I think I am half dead. If I am, is this heaven or hell...
     It has been a hell of a three-day night. Three dog night? Whatever it was. Gwilym stirs, body as close to entirely limp as it is possible. He is sure that he would not be able to sustain an erection right now if his life depended on it. Not with mandrake oil. Not with dancing Nubian virgins. That is how spent he feels.
     And how ridden...
     The bed has seen better days; the table is a wreck on the floor. There is other damaged, bent or smashed furniture, there are signs of your passage and his throughout his primary suite. Bit by bit, you have left your mark - on his home, and on his skin. And right now, he is barely able to lift his arms, barely able to open his eyes despite having slept (on and off). He stirs, and groans. "Jesus wept."
     When was the last time he was this sore? Gwilym Gwyn Garu, the White Stag, the Holly King has no fucking idea. He turns his head, opening an eye very cautiously. You're not still there, are you? He's not sure whether he hopes you are not...
     ...or that you have not left him...

     The creaking door of your wary eye opens audibly to see the form of the prince that fills your bed. His half darkened body -- the ravens hovering on the sky of his musculature, his shadowed flesh -- is near your own. Warmth emanates from him, and static brushes against your skin between where you and he lie. Every slight motion makes that magnetic field shift, tighten, spark.
     And you feel the warmth of his mouth against your chest, the roll of metal pierced in his tongue grazing a nipple. "Jesus wept," his voice lows with amusement. "I'm going to go to hell for making the Savior cry." And he doesn't sound at all concerned.
     He has no pity, no mercy. This young and beautiful man settles on you, letting you feel his weight, letting you know him. Shall you ever forget him? In all your adventures and misadventures, have you ever known a three-day such as this? And as his skin presses against your own, the static lightning dances. Just the barest friction causes all but visible sparks.
     "There is wine," his mouth brushes your mouth, his dark green eyes, deepest green to black-green, simmering between those dark red lashes, too long for his own good, or yours. "And there is capon, pheasant. Or are you sick of bird flesh by now?" He chuckles darkly, softly, his tongue and its piercing drawing a symbol against your throat.
     Aeron ap Davydd grins to himself as he sees you, feels you spent beneath him. There is a thrum of pride at having worn out such a king as you in three days. And did you find my service acceptable, my king? His voice issues beneath your skin even as his mouth begins to trail downward.

     He groans, breath hissing out slowly, barely able to move, even though he answers you with a shift of his hips all the same. You are dangerous, more dangerous than I ever thought you could become. More dangerous to my heart than I must ever allow you to know... "I'm going for a slash."
     He doesn't answer you right away, but rolls away from you, shuddering slightly as he hauls himself to his feet. He moves as if he is ninety. And yet he doesn't feel it; he feels as close to nineteen as you are, or younger even than that. Insecure and self-conscious beneath the skin, despite the glow of all this, well, fucking...
     Gwilym turns the corner and you can hear him taking care of business; one open palm bracing himself against the wall as he leans. He returns slowly, leaning in the doorway, still naked as he looks for you, at you, to you. He is blushing for your unvoiced question. Everything is disjointed for him - chaos-tossed and tumultuous, though he keeps it from his eyes.
     "Mmm," Gwilym murmurs. His voice rasps. "Wine first. Should be coffee, almost..."

     He leans back on the bed, unrepentant, devoid of shame. His mouth twists in wicked enjoyment to watch you stagger off and relieve yourself. When you return, you see him stretched out on the bed, leaning back on his elbows. He is uncovered, and his body is flush with youth and vigor. Rolling his head against his shoulders, he tilts a look at you, his smile slanting.
     There is suddenly coffee...
     Rolling up, Aeron rises from the bed. The stride across the secreted floor does not show a hint of weariness or soreness. Youth is to be hated as much as envied. "Dark... like you like it," he notes casually. Is he ever not rigid? The morning's inspiration lingers on him, dreams hovering in his dark expression and in the hardened length. He disappears around the corner, even as you had before him.
     I have no intention of leaving. Third day or no. The thought is held to himself as he turns the faucet and steps naked beneath steaming water. The static moves from him to you, even when you are in different rooms. Aeron lets it thrum through him, this feeling, and he closes his eyes as he douses his body in steaming jets.
     He is a young man, despite his wisdom, despite his power. He is prone to excess; it is his nature, it is his age. When he returns, his gaze is dark and fixed. It is heated, it is intense. His dark red hair is darker from the water and steam and he smells of clean water, with a lingering hint of you. "I have never been much for coffee." And a serving of tea appears. "I prefer the civility of tea. Besides," his mouth twists with amusement, "... I think you would agree that I do not need additional stimulation..."

