It has been a confusing, distressing, arousing morning for one Tiernan Toymaker, known sometimes as Thierry, or Terry Winter, or whatever else he goes by. They are emotions he is uncertain of; the future itself seems suddenly uncertain, as shaky as if he's tried to build a house of cards on an under-inflated waterbed. And he is trying very hard now not to think as he walks up the multitude of stairs to where the king's apartments are, and across from them, his own.
     He is not succeeding very well. Though he acknowledges the few (and growing fewer, the higher he climbs) people he encounters, he does so without seeing them. Like clockwork, every three minutes he runs his fingers through his hair as his mind turns over some new piece of information, or some new facet at which he worries. By the time he reaches the corridor to his chambers, his hair is a bird's nest of spikes and twists.
     I do not know what to do. I do not know that there is anything that I can do. Things will proceed at this point whether I do anything or not, unless I were to withdraw myself from the field; and that, they both say is something they do not wish. I do not know what I wish for myself anymore. Part of me wants to take a knife and carve marks in myself; it would be reassuring in a way, to see good honest blood rise to the surface. It's simple, yes? Cause and effect. No politics or policies or royal weddings about it. But that would be absurd, and I have marks enough; it would be mistaken for something more than it is. Deus... I just want to feel something sharp enough to penetrate all this wool!
     He twists the doorknob and steps inside without looking, not bothering to latch it behind him. Crossing directly to the mirror over his bureau, he plants both fists solidly on the wooden top. And of his own reflection, Tiernan demands loudly, "Who are you, anyway?"

     Silent, the steps that carried him in his sliding stride from the king's apartments to those of the king's personal ... friend. The door to the apartment's living room was open, he is holding a pitcher of cool liquid in his hands and was mid-stride to set it upon your dining table when you call out to him, to yourself, to no one.
     "You are who you are," comes the quiet voice, as poised as his posture. There, standing with a pitcher in his hands, is the bronze-skinned, cerulean-haired valet. He inclines his head, a slight bow of it given. You are given deference, as a lover of the king, but you are not a royal per se. Or are, at the very most, an exiled one. He turns, setting the pitcher upon the table. "I have brought you something for your chambers," Agapios says. "There is fruit, dates, and now the silver-cool sweet-water."
     His green eyes settle upon you with a gentle boldness. He approaches you. "I am Agapios," his voice lilts, an echo of his own language. He is clothed sparingly. The outline of his form beneath the gauzy white trousers is clear. There is no corresponding cotton shirt. His upper body is adorned by mother-of-pearl bracers at his biceps. He is barefoot still -- no wonder his steps were silent.
     "Is there anything I can do for you," Agapios wonders, his green eyes holding something of a smile, though his face does not give it away so soon. There is something he would like to do for you. His bronze complexion seems to emanate warmth and interest, interest that is echoed in his eyes.
     He has listened, as servants often do. He has stolen glances. Have you? "His majesty has a very full schedule today." He says it so matter-of-factly, as if you have asked after his appointments.

     You catch him entirely by surprise. He turns halfway around, but with a suddenness, as if you had touched his shoulder unexpectedly rather than merely spoken. Seeing you does not entirely put him at his ease again; such rare outbursts as you have now been witness to ordinarily he would loathe to have seen, and embarrassment makes his cheeks flare with colour. "Thank you," Tiernan mutters, conscious of his lack of grace in the moment and powerless to alter it. "It was not necessary, but it is kind of you."
     He is in a mood to fetch a hair shirt for himself. Or, lacking such, make one. But he does not take it out on you, instead crossing his arms over his chest in unconscious self-defense. "Good morning, Agapios." He tries to force his tone into a more suitable one; taking a deep breath, he sighs it out through his nose, closing his eyes as he does so. When he reopens them, his voice is more modulated. "I apologize for my mood. I hadn't anticipated taking it out on anyone other than myself."
     He steps away from the bureau, raking a hand again through that untidy thatch on top of his head. "Yes, the king will be very busy for some time to come," Tiernan agrees with you quietly. Again, colour rises into his cheeks, and this time, he has to look away. You know his secret, after all. That reminder is all it takes for him to flash back to his waking. As if his emotions and his moods were not vulnerable, were not perilous enough. "I don't think there is anything that you can do for me. You could ignore me. I seem half-mad today."
     Tiernan says it without looking, moving towards the dining table - it means moving past you, but it is where you've put things, yes? "Where are the glasses? You take excellent care of the king," he adds with a brief glance spared to you, half-humorous and half-sad, "but I am afraid I'm a bit lost today."

