The return home was brief; mercifully brief. The Holly King has stripped out of his clothes the old-fashioned way, jacket tossed and shirt tossed before cheating to melt out of his boots and socks. He has hurled himself onto the bed with a moody expression, and now he eyes a pillow contemplatively, considering whether to drag it over his head or through his ears. Bloody family dinners. We never have dinner together unless there's a problem, anymore...
     And that is in itself indicative of the problem...
     He lies there, the holly and ivy spreading over his arms and back in answer to his restlessness. Gwilym Gwyn Garu growls into his pillow, stuffing it under his chin. "Do you ever think we cheat too much?"

     Aeron is so much slower than you are. He is no less dynamic, but he does not throw himself here and there. "Define cheat and too much," he says. He comes out of his shoes, his shirt peels away like the magical form it is, leaving only the leather behind it. Half of his torso is inky black, ravens and tendrils of the shadows he masters. Both of his nipples are pierced with small silver rings.
     He pours a drink -- two drinks -- of a dark and fragrant liquid. He brings it to you and sits upon the edge of the bed. Without saying more, he holds the drink out for you to take.
     Had you not removed your shoes and jacket with such a flourish, he would have tended you. As such, Aeron sits beside you, staring at you. We are all too grown, all too stubborn, all to disparate. His words are mellifluous, tendrils of non-sound that wind in your ears as if whispered there.
     "I think our business separates us, our emotions separate us, our secrets separate us. And there are some who... feel more victimized than others."

     "I want to fix it, but I can't," Gwilym grouses. "It is up to them to fix. All I can do is give them the opportunity to grow into it." He rolls over with an exhale, staring up at the ceiling. "We cheat constantly. We dip into shadow and we take what we want, when we want. Sometimes for purpose, oes, but far more often for our own use, willingly, knowingly. I am not going all moral dilemma on you. I am just wondering if it is how we should be doing things, wondering if we should be doing that instead of a more challenging route."
     He sits up, turning to slide his arms around your waist, his head resting in your lap. Gwilym grunts, then exhales. "I am restless, Aeron. I know I am an idiot. But I am at least an idiot trying to do the right thing."

     You don't want the drink. He puts it on the nightstand, and he sips from his own glass. With his other hand, he reaches down to brush against your hair, his fingers slipping through the strands as through Shadow itself.
     "You are upset because you're family is upset, your structures are upset. It seems like restlessness," Aeron softly speaks. "You are questioning because you with to fix it. But you are right in saying that it is up to them. It is Bran's to fix. It is Balthazar's to accept."
     He tilts his head in a raven way as he looks to you. He finishes his own drink -- fig wine, you can smell it from where you lie. He sets his empty glass aside. "We take and we give. We grant possibilities, we take others upon ourselves. It is neither Right nor Wrong. It Is, even as We Are. We are challenged enough, my king, by the forces of Chaos and Hell. Do not wish more tests than are necessary."

     He shifts, closing his eyes as your fingers slide through his hair with a little shiver, like a parrot preening its feathers. "I know it is up to them. I would lift it from them if I could, but it's not mine to do that. It is breaking, Aeron." Gwilym grumbles against your lap. "And I cannot fix it, and the Work will suffer until it is being fixed."
     His mouth drags against your thigh, and he sits up, letting his face fall against your shoulder, eyes closed. Gwilym mutters, "Something is missing, though. Something - I cannot put my finger on what it is. Oes? I need to find it."

     "I know you would. You are compassionate. You love your family. You wish to cure them of their own hardheadedness." Aeron smiles as he turns his head and kisses your face. His arms surround you. "But, my king, you surely must know that it is an incurable disease."
     His tongue flits out, playing with the lobe of your ear for a moment, and then he whispers: "I know what is broken, what is missing..."
     "... My twin's secret, what he hells no one but me, I divulge to you. He is in pain, in confusion. His battles have taken a toll upon him, harder than on me. He is the weapon; I am the shield. The sword always feels more guilty for the bloodshed it has caused. In his guilt, he acts out very poorly. He keeps multiple women. He antagonizes. It is all because he longs for love. For approval. And yet... who is often the most targeted? He feels that he is the only blamed for anything. He's wrong, of course. But... that is what his heart whispers to me in the darkness."
     His mouth brushes against your cheek. "As for Balthazar... I think he is wanting independence from his storied sibling and parents. He wants to place himself out in the world, in the universe to say... here I am. He longs for recognition even as Bran does. Bran wants recognition that he isn't a villain. Balthazar wishes recognition that he exists at all..."

     He sighs as your arms surround him, and he pulls himself close. This is what he wants; part of what he wants, at least. "I can understand that pain," Gwilym murmurs to you, turning to brush his mouth against yours with sudden hunger, sudden ardor. "I have felt it. And oes - he is targeted, and that is wrong. But ... he prolongs it. He does nothing to pull himself from it. He is in a rut."
     And that is why I recognize it. His hands slide over your hips, up your back, plucking at your clothes and the skin beneath them. He is hungry, wanting, a state inflicted on him as much by you as by his own inclinations. All evening he sat beside you with your hand that presence on his thigh, and now, he is eager to move from wanting to realization. I have been in that rut before, Aeron. I know it well. But I cannot pull him out of it. I can give him my love and my support, but he will need to find another to pull him out - or pull him out himself.
     He tugs himself closer to you, sliding down against your body in sudden frustration. "Balthazar must do if he wishes to be recognized. If and when he does, he will find it. Bran must change how he interacts with the world. It will not be easy for either of them. But it is easier for Balthazar. I hope they help each other. I have my doubts."