     His gaze lingers on you; you can see it, for he can't hide it from you even if he wants to. "You and stimulation, bah." Gwilym growls it out, sounding more like your father than himself or his own. He takes the coffee as his right, closing his eyes as he begins drinking it. "I feel an old man next to you. You are so damned young," he mourns suddenly.
     And I - am I really so much older? How old am I, anyway? I seem to have lost track.
     He opens his eyes again, watching you with a hint of color moving into his face which belies the gruffness of his tone, his words. Gwilym looks away, then sets the coffee down to begin reaching through shadow for some clothes. "Diolch for the coffee. Better than wine, for now," he murmurs. You are there; ergo, he is distracted. "So..."

     There is a powerful lot of nothing being said, and crammed in between the small-talk syllables and silence is the quiet truth. Both of you are undone. You are gruffly voice disguising; he is falling into his silences. Aeron clothes himself in shadows, darkness taking shape and transforming into leather and something softer than silk but more formidable than steel. Like raven's feathers, the silken coils of otherworldly metal lie against his skin, following the contours of his broad shoulders and chest and his strengthening arms. He glistens covered in his obsidian, reflecting the surrounding light like volcanic glass.
     Folding in a chair (the entire motion seeming like a raven coming to rest on a castle turret), Aeron takes a seat, a serving of tea appearing in his hands. He likes it milky sweet, the hanging on of boyhood for a sweet cuppa. He takes a sip but then he sets the cup aside. Leaning his chin on his hand, he peers at you.
     "Here we are," comes the quiet, oracle voice, "...retreating to our respective corners." His chin slips off his hand and he sits back with a wandering smile. He knows himself, and he knows you too. He is not distracted by these feelings; he feels them too intensely, in a whirl of dervish wind and currents. He does not glare at them - he knew they were there. How strong? That is surprising.
     "It is the end of three days. Our term is ended," Aeron murmurs, his gaze direct no matter how circular the path of his words. "And so... you say... so. Is that so a goodbye, my king, or is it the bridge to a beginning?"
     Either way, the raven will fly after your shadow, cawing, hawking until you allow him to land...

     He looks at you, and he leans against the wall as if holding it up as he begins to pull on his trousers. What am I going to do about you? The hell if I know. I hardly know how to put myself into words when I want to take risks. Inwards, Gwilym snorts quietly at himself. When have I ever wanted to take risks...
     "We are not retreating." He closes his pants, zipping them up and making a face; he looks like a teenager right now, clean-shaven and tousled, eyes still sleepy. The voice, though, is that of the general, the king you know him to be. "We hold ground or we advance."
     You receive a Look, emerald gaze darting to you and holding fast. Gwilym straightens, shoeless, shirtless, and he holds up a hand. Come here, his fingers wiggle at you. "Listen to me," he says quietly. "It is difficult for me ... to talk. My chest gets tight, it gets heavy when I try to put things into words, oes? Maybe it is easier for you, but ... for me..."