     "His majesty is quite generous," he says it as easily as something oft repeated should be said. But he does not linger on the topic. "You do not have your own valet, I have noticed." His eyes lift to you as he turns to get glasses. It requires him to leave the main living room for the next room over, your own personal library and drawing room. He returns with several glasses held upon a tray. "You have extensive rooms of your own, you should have your own man."
     "I will forgive your mood," Agapios smiles, "...if you will forgive my impertinence." His green eyes sparkle, shards of blue found within them -- or perhaps that's a reflection of his cerulean hair. He does not speak of your stress, your emotions. You would keep them to yourself anyway.
     Pouring the water into a glass, he then brings it to you, coming to stand before you. He offers the glass to you on the palm of his hand, his hand completely steady. He smiles. "This will make you feel less mad," Agapios notes. "It is restorative. The water of the clear springs. It is sweetened by the sugar reeds that grow nearby."
     He is close, offering this relief to you in a glass. You can smell the very light hint of the sea about him. He carries his island with him. "I think you should indulge in the pleasures this palace has to offer. At the very least, you should let me attend you. I am told I have talented hands. For massaging the troubles from the flesh."

     "I should, if only not to make more work for you," Tiernan admits. "I apologize and will look into it. I just tend to live simply, left to myself." You go, and he stops, watching you with a faint puzzlement. You add to his confusion, and even he cannot say why "It isn't impertinent, or I do not think so, at least. But thank you."
     You have his measure aright. There is only one in whom he readily confides, and even him, not always. And certainly not now; with as tremendous as the events of the present are, not now. "Thank you," he murmurs again, reaching carefully to take the glass. He is unaware of any ulterior motives that you might have - oblivious, today, oblivious in ways which he would berate himself for, if it occurred to him. A sleeping prince is an easily murdered prince. Thus do habits of youth desert him.
     He closes his hand around the glass, dark eyebrows moving aloft over his eyes. He is aware of your presence; fighting that awareness, perhaps. But aware, certainly. "I am seldom at the palace for very long, to take advantage of its amenities. Or, to be honest, even aware of what they are." Tiernan offers you a slightly rueful smile as he lifts the glass carefully from your hand to his lips; he closes his eyes as he swallows, leaving himself for a moment alone with its taste and with your scent. It isn't until after he re-opens his eyes that he continues. "If you are sure you have the time; I would not want to add more work to your schedule than I already have. What has been added to the palace while I wasn't looking?"

     A cerulean eyebrow lifts like the faint wave of the sea. You do not know what the pleasures of this palace contain? You can see quite clearly that he does not believe you. He has heard you enjoying them, after all. "I have all day to serve, it is what I do." He smiles even as the dead-pan words leave him. "I find and take pleasure in it, and serving you would be my pleasure."
     He does not move out of your immediate space, but rather gestures you toward your sofa. "If you would sit, I will demonstrate. With all of the current events and with your work, I should expect you would be quite tense." And then Agapios laughs, his laughter is as quiet and easy as the rest of his demeanor. "The palace does seem to have a mind of its own, but there is nothing new to the architecture that I'm aware of."
     He stands there, waiting for you to move to the sofa as instructed. Who's the servant here anyway? "Would you like anything to eat while I work?" On you. Literally.

     If he thought he knew what you were referring to in all earnest truth, he'd blush fit to burst the capillaries in his cheeks. As it is, he sees your disbelief but doesn't quite know what to make of it; intelligent he might be, but he isn't making connections on time today. "...Yes, of course." He turns from you slowly, still confused.
     This day seems to bring me nothing but new puzzles to chew on. Still, this is less enormous than the other. It is distraction.
     I could use some distraction...
     It is for that reason, perhaps, that he is prepared to accept your suggestion (and command); he moves towards the couch, sitting back and running both hands back over his face and through his hair. "Mm... later, maybe. Right now I'm too tense to eat," he admits. It is because he is in his own chambers that he is that honest. Had you asked him in the hallway or anywhere else, the reply would not have been one to indicate that. "Anything in particular I should do? And good to know the palace is not rearranging itself. Places which do that worry me."

