grins at you as he moves on you, in you. Lowering his face near your own, his body buckling in the mimic of orgasm, he breathes: "I am going to ride you like a wave..."

     So good, and too much; and yet, he wants more. Even with you, it has never been like this for him before. The sound of your flash meeting his adds to it; it entices him. He is drowning in it all. Overcome.
     Only the beginning...
     He doesn't know if he'll survive to the end. And still he doesn't care; Tiernan writhes, reaching for you, thighs bracing to either side of your hips, squeezing you between, squeezing you within as he arches his back. There is no purchase for his hands. But he tries, anyway.
     He is making such sounds. Words are becoming more and more impossible; his throat hurts, the sounds he's making. Finally, you come in reach, and his arms go clumsily around you, dragging you to him even as you breathe such words to him. His breathing is roughened; really, he can barely breathe at all.
     "Fuck me," TIernan whispers, the words forced out hoarsely. His fingers grasp at your shoulders. "Ride me. My ocean. My king." His hips come up to meet you for a moment, and he lets out a groan as you pop inside him, his teeth sinking into his lower lip a moment too late. Surely they HAD to have heard that downstairs. "Fuck me, Io. My love. My other self..."

     What the fuck...
     Ears that can pick out the sound of a cricket's cough can surely pick out the sound of copulation. Course, he can hear the sound of copulation from about a mile away, so perhaps that's no great feat that he hears it from...
     Upstairs...
     Upstairs?
     Davydd's mouth hangs onto the cigarette as he billows smoke, his eyes lowering to the bar table as he concentrates on the sound. His eyebrows lift slowly skyward, eventually threatening to leap of his forehead and scamper away...
     Nah, it can't possibly...
     Taking his pack off the table and shoving cigarettes back into his jacket, Davydd narrows his eyes. "Llew, good on ya lad. I'll see you. Ah... and if you see the boys..." a pointed look, that, "... tell them..." Davydd pauses a moment. "...they should come up for air."
     Llew chuckles, nodding. "Yeah... they haven't come out in a day or so. I was starting to worry. But..." They sound like they're enjoying the solitude. He shrugs. "I'll let them know, boss. Have a good night..."
     Davydd purses his lips, glancing up to the ceiling and half-smirking, half-frowning. "You too, Llew. Give Cari my best." He looks again to the ceiling and then pushes his way outside, heading out into the Strand.
     It'll be hours before he lets himself realize what he heard and what it must mean. For now, all he knows it that he simply needs air...

Posted by rowan at June 27, 2006 10:54 PM