     Some kings hold out their arms to receive regal falcons. Some generals have eagles flying overhead. You, Holly King, only need to wiggle a finger in order to command a murder of ravens. You motion for him, and the raven prince rises in his armor of shadows so smooth, so fitted, they don't whisper even the barest of chimes. In his wake, ravens appear, squatting and watching. Will you ever look at them the same way again? They watch you with his look, the glimmer of that black-green gaze of his.
     You command me. I have wanted nothing else. The intensity gives him experience, age beyond his years. But conversely his youth is revealed by it. The fierceness of his feelings -- that belongs to a nineteen-year-old. Though his expression is even, bland, his eyes are anything but. Those black-green eyes fix upon your own and your explanation. Shining hotly, they chastise their owner for his reactions in the same instant they grip you with the earnestness, the fervor of his interest and attention. He is not prone to blushing; things without shame seldom blush. But his cheeks burn hotly to find himself so affected. By what has happened, by what he wants and needs, by the wiggle of your fingers.
     "I am used to being brazen. I am not used to being emotional," Aeron half-bows his head, his tone dry. It is as close to an apology as Aeron ever comes. "Why I feel I need an understanding," his brows knit together, "... or even a command is beyond me. I know what I want. Typically that is enough," he drolls, rolling his eyes at himself.
     He is human beneath that armor, and beneath his own defenses and his seeming lack of emotion, he is full of great emotion. Shocking, isn't it.
     Aeron looks to you, standing beside you, towering as he does. His hands on his armored hips, he waits to hear his king's pleasure. His mouth twists in a sardonic smile, amused it seems at his own situation. "I am on fire," he whispers. "Typically, this is when I douse my flame with the most depraved and despicable acts..."

     He does not want for much, but he has needed much. And some of it - something, you have given him. He watches you, looking at you, his hand moving to your shoulder as he straightens slowly, grimacing. You will be the death of me...
     "I do not give of myself easily," Gwilym tells you quietly, confiding in you, his other hand lifting to brush through your hair. "I ... have had affairs. Lovers, partners. And in every case, there was - a limit to how much I could give them, oes? A hard limit. Even though I wanted to give more."
     He tugs your hair, and he leans in, brushing your mouth with his, tugging before he frees you again. There is emotion in his own eyes, his hand squeezing at your shoulder. "I do not want to let you go," Gwilym admits it to you plainly. "Aeron. Brawd. I do not, you know it, oes? But - I am worried about doing you disservice. I ... have seen myself eat away at those I love before. I have seen the damage I do." He swallows thickly. "I do not want that for you."

     How much does he know of your lovers? How long has he watched? He does not reveal it, either in word or in his facial expression. He is stalwart, your sentinel rook, but as you make your admittance, as you tug at him, that stalwart stoicism melts and his mouth erupts at your own. No brushing of lips - he is not capable of that discipline, of that restraint.
     "Don't protect me," Aeron speaks at your mouth, his dark eyes opening to meet your own. "I don't want to be protected from you, Gwilym. I know the danger," his voice is low, and the word danger becomes a tangle of syllables and tongues. "I know it," he echoes, "...and I want it." The look is undaunted and direct, unwavering in its desire and its demand.
     There is not relief to know that you don't want to let him go. There is simple recognition, acknowledgment. "Do not let me go, and don't save me. Security, safety - these are not things that interest me. Either of us. That is not who we are, brother. We are many things, but we are not that, brother." He almost said nephew-king. The thought of it makes his mouth start to spread with a wicked curve.
     There is a soft, chuckled sound in his throat. "We both want me to stay. Why on earth should we deny ourselves, brother? Out of fear? We should be struck down where we stand if so. I'm not afraid of you, even though I know you. I want you, and all that you represent."
     Leaning in, his mouth captures yours. The tangle is complex -- as all entanglements that involve you naturally are -- and without shame, without doubt, but with grabbing fistfuls of emotion. Those fists clutch at you as he rolls you against the stone of the wall. "Do not protect me. I don't want to be protected," Aeron whispers in echo. "I want to be your lover."

     There is a groan from him, desirous and half-despairing. "And who will protect me, from you?" Gwilym tugs gently at your hair again. "I am not safe," he whispers. "But neither are you."
     Gwilym releases you, but he does not. His hands come away - and move around your waist. He holds you loosely, he gives you his mouth, and he exhales noisily. "All right," he says finally, "all right. It is what it is, oes?" As it has always been.
     You receive an awkward pat to a hip, and he grimaces. "Look. This isn't - going to be easy for me. You will need to know it. I ... duw. You don't even know how long it's been going on. Since before you were born, it's been going on." And it ages him, and he grimaces again, making faces. "It is a long story, and it isn't mine only to tell. But you need to know... about Pedwyr... about the rest. If you are going to - to stay."
     Saying the word lends awkwardness further, and he blushes, suddenly, looking to the ceiling. "I need to think about this."