     "Yes. Relax." This is the most you have heard him say in the few times you have actually seen him. He has seen more of you to be sure than you have of him. Such is the way of servants. He comes behind you, behind the sofa, his knuckles moving along the nape of your neck. Muscles loosen at his bidding, and then his fingers knead upward and slide to your hair.
     His hands gently move your head in his grasp, his fingers moving lightly against your scalp in circles, ending at your temples. He presses there, his body leaning forward against your own. "A man as handsome as you should not have shoulders this tight. Where one pleasure may be distracted, there are always others, Lord Tiernan," Agapios whispers that gentle impertinence. "You should not deny yourself. What good does such punishment do? The only one hurt by it is you."
     His fingers slide against your scalp again, trailing with short nails on the nape of your neck before his strong hands grip your shoulders, kneading firmly. His thumbs press on the knots he finds, his other fingers working them out. Agapios leans his weight against you again, his fingers sliding along your scalp once more. He whispers at your ear, his breath passing along your skin. "Remove your shirt, please. And I will make these knots go away." His lips brush your ear as he leans back, his weight lifting from you. His hands slide against your neck, your face, before withdrawing.
     As he waits for you to follow his guidance, Agapios rubs his hands together quickly, creating friction, creating heat.

     A quiet groan escapes him as he eases himself back, as he places himself - quite literally - in your hands. His eyes are closed again, the weight of his body pressed into the cushions beneath and behind him. Not for the first time, surely, but certainly the first time without another's weight added to his own.
     You speak, and he listens, though without a consciousness of his own listening. "Some things are better off denied," Tiernan murmurs, almost drowsily. He is not sleeping, but there is a somnolescent note to his voice. Drugged; hypnotized; wandering in a maze of thoughts and vague shapes and images. He was not made for such wanderings. But all creatures spend a little time in shadows, yes? Even those who do not live there, do not belong there.
     He shivers as you find the nape of his neck - always such a sensitive place, and for him, almost trebly so. Distraction enough from his own fears; he obeys your command, worded even as it is as polite request. The linen is unbuttoned, draped loosely over the arm of the sofa. "Do you want me on my back or on my stomach?"
     Such a leading question, even if innocently asked.

     By the look on his face, either will do. Agapios smiles, his green eyes -- they are neither emerald nor sea-foam as your lover-king's but are instead an aquamarine sort of green -- sparkle in the morning light that pours in through your windows. Still rubbing his hands, he grins. "On your stomach first. I will get to your front in time."
     As you recline, Agapios rounds the sofa and he joins you on it, not sitting beside you but straddling your hips. Heated hands touch your back, and in the kneading of his fingers that heat penetrates past the layer of your skin and deeply into your muscles. Knots loosen as clothing must when he's around.
     "My father is a priest among my people," he murmurs, his hands working up and down your spine, one going back to your sensitive neck, his other dipping at your lumbar. "A temple priest, a healer as well. He taught me this skill. Aren't you glad," his voice issues beside your ear as he bends, "...that you did not deny yourself? You are feeling better already." He says it like he knows it. He knows it because he can feel it.
     "I hear your are a sailor, a captain of ships." His fingers, his palms press against your flesh, into it rubbing, sliding, his hands then kneading your shoulders before his heated fingers run against your scalp again. "I am something of a sailor myself. When I am not fluffing the king's pillows and pouring drinks for his friends." Agapios smiles from behind you. Fanning out, his fingers trail along your back, slipping around the sides of your hips. He reaches around, his fingers sneaking in to bring that warmth to your belly and surrounding areas.
     "I come from a long line of sea-men," he whispers, bending to speak at your ear again. He breathes you in, his mouth brushing along the skin of your ear and cheek.