     A smile plays at Aeron's mouth -- he is so scarily similar to his (and your) father, it is a wonder you can paw at him so. He delights in how fevered you are, how the simple touch of his hand, or the brush of his mouth, puts you in this place. The bed squeaks loudly as you are lifted, rolled over onto your back. He looks at you as he pins you, watching you marvel at your new position.
     And then he plucks from your mouth all the fire you have to give. He kisses, he tears. It is a pleasure, it is a battle. He straddles your shoulders, his leathered knees sinking into the bedding. The message is clear: It is here for you, but you must come and get it.
     "They both have a problem with doing. One is doing well, but thinks he does not do enough. The other does too much and thinks that everything he does is suspect. So... through doing... they will learn. You were right in throwing them together. The future Oak King must know the ways of the Holly King if he is to take his position."
     Aeron smiles down at you, his black-green eyes sparkling. Like the eclipse of a forest, his black eyes are surrounded by a corona of green. It shines like the gases of a nebula when passions are stirred.
     Strong thighs shift a little as he reaches behind himself, his fingers snaking down your stomach and to the waistband of your own trousers. "Some night when we are having a dinner with them all again, I will leave the table, only to return in shadows and suck you off while they are eating in ignorance..."

     It perhaps keeps him more from visiting his father (and yours) than anything else, these days. He has no desire to be reminded of him when he is with you. At least there is still age separated from youth - if there were not, it would be much worse for him.
     Every time you lift him, he is a bit overwhelmed. There are, after all, so few who could rearrange him with such ease; his face flushes as you pin him, as he struggles against it by nature, grumbling with breathlessness and frustrated desire. "So you saw that too," Gwilym mutters. "I didn't want to say it, in case I was wrong, but oes - he is the Oak King, or will be. This girl... I think she is going to be between them and important to them both." His hands lift, curling at the base of your spine, surrounding and embracing as he tries to pull himself up from under you. There is nowhere really to go.
     He is so reddened. Desire, the struggle that he needs so much, the loss of control that leaves him succumbing to you, over and over again. He exhales, stomach muscles flexing as your fingers brush against his skin. "Don't you dare," Gwilym mutters, digging his heels into the bedding to try flipping you over. "Duw! Too risky. I don't want to hear Bran's commentary in my head..."

     Aeron laughs quietly. One hand rakes against your stomach, nails and finger pads alternatively scraping; the other hand unfastens the leather, tugging the flaps as each snap is undone. "And how would Bran know? Hmm? He will be too busy eating. Then again," he grins, "...so will I..."
     He rises up on his knees, his hips curling forward as is hands ease the folds of leather over his hips. He spills out of the leathered shadows, the tattooed flesh sliding against your mouth and chin.
     "It is impossible not to see it," you can say that again, "It is all around him. But then, I have had the liberty of watching him perform. He is the Summer King," he says, even as he rubs himself against your mouth. "And the girl... has wakened something in him and in the shadowy heart of your own heir. I think their arguments... may be more primal, your majesty. The Oak King and the Holly King are frequently at odds."
     Aeron smiles down at you. You want to toss me. Do you want to fuck me, my lord and liege?

     He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hungry and wanting, turning into a groan as his lips part against your flesh. He takes you into his mouth, eyes closed as he suckles at you, grunting as he drags you into his mouth, filling himself with you.
     I want what I always want, Aeron. I want you to take brutal advantage of your king. It is what I need and crave, and what I cannot get enough of. It is with you that I am most honest, brawd...
     You have almost driven other thoughts from his mind. Almost - but not quite; he frees you with a lewd, wet pop that leaves his lips reddened, his face still flushed as he fixes you with emerald eyes. "Then they will be at odds as they are joined, and the girl is at the heart of it," Gwilym answers aloud. "The mysteries will begin to unfold apace, and they are all three caught in the grip of something they don't know yet. It will make Loki's awakening proceed all the better."

     Power is suckled; power is raised. "There are constructive ways for them to be at odds... to balance the energies around them in their Opposition. Opposition does not equal hate and anger. They must learn this." Aeron smiles down to you as he rubs himself against your face. "They will learn," he whispers.
     His hands cup your face, holding it, cradling it still ... even gently... as he begins to ravish your mouth. Thickening shadows and ravens slide between your lips and to the back of your throat. It is understood, and in this the problem will be resolved.
     Leather dissolves, and shoes and socks and anything and everything but his skin. Without our cheats, we would have to deal in such mundanity as removing these things and setting them aside. Is this not better? Aeron pulls from your mouth and throat, his flesh popping against his stomach in the release. Soon he is standing upon the surface of the bed, staring down at you beneath him. "Roll over, my lover-king, and let me pay proper tribute. We will forget these things for a while..."

     There is a groan for you; for his own weakness, for his own eagerness, his own readiness to be weak. And Gwilym stretches out beneath you, your point made and acknowledged in heavy-lidded eyes and visible desire. "They will learn," he agrees, voice roughened and thick. "They will have no choice in it, and they may hate a little along the way. But they will learn."
     There is no help for it. He has to give in to your tribute. With key words and nuanced touches, you summon up the king as well as the boy in him, leaving him flushed and speechless and scrambling to obey.
     It's good to be the king.

Posted by rowan at March 10, 2009 12:35 AM