     An eyebrow quirks up -- that's inherited. He has his father's eyebrows and the angle of the quirk is all Davydd's own. Pedwyr? It isn't voiced - it isn't even thought loudly. It is just wondered, from the question mark of his eyebrow to the bemused cast of his face.
     But you are hemming and hawing. You are blushing and patting. The bemusement turns to a quiet sort of amusement. The sort that brothers always have at one another's expense. "I am the keeper of secrets," Aeron offers, his armor dissolving to simple black clothing -- dark jeans and a black t-shirt, so basic -- and he gives you your space, space to think, space to open up the treasure chest of your mouth.
     Sitting cross-legged on the bed -- he is evil -- Aeron watches you. There is a studying, spying cant to his gaze -- and then he smiles, a quirk of his mouth. It is so easy to watch you. "So tell me, brother," Aeron says, his head tilting, inviting. "... what is there to think about? I will swear my loyalty, swear your secrets to my mind's, my mouth's keeping, seal it in blood if you require it." His whispered words ignite against the air between you, striking like a match dragged slowly, the hiss of smoke and fire in his murmured breath.
     Deepest green, his eyes lock onto you, a kind of forest in eclipse. Shimmering emerald - not far from your own tone - shine as a corona around the darkness of his irises. He is across the room - room for you to think, surely - but desire has him in its grip. No, he is not safe. I am yours. You are mine. Aeron smiles a little.

     "Pedwyr and mum almost died because of me."
     He uses the words as a wedge, deliberately blunt and shocking. He does not look at you; the words are blunt, but they are also true. "Only my father and my twin know this, Aeron. No one else." He turns, resting a fist against the wall so that the diamond engraved at the base of his spine is visible to you. "You see this? It was the key. It unlocked ... some of my powers, earlier than they would have been. Through them, I learned how to walk in shadows, how to pull things in and out through them. I was young, and I was fucking stupid."
     He barks a laugh, then sighs, resting his forehead against the stone, eyes closed. "There was a witch... a Daughter of Death. I gambled with her. If I'd lost, she would have kept me as her servant. I won, and I got this mark." One hand comes up to brush his fingers against it, and he turns back to you, regarding you.
     "Through that link - she couldn't feed on me. Oh, she could early on, but I got too powerful too fast." Gwilym shrugs, pulling on his shirt roughly, pushing away from the wall, beginning to pace. "She would have liked to see me enslaved or otherwise dead. But - I was untouchable, oes? So .. she went after mum instead. And - mum was pregnant."

     He watches you from his perch -- and make no mistake, the raven is perching -- on the bed, his head tilting curiously, even as it did the day he and his twin showed up on your battlefield demanding to be dukes. Expecting, rather. He says nothing during your confession, even as you pace.
     He must admit that he has no great feelings for his half brother Pedwyr, the earth-bound Peter. They have scarcely shared the same air, let alone anything in common. His expression doesn't register alarm, anger, not even disappointment.
     "That is the nature of gambling," his voice is whisper-calm. His expression is even, calmer still than even his tone. His legs unfold and he rises slowly from the bed. Uncoils, more like. "My dear brother, she has enslaved you. For she has held you in guilt for longer than I have lived. That you endangered our mother, much beloved by me, by us both -- you know the price of such mistakes, do you not, now? And have you not yet become a king?"
     He stands before you to halt your pacing steps, to be the wall you crash into if necessary, and he puts a hand to your hair, tugging sense into your follicles. "Almost died, brother, is many things, but it is not dead," Aeron murmurs. His hand clamps your hair and tips your head back. His mouth is like heated mercury, filling your mouth with sudden molten. And then it stops, but his hand in your hair stays.
     His fingers curl against your scalp and he holds you close. It is to keep him closer. His black green eyes, that dark green with the odd emerald corona, lock onto you. "Is she dead, this Daughter of Death? Did you send her to oblivion? Or shall I?"