     He is susceptible to blues and greens; sensitive to them, the way another man might prefer rose perfume over violets, in the curve of a hip or on the nape of the neck. They are not enough, on their own, to bring him to his knees - but they help to set the mood, they line the primrose path, for him. He is not even aware of his own weakness, as perhaps Achilles had not realized - and now he is gradually becoming aware.
     Gradually only; by slow degrees. First it is the thought in his own mind. I am filthy-minded today; one would think after last night, I would not be thinking such thoughts. Nor yet after this morning. So go his thoughts, even as the colour rises in his face, as he turns abruptly to lie on his stomach as flat as he can.
     He jerks under you slightly in surprise as you straddle him, a hiss of breath escaping him. It does nothing for the purity of his thoughts, and you can hear another low groan as Tiernan settles under you.
     The knots may be loosening in his back, but there is another one beginning to tie itself in his stomach; tightening as you unknot along his spine, swelling other flesh slowly as blood wanders as it will, lower and lower.
     "I feel quite the heathen," Tiernan answers you quietly. He folds his arms ahead of himself, lowering his face down so that his forehead presses against his arm. "I have never learned anything of temples, of spirits or priests, gods or any other thing. Perhaps I am too trapped within my own flesh to know anything of such things, or to know what to make of them when I find them. Did your father want you to follow in his path? Tell me, if you would, of these temples."
     It is a request and not a command; there is genuine curiosity in his voice. Always, that lively interest in that which he has yet to learn, yet to experience. Your hands slide in against his belly, and instinctively, it flexes, buckles at the unexpected touch with another hiss of surprised breath. He shivers slightly underneath you, then settles again.
     "I have now five ships," Tiernan tells you, a note of quiet pride in his voice. From one he had three, and now five. He has been making progress. "I do not go on them as much as I used to, these days; I have been organizing their paths, the trade routes they must follow. Most of the trips I have taken of late have been to recruit, rather than for the pleasure of the sea. I do miss it," he adds suddenly, quietly.
     I miss those moments - the quiet moments, with the solitude of the sea. With myself and my lover alone, sometimes for days at a time. Moments of peace between one piece of land and another, between battling one group of pirates and another; as much as I need the weight of responsibility, sometimes I miss being without that.
     His skin is scented with the soaps he has used; his own soap, he's always insisted on it, compounded of essences of fennel and pine. Beneath that is his own scent, light but earthy, the smell of humanity. There is no fairy blood in him, save that which may yet have been bound to him in magic...

     The touches alternate between firm and light, purposeful and meandering. Your hips are kneaded, fingers trail along your belly, dipping to tease below before they withdraw to trip and dance up your spine, to your nape, and again through your hair.
     "They say the gods choose each man or woman for his or her own purpose. Though I was educated through the rank of acolyte, the ways of the temple were not to my liking. The rites, however, are rather spectacular. The spires of the temple are quite high. There are rites to the god Oannes," Agapios bends, his mouth lightly brushing against your shoulder blades, and he kisses the nape of your neck. "Great underwater spectacles, naval mock battles, orgies."
     He laughs softly, like the brush of an errant wave, and he sits up, his hand patting you. "Roll over, Captain Tiernan," he says. "Admiral of the Fleet, I think you are now. Five ships. That is a good many ships for one man. You are very successful. I had heard such. I have been attending the trading meetings in the guild houses during the day. I suppose you have come to the conclusion that I'm not much of a valet." Agapios is amused. He is smiling, his fingers working you again before he shifts so you can roll over.
     "You should sail," he encourages you. "You cannot lock yourself in an office and think you could be happy. Once you have fallen in love with the ocean, what else can satisfy? To feel the waves," he sighs, "...there is nothing like it. When man and wave are dancing together, becoming lovers, in a way. Soul-mates."
     You are not the only one suffering such thoughts. Thoughts. They are not thoughts as such, more inclinations. Looking down at himself, and then at you, Agapios unties the cotton trousers, letting the fine, thin cloth fall away from his hips to pool like sea foam around his thighs.
     Aphrodite has nothing on him...

