Chapter Thirty #2
Pressure, again. That wonderful stretch and fullness, soothing away the momentary threat of panic. This was what he was bound for. What Robin, cruel, generous bird, was gifting him for asking the way he liked to be asked.
“I know, I know. You didn’t feel me,” Robin said. Merciless still, slow when Zyr’s whole being pleaded for more. “We fixed that. Full of me, Dhanra. That’s what you are. Mine, and taking my cock perfectly, and making the prettiest sounds. My beautiful beithir.”
Deep, then deeper, and with each of Zyr’s hitched, desperate breaths, he tasted sea spray, felt the rough linen bindings of Robin’s soul tied around his own, holding him just as surely as any of the man’s precise knots.
Too much felt, all at once. Need. Desire. Security. Gratitude. All words that weren’t on Robin’s wheel. He didn’t say them. He didn’t beg please or don’t go. Didn’t tell Robin how he loved him, or how intoxicating it was to feel love in return.
No words. Only quiet whimpers and unsteady breaths, straining giving way to trembling. Stripped, cracked open, defenseless. And Robin taking him with languid thrusts, touching and teasing until his hand again found Zyr’