     He looks at you, at your calm, at your expression, halting as you rise, as you block him. Breath hisses out of him as your hand finds its why into his hair, and you can see his reactions writ for you in his eyes; panic, consternation and yes, desire that echoes as you kiss him. He groans, a hand finding your shoulder, but he does not push you away; he holds you, instead.
     Will I always be doing this - tormenting myself, in the hopes that you will torment me instead...
     "She is dead." Gwilym answers you quietly, leaning in towards you. He craves you worse than chocolate; craves you worse than death. He closes his eyes so he will not have to look at you. "I went after her with Io, and with my da - Rhodri. We hunted her down, we killed her..."

     "Then let me cast the final blow," Aeron says, and the hand that has balled up in your hair uncurls, so that both hands may hold your face. Leaning in, his eyes wide open where yours have closed, he breathes upon your eyelashes: "Let it go. The millstone around your neck, set it down. If you are to be wearied by anything, it should be by me."
     You wish to be tormented because you always must be tested. And guilt always longs to be noticed. "I love having the last word," he drolls. "So... now let her be really and truly dead, my king. And let me light the match for that fire." His mouth trails, open and warm, from your eyelids to your waiting mouth, his hands cradling your face, leading you to him.
     Perhaps what you crave, brother king, is freedom. Freedom from your guilt. Freedom from the guilt of even this. His mouth pulls and tugs at your own. It is a slow and consuming grasp, far more labyrinthine than a tangle. Nothing is so simple between the two of you.
     "And, brother," Aeron speaks, parting from the kiss but holding you close, his mouth brushing yours as you speak, "... is this your only hesitance? This guilt you have borne, that I shall crush to dust beneath your feet?" He grins that cocky grin. "I am not safe," he whispers. "But you'd hate it if I were. You wouldn't notice me if I were. You wouldn't have let me take you, repeatedly, roughly, for three solid nights if I were. Nor would I be here if you were. You see I am not easy to avoid. So little shocks me because so little puts me off, quite frankly. You can run," his mouth twists, "... but you can't hide."

     He holds onto you as if you are an anchor and lifeline, that you keep him rooted in this spot until his death. He leans to you, eyes closed, a hoarse, choked sob escaping him. There are tears in his eyes, even if just for a moment; do you know how much he has suffered? He has never been able to let go of that guilt, torment him though it must.
     I fear I will love you as more than brother, more than uncle, more than ally. I fear love as a sharpened sword, because it is a sword which will always end up in my heart. I am the Fool and I am the Magician, I am the King of Swords and you, it seems, must be the Ace. Sharp, penetrating, and there to damn me for my folly.
     "I have more hesitations than I could give names to," Gwilym whispers, looking at you after the kiss, leaning into you with a tangle of thigh against thigh, a slide of his hand at your waist. "You will find I hide more in plain sight than ever behind a bush. I am not the Highwayman that my da is..."

     He knows by the evidence that is before him. There is no judgement that is made. There is no smile, no quirk of an eyebrow, not even mocking - and for him that is a stretch - for your suffering. He is quiet through it, his hands remaining on your face. "No one has seen it," he murmurs. "And none shall hear it from me." How much you've suffered. "But I think your sentence is done, Atlas."
     Who's he think he is, anyway, Zeus?
     Suddenly there is the quirk of a smile. Amusement lights in his dark, odd eyes. His thigh moves against your own, between your own. It makes itself known where it presses. "That's the beauty of invisibility; everything is in plain sight. I will cloak us. No one will ever know unless you wish to profess it. Personally," Aeron's hands slide around you, bracing at the small of your back, "... I prefer the anonymity of shadows, and the freedom of being unknown, unseen." He mouths his way across your neck to your ear, where he breathes: "I could be your greatest secret yet. And your darkest."
     The metal sphere pierced into his tongue toys with your earlobe. It is a wanton thing; a moment of unrestrained lewdness. Such a simple touch, but so layered in the three days and nights that you have spent.
     "My brother-king, is there anything else you would profess that I can reason away?" Aeron grins at you, his green eyes glinting. "There is nothing you can say that I cannot rationalize. It's a gift."