     He is slow to move, slow to speak. You speak as you touch him, and both your voice and your hands are wreaking slow havoc on his senses - did you but know it. Or perhaps you do? His answer is slow and low, lazy and drawled. "I would be interested in seeing those rites, some day. I know very little of any gods. I have never learned how to pray."
     What point in prayer, in a world of dark chaos, where evil strikes at its own whims? He does not think of his childhood much. But it has left its mark on him; as he has all but forgotten. So drugged his senses, he does not think to make excuse for the crescent-shaped markings that lie like dull smoked glass all along his back and chest, upper arms and thighs.
     "Five ships. It is a beginning." He is not satisfied with his own progress. You give the word for him to move, but he is slow; slow to do so, not because of disinclination but because his muscles have grown sluggish with inertia, with the release of the toxins locked in them. Slowly he begins to - and it makes him acutely conscious of other reasons why he might not want to. A glance down; there is a resurrection going on in his trousers. He brings himself up onto hands and knees, briefly considering trying to will it away - as if that ever worked. When one begins to think of the pink elephant, it won't go away so fast.
     "I have come to the conclusion that you are only a play-valet," Tiernan tells you, not yet turning over as he squats on his haunches. "You are an actor, yes? Playing a little here and a little there. It amuses you." There is no rancor or judgment in his voice. If this is how you find the time passed pleasurably, who is he to judge? "If anything, I envy you that. I have never learned truly how to dabble like that."
     And now he turns over, sitting heavily - and gapes. His face goes redder and redder by not so slow degrees, and Tiernan stares at you, struck dumb. Finally, he manages to get it out. "You're naked." His voice almost doesn't squeak.

     "I'm not much of an actor. Nor much of a politician. I have come for an education, and to be of service to the new king for my people. How I shall be of service? I do not yet know. But... yes... I am playing at valet." There is warmth of joy, amusement, sly seduction in his gaze as you turn to see him. "And you will be too," he announces matter-of-factly, his green eyes sliding down your form to where your own clothing is straining. "And thankful to be, it would seem."
     His form is one that could be in a painting. It is perfection of balance -- a swimmer's form. Trim, strong, with powerful kicking legs (if you only knew). The cerulean of his hair appears to be its natural state. It's an easy assumption. However, so is the possibility that one such as Agapios would take pains to dye the hair around his member.
     Slowly he comes to cover you, his hands guiding your shoulders to the sofa. He straddles your hips again, sitting, pressing. "I would be more than happy to show you some of the rites. You ...do not have to worry about being converted. I am not that good a priest." He smiles. It is lovely, poised as he is, and wholly without innocence.
     "It does amuse me to play at valet. But it has provided me a way to meet His Majesty, to meet you. To be able to please, bring comfort." He grins, "...or pleasurable discomfort, as the case may be."
     He brings his hands together again, rubbing them quickly together. Again there is friction, again heat. Opposite to the up and down sliding of his hands, palm to palm, is the slight circling of his hips, massaging you in circles, clockwise and counter-clockwise. A soft sound emits from his throat. "You will have more ships," he assures you. "If you wish them, they will come to you. What else do you wish?" He smiles as his hips circle, as his hands rub swiftly together.
     They meet your skin, heated fingers at your nipples where his fingers squeeze. The heat trails downward against your stomach. And then he unfastens your trousers, the heat surrounding your erection.
     "We should sail together. I will show you how swiftly I move." He winks. "But I think you are getting a feeling for that already, are you not?"

     If he knew anything of computers (which he does not, though he can make them work all the same) - his brain would be returning a syntax error. Things are not computing; two and two are adding up but not making four. He shivers as he gawks at you (and the way he is looking at you could not be said to be anything but), watching you as you come to rest - on top of him, as it happens. Of course it would be.
     You straddle him, and he hisses under his breath as you press down. His eyes close quite involuntarily. "You're warm," Tiernan mutters, and his teeth scrape against his lower lip before freeing it again, with a convulsive gasp for air. "I ... would fear you as a priest. But I still have a sudden curiosity about these temples."
     What is empty, longs to be filled. Is that not always the way?
     He groans again, the sound stoppered in his throat, held back. He does not push you away; instead, he tortures himself a little. He could say that he is confused - but he is no virgin, not to know where this is going. He should say something - and he knows he should. But all words that come to mind are quickly dismissed. What would he say? He knows that you are seducing him, now. He knows that you know whose lover he is (and has been). He is not disingenuous enough - not dishonest enough - to pretend to that level of stupidity. "I ... wish for too many things to count. And for nothing, most days," he whispers. His eyes are brilliantly blue, flaring azure as he stares at you. His hands grasp at the edges of the cushions, knuckles whitening with the strength put into that grip.
     Your hand begins to descend, moves to his trousers as you speak - and then one hand comes up, fingers circling your wrist and holding it. It is not painfully tight, but it is firm, careful nonetheless in its firmness. "You say you aren't into politics." Tiernan stares at you, an almost wildness in his eyes in the moment. "You move very fast. But I need to know - why me?"

