Chapter Nineteen #3
Robin made the choice. Robin chose the pleasure.
Robin’s skin burned everywhere except where he touched Zyr’s.
Everything hazy that wasn’t the pain. The need.
A part of him floating. Watching. Even as the rest of him snarled, “You’re going to take whatever I feel like giving you.
My cock or mouth or nothing at all,” to be met with a rushed, needy, “You, Raven-Robin, whatever you desire. You make the rules.”
(Wanting had never hurt before. This did. Like nails over scrubbed skin, dragged hard. Only Zyr provided any relief.)
Zyr, who dug fresh furrows into the door, into the stone with his tail, all signs of the sharp, incisive, stubborn beithir dissolving away with every low groan. There for Robin to touch and take and shape with each biting kiss.
“Bedroom.” A demand, punctuated with a press of his thumb to the tip of Zyr’s cock, a dragging teasing circle against sensitive skin. His beithir, there to toy with. “Yours. Mine. Make one. I don’t care. I want you on a bed.”
A strangled noise, there, under his teeth. Zyr pushed off the door, and the walls shifted around them, living room giving way to the quiet darkness and clutter of a bedroom. Books, old trinkets, a large bed with dark sheets. It felt like Zyr.
“Adequate?” Craving and soul deep, said close enough that Robin felt the words. Desperation, said like he didn’t know. Like Robin hadn’t told him.
Had Robin told him?
Of course he did. He would have. He needed to have told the beithir.
Zyr.
To have told Zyr.
“It feels like you.” Not under his skin, burrowed in the heartbeat of his soul, but still the beithir. Zyr. “Means it’s fucking great.”
Robin hooked a hand behind Zyr’s neck, dragging him down for a hard kiss. Zyr moaned, torn out, raw and rough. Gorgeous. Let himself be muscled onto the bed, shoved down on his back, so Robin could straddle those thick legs and see the tear of the quilt under desperate claws.
“Raven-Robin.” Need drew his words into a whimper. “I– Please.”
Pleading. Craving Robin, pitched and thin. This was how Robin wanted him, those outer layers of intellect and abrasiveness peeled back. Eager, grasping, needy.
Any other time, it would have been enough. But Robin’s skin still burned. He didn’t need touch, usually. Not people touching him.
But he needed Zyr’s hands and his words and those whimpers.
“Beg me.” Robin grabbed the beithir’s wrists, pulled those big hands to his chest, his hips. “Beg for what you want. Touch me.” He planted his hands on Zyr’s shoulders, holding him back against the mattress. “Want me.”
Wanted to be wanted. Needed to be wanted. To hear it from the dragon under him who did as he ordered, who begged. “I need more, need your hands on me, need your teeth at the line of my scales, your heat around my cock” and “Please, Raven-Robin? Rule me. Take your pleasure from me.”
Their clothes had fallen in tatters around them. Clawed hands cupped Robin’s bare ass. Touched him. Pulled him in to press tight against his cock.
“There’s no one else. I want you. Every word you speak, every moment I spend with you, I want you more.”
Needed more, to replace the agony with pleasure. Fingers gone slick. Pressure, barely felt. His own touch was meaningless. To make the beithir his, make him mean it. Be greedy and take, take, take, without any reservations.
Teeth on scales and tongue on skin. Hard heat against hard heat. One hand fisted in blond hair in an unyielding grip. Other busy, a finger pressed deep, then two, three, ignoring the low burn of haste.
Nothing more immediate than this, this unrelenting screaming need. The scent of sex and sound of skin over skin. Of Robin’s harsh breaths and the beithir’s desperate, pleading moans.
Want me. Want me. Want me.
“I’m yours,” the beithir said, between ragged bids for breath. “Tell me it’s true?” Each word echoing through the fog of the world as bright as a wisp’s lure. “Please, Raven-Robin?”
Beautiful beithir. Begging. Robin watched him with words caught on his tongue, mind scrambling for anything but profanity and desire. Shifted so the tip of the beithir’s cock pressed firm against him, a tease of Robin’s own making.
“It’s true.” Hoarse, words as naked as they were, spoken with the gradual shift down (and down and down) of his body, the song of full, fuck, so full better than anything in the goddamn world. “You’re mine, beithir. You. Aspect and under your skin.”
His favorite part of him.
Want me. Like me. Need me.
A whisper of Raven-Robin. Hands on his back. Sliding down to his hip. Touching everywhere as Robin rocked down on him. Pleasure. Pain. Everything hurt in the best and worst way, Raven-Robin echoed again and again between them.
Took his pleasure. Lost himself to the nothingness of want. Raven-Robin above his beithir. Ruling him. Lost, tossed to sea, fucked open and full, his shaking, hard voice demanding the beithir beg for more. Beg Robin to come on him, to allow the beithir to get him off.
Show him how pleased he was by him.
He begged. The beithir. (Zyr.)
Shook under him and begged to be used. Begged Robin to finish. Begged until Robin hissed, let go, painted pale skin and blue scales with his come.
The fog remained. The pain. Robin wasn’t done. Still shuddering, weight full down, ass flush to the beithir’s hips. He moved in incremental shifts, the languid roll of tight heat.
No. Not done with the other man, his dragon, who asked to move in the wake of Robin’s “Finish like this. Give me what’s mine.”
Begged to move in broken, pleading whispers.
Clutched at him after, so grateful for that permission. As he should be. Urgent, ungentle thrusts. Rasped words of praise. Of gratitude.
Senseless. Made of only senses. Ache and stretch and sounds torn from the dragon beneath him. Wet heat and his answering, hiccupping keen, the edge of too much, then dragged free, strength cored away with the last.
Breathless. Shaking. Thighs, trembling from pleasure and strain alike, and his beithir hardly able to breathe, trembling just as much.
His Zyr. Zyr.
Robin held Zyr’s name on the tip of his tongue and leaned in. Hands barely able to support himself did anyway, buried into torn sheets to pull himself up, closer. Discomfort everywhere, but so much less than the searing blaze of before.
Tail, at his leg. That was fine. He just needed to move higher. Until he could curl over Zyr, stomach to chest. So he could cling weakly at horns and press his face to the top of Zyr’s head before going limp, everything foggy except silver horns and dark eyes and the weakness of his own body.
“Zyr.” Hoarse, barely a breath. Because that’s who he was, who Robin clutched at with all the strength he didn’t have.
Zyr, his Zyr, and Robin would hold on until they both had their names back.