     He is his own Sisyphian tormentor. He eyes you for a moment as if you have suggested something indescribably odd. Done?
     Done?
     Gwilym closes his eyes, though, the thought fleeing as you slide against him. "I want you again," he whispers, breathing the words out quietly. "I do not think I could stand it, but I want you again." His hands reach for you, find you, grope and squeeze as if to keep you from leaving him. Everyone leaves.
     It is the truth, to him, of him, and he turns suddenly, finding your mouth with his own, kissing you as if his soul depends on it. Not his life; he has never valued his life that highly anyway. His teeth ravage at your lips, his tongue seeking yours as if to duel to the death before he pulls back with a gasp. Two fingers drag down the side of your face as he stares you in the eye, emerald eyes meeting your darker green gaze.
     "There ... will need to be some truths," Gwilym tells you, voice hoarse. "But I want you to stay."

     Though he can slip between shadows, becoming unseen in any realm, he does not dissolve at your groping. He is solid, more solid because of your expectation of abandonment. His fingers claw at you, his short nails digging through clothing to press into your skin. Like the talons of a raven.
     You attack his mouth, and the energy between you claps like clashing lighting. His lips attack as if a raptor mid-air, and he sucks in your tongue as his hands press tightly. You are crushed to him until you pull back with a gasp.
     Aeron meets your gaze, his head turning, his mouth capturing a finger. "For you... I will tell the truth," he murmurs. "I will groan it, if you like," he says against your ear. His thigh moves between your own, and he takes a step forward; you take a step back. He leads you, as a dancer would his partner, step by step to the battered bed.
     "I want to stay," Aeron whispers at your mouth, and he teases wide, heated kisses, his mouth assailing yours between each word. "You will have to kick me out." His hands slide from the small of your back to your hind end, grasping you as the back of your legs suddenly meets the edge of the bed.
     "What ... truths..." he wonders, his mouth along your neck, his lips kneading as it moves roughly against you. Your pants are loosened, his hands sliding abruptly between your skin and the clothing. His hands squeeze as he drags his tongue along the center of your throat, flicking at your mouth.

     Truth is a drug which has a deadly residue. He slicks over the skin and grows sticky, and any sort of trouble can attach itself. Your brother, your nephew tangles with you as if to stick to you, even as you back him up. Each step gets a sound from him; a groan, a muffled growl, a moan, a gasp. He is noisy with it, with need, his hands dragging at your clothing. "Why did we bother getting dressed?"
     It is asked half-humorously, but he is not laughing. He looks at you, grabs at you like a drowning man, even as he is pushing at your clothing, as eager to get you out of them as you are him. The passage of your mouth over his skin has him squirming, eager, barely more than a boy all of a sudden (again), his fingers padding at your skin as if to mark you on the inside, out.
     He is sore. And he does not care. You have had him, and he wants you again, is whining for it, eager for it, for you. Gwilym blushes with it, staring at you and letting himself fall back to the bed as if falling through infinite time and space : heavily.
     "There is one person I do not hide from. Who I will tell," Gwilym warns you, staring at you from on the bed. "Iowerth. My twin." My other self...