     Agapios looks at you. It is a level look. He does not fear your position, he does not fear upon whose territory he now straddles. Perhaps such morals do not exist in his culture for him to be so plainly in defiance of them. You hold his wrist, and he does not pull away. He feels the resistance, and his eyes glimmer. "You are handsome. And you are here. Does it need to be more than that?" He smiles. He is not stupid. "And you are the lover of the high king," he whispers, "...yes, I know. I have heard you. But he is getting married. Shall it not be allowed for you to have your own diversions? And do I not make a good diversion?" He rather thinks so.
     His wrist turns, slipping from your hold. "I merely wish to enjoy you, to experience you. The handsome sailor." Don't you know that all dolphins play with sailors in the sea? Ah, but you do not know. "I won't tell anyone," he whispers conspiracy between you. "I treasure my secrets. Especially the illicit ones."
     You are being seduced, and though nervous, you do like it. He bends, his mouth meeting yours. The kiss is ... a wonder. It has the sweetness of water, it is liquid like the ocean, it is glinting sunlight where your lover's is all dark whirlpools and drowning seas. His is the sea of salvation. The merman's kiss that allows his chosen lover to breathe the water like air.
     "I will show you the temples, if you wish. You will have to ride with me on the sea. But I will show you, Captain. Can you swim?" Agapios murmurs at your mouth. Sitting up, his hands on your chest, massaging, he presses his rear against the juncture of your hips. "You need the release. Let it mean no more than that if you do not wish it to." He shrugs lightly. "For my part, there is no politic in it but the politic of being caught." His green eyes glimmer at that. "I do like a little risk now and then. The surge of adventure. Aren't you a little curious? Hmm? To feel what I would feel like? To wonder how I would look dancing here," his hips circle him against you as he straddles. "Does His Majesty adore you? Does he shower adoration upon you? Should you not feel that, the same as anyone else?"

     He meets your gaze, listens to what you say; listens most carefully, in fact, as you state your business. Slowly, his fingers unfurl from their grasp, even after you have already slid from it. "I am ... not good at simple diversions." But you are not simple. He can see that. Sense it.
     It is difficult ground he walks on; slippery. And he is in no frame of mind for his usual caution. What will become of things?
     Your mouth meets his; he is slow, right now, as you have seen. Slow to withdraw, until it is too late, and your lips have sealed to his. And then it is far too late. He tenses under that kiss, trembles; it is different from any other kiss he has known, has shared.
     He has only seen the destructive, darkening sea, treacherous in its seeming peace and quiet moods, where coral reefs lie to scuttle the unwary sailor's ship on the shoals...
     "A little," Tiernan manages words at last, looking at you as you sit up. "I can swim a bit. Not that well, in the ocean. I learned to swim in different waters." You press against him, and he groans, the sound quiet and half-stifled. His hips jerk up sharply, quite without his intention being behind it, and his eyes snap open with sudden heat. "He adores me as much as he can. He is the king."
     You have touched on a nerve; two nerves, maybe more, a bundle of them wrapped together. He knows of his lover's responsibilities. He knows of his lover's requirements. He has always accepted them, from the very first.
     But that does not mean that he has liked them. That he has not wanted more. And now, there is a bride-to-be in the picture...