     He stands at the bedside as you fall back. He does not immediately pile upon you, but stands there, staring down at you as you speak about your common brother, the high king. There is amusement in his eyes; he is tickled at the prospects of the high king knowing. He wants to be there, to see the look on Iowerth's face. "Tell him," Aeron says, removing his black t-shirt. He stares down at you with self-assurance as his upper body is revealed with its piercing and tattoos. The ravens and stuff of shadows crowd his skin, pressing out, seeming on the verge of escape as his muscles move with the unfastening of his jeans. "Are you going to make me promise not to watch?" That, too, amuses him as he folds denim back, revealing the cut of muscle at his hips to his groin.
     He stands between your thighs, a knee pressing a leg wider still. He bends, his hands stretching up your body from your pants to your chest, pulling your shirt with him. His nails mark you, tattooing you with his own need. Sliding from you, his hands balance on the bed, bearing his weight as he lowers, his mouth flitting at your navel and trailing hotly to a nipple. Sensitive flesh is tugged roughly and the bed sounds with his added weight. A hand issues between you where forms press and connect, and your pants begin to dissolve from your form, fabric loosening suddenly. His hand slides and grips you, stroking quickly.
     "I shall tell my twin nothing," he whispers at your mouth with a grin. "But I understand what you must do. I should be there." His strong grasp tightens, pulsing there. And he begins to contort, doubling as he kneels between your thighs, his forehead dragging against your torso. You feel the heat of his tongue, a velvet swath; the softness of his mouth, the hardness of the metal in his tongue.
     Sitting up, Aeron sets you suddenly free, pausing only to tug your pants down to your thighs. Off them and to the floor. His own arousal presses free of his unfastened jeans, showing itself in all its grandeur as he thickens. "He is going to wonder where you have gone," Aeron murmurs with a slanting grin. Bending, he looks up your body, watching you watch him drag his tongue along the full length of your shaft, from scrotum to tip. He sinks his mouth around you, surrounding you in sudden fire before removing his mouth completely and sitting up again. Such torment. He is enjoying it. His nickname should be Tantalus. "When shall you be free from my bed, I wonder, to tell him such a thing?"

     His groan is not a quiet thing. You are over him, and there is no disguising his yearning; he looks a boy of sixteen as he stares up at you. Oes, mark me. Oes, take me... Breath rasps out of him hoarsely, the sheen of perspiration glinting in dim light (for the king of Holly is never far from shadows) and defining him in new ways.
     He is watching you. He is tormented by you, and he delights in it. In you.
     His hands reach to touch you, only pulling away when you move; blunted nails forming crescent moons briefly on your skin as he seeks to hold you, only for you to move away. He grunts as you remove the layers that separate him from your touch, your sight.
     Look at me...
     He was half-hard; now he is fully hard, your hand gripping him and gaining sound from the back of his throat, that curious whine you know him to make as your tongue teases against his skin.
     "I will tell him. I will forbid you nothing," Gwilym whispers, "but when I tell him, I will tell him alone. He deserves to have me alone for this." His hand settles on your head, grips at your hair for a moment before setting you free. "He is my twin... and I would not see him hurt."

     He kisses up your body, his mouth parting at your groin, your stomach, your chest, as he crawls and sinks against you. His hands buried in the bedclothes, he looks at you -- even as you bid him do -- as he drags his tongue against your throat and to your mouth. He settles his weight upon you, letting you feel him between your thighs.
     How delicious the mouth that curves in delight. He gives you deference -- and the High King too, in truth -- but there is a part of him that wishes to see it, to know his conquest and his victory. Pity! Long lashes sweep downward as he looks at you, as his stomach presses against your hardness, squeezing it against muscles, even as he slides the full length of his own arousal against the inside of your hip. "It will be as you wish, of course, my king. If he requests my arrest, you ... will do me the honor of giving me fair warning." He grins against your mouth as he writhes against you.
     He teases. He is not worried in the slightest. "Surely he would not begrudge you your own pleasure, your own delight, no matter its form..." It is a leading question; either he knows about your...special relationship with your other brother, and is inviting the truth to leave your lips, or he does not know and is inviting the truth to curl from your tongue. His hands slide against the bedding, lifting your arms above your head, his hands clamping around your wrists. You feel his hips draw back, the writhe creating a tangle of manhood to manhood. That touch is electric; it strikes straight through you.
     "If Bran wishes to find out, he will find out. I would not deprive him of a good hunt," Aeron grins at your mouth, charging it with a wild hunt kiss, pulling slowly, with a savoring suckle. Moments of wild abandon are interrupted by the teasing brush of cruel delight. It is a full body sensation. Are you sure you wish to forbid him nothing?

Posted by rowan at February 09, 2008 08:51 PM