     "Your relationship with the King is none of my business," Agapios prefaces, "...but it would seem to be on his terms. Perhaps that is what it is like to love a king. I do not know. I have never loved one. But should you not also have the fullest love you wish? The fullest pleasure? When his life is divided into tasks and plans, politics and wars, what shall you do? Wait patiently? Why shouldn't you know pleasure, have love, have a full life?" He wonders on it, though the questions are largely rhetorical.
     Agapios bends again, his mouth coming upon your own. He gives it to you. He lets you taste it in its fullness. It bubbles like champagne. There is water there, and there is also air. A heady mix of oxygen and intoxicating waters. His tongue is an agile creature, seemingly with its own mind and independent will and judgment. His mouth does not tear, does not consume. It gives, it parts for yours, it pleases for the sheer pleasure of giving pleasure.
     And the champagne, fizzy feeling moves along your skin, at your chin, your throat. It is like bathing in a bubbling current. You are both carried and buoyed. There is no reason to fear these waters. Is it any wonder why mariners never fought the mermaids that came for them?
     "I speak only philosophically, Captain Tiernan. You know more about a king's heart than I ever could. But I do not understand the need for you to have to deny yourself the fullness of experience. Of denying yourself anything that could bring you joy, fulfillment, delight..."
     His hands tug at your trousers, and you come free from them. "Though, I can see why the king is greedy with you. I would be, too. Hmm... maybe I still will be." He grins up at you, in a sweet way that is too sweet to be innocent. He looks at you as his tongue makes the first swathing lap. "In my kingdom, self-denial is simply not done. It goes against the spirit and the flesh." The bubbles move against and around you. The frothy seas that gave birth to Aphrodite live in his mouth.
     "I can help you swim," Agapios mutters, his mouth occasionally full and muffling a syllable or two. "It would be my pleasure to teach you to swim," he turns his head this way and that, slathering his face with your member, feeling and tasting your skin and your arousal.

     You speak, and again he is listening, with a slight frown that is not anger but concentration. The furrow is one that has known sorrow, but only rarely wrath; that is not his nature. "I will do what I have always done," he answers quietly. "I will wait. Endure. Besides, things may change."
     But you have not approached him as confidante. And he does not treat you as such. Your questions are such that his answers are not very good; and you and he both know it. Your mouth comes at his again, and his lips part, allowing you entry, kiss responded to with caution - but responded to all the same.
     His hands move to your hips, holding you; you have made no movement to depart, but there they are, all the same. Why shouldn't he have a full life? For what purpose is he denying himself? He doesn't know. You tug at his trousers, and he pops free, the rough cloth sliding against him and away, and he makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat. It is swallowed only with difficulty, that exclamation. "Your kingdom - would be dangerous to me."
     The words end in a gasp as you sink upon him, and Tiernan's eyes are squeezed closed. He would be blind for that moment of first contact even if he did not. One hand moves to your hair, fingers sliding through while his other moves to rub at the nape of your neck. "Swim? Ah, I am drowning already," he gasps. "Your hair... is it real?"

     It is an odd question. But then he realizes you must mean the color. "Yes," he says, his lips brushing against the swollen flesh as he speaks. "I was born with it this color. In my kingdom, it is ... typical to have hair in brilliant colors, like tropical coral. There are some with pink, green, blue, violet. And all shades and hues possible. Though there are some," he pauses his explanation to sigh around you, to surround you with the bubbling currents of his mouth and tongue, his own head seemingly bobbing on it helplessly, until he pops off and picks up right where he left off, "... who dye their hair, or bleach it platinum or white. I never saw the need to do so. We are a nation of swimmers, my people."
     Agapios gives himself over to impure delight. His whole body becomes complicit participants in the adoration. His shoulders shift, his hips circle, his hands massage the root and stem of you, all in sympathetic motions. It is as if he feels it as you do. "Do you like it?" he murmurs, his tongue flicking and dancing at the crown. "My hair," he clarifies with a smile before his mouth returns to its strengthening suckle around the crown.
     "I would never let you drown," Agapios whispers, his mouth lifting from you, but not for long. His mouth parts, and he slides his open mouth along the full length of you, on either side, before swallowing again.
     He can taste oceans in your arousal, and knowing the currents of the sea even better than the Captain King Himself, Agapios slowly pulls his mouth from you, bubbles trailing for moments long after. He smiles as he curls his body forward, far more graceful than a dancer, or any cat to any pillow. "I want to see you enjoy yourself, Captain Tiernan," the playful valet murmurs. One hand around the root of you, he guides you between the rounds of his rear, stroking the wetness he and your arousal have created against himself. "My kingdom is far from dangerous. Unless you call pleasure and utopia dangerous." He grins, then makes a siren-song sound as he slowly sinks onto and around you.
     Rubbing his hands together quickly, heating them, Agapios swivels and rotates his hips to send you deep within him, "Are you certain you do not need a valet. I would enjoy serving you, if nothing else than to make you enjoy it despite yourself." Heat returns to your skin, his fingers massaging your chest, fingers squeezing your nipples as his hips move forward and back, up and down, around and around.
     "Say a prayer to Oannes. It will make this holy," he teases with a smile. "O Oannes, with your salty waves," he sing-song-sings, laughing at the edges of it.

     He groans as your mouth moves against him, and he sinks back against the couch's soft cushions as if never again to rise. Such hard flesh - and yet you have him pinned, as if by your weight alone. "Yes," Tiernan breathes out. His hands move slowly at first, but with gathering certainty, no matter how tentative the touch. He plays absent arpeggios against your skin. "Yes, I do like it. A little too much, I fear."
     You speak soothingly, and it is difficult for him to know how to respond. With his lover, it has been a struggle for both to find their path in truth; it was too easy, insidiously easy, to be forever protected. But even now, his lover holds his full strength back; even with him, he knows, Iowerth only lets himself be free to a point.
     To a point. At what point does such self-bondage stifle, at which point does one need to begin to push oneself? You raise as many questions in his mind as circumstances do. Only your ministrations cut across his fevered thoughts. "You shouldn't call me captain," Tiernan murmurs in answer to you. He pushes himself partially upright on an elbow, his other hand holding your waist as you slide down on him. "I am no captain, noone to hold such lofty titles. I am noone special."
     He is not being modest. His view of himself is that of humility; humility needed, if for no other reason than political survival. You sink upon him, and he moans, the sound a sudden, medium-pitched cry. You ride him, and he is barely able to hold onto the earth beneath him, now; barely able to withstand the sudden onslaught. It is very different from his king; shockingly so. Almost distressingly so.
     "With your hair," Tiernan bites his lower lip, one hand landing clumsily on your shoulder, "and what you are doing ... deus! Visiting your kingdom ... would be dangerous for me indeed..."
     It is, after all, so much - and all at once. You warned him (though perhaps you did not mean it as warning) that you moved fast. And now he is seeing how truly you spoke. He surges up against you with a rocking of his hips, fighting to try and match your rhythm. You tease him with words and with your body - and yet, he takes you seriously, takes you at your word.
     Pray? Why not? He has never prayed in his life. And he has come through so much, but never unscathed. Why not utter a prayer, if not in trying times, in difficult times...
     Times like these, in fact...
     His mouth brushes against your shoulder, and he groans against your skin. "Deus," Tiernan whispers. "You are so beautiful. You make it so difficult for me to last... to hold on..." Is that not what drowning men do - hold on, to anything and everything, even if it is to their own detriment? But right now, he is holding on to you.
     I do not know what it is to pray. I do not know if this is the time to pray. But if you can hear me, Oannes, Ruler of the Deeps, if this prayer is no insult...
     I know I am not worthy...
     But I need to find my way. I am a traveler upon alternating seas, and I am lost...
     The thoughts float through his head with turbulent waves as his hips crash up against you; his hand seems there less to hold you in place than to steady himself, a solid connection, a line from ship to shore. He is trembling underneath you, squirming a little as you are so constantly in motion. "You are half seal..."

     He laughs softly. "Almost," and Agapios delights in the comparison. Half seal! It is horribly funny. You wouldn't understand the joke, but he seems to understand yours. "Hmm... last or do not last, what difference does it make. Pleasure is pleasure. Yes, and you are strong, and handsome, and gracious in your gifts." His way of recognizing your humility. It is a virtue, humility. And it is a very handy shield.

Posted by rowan at January 04, 2007 06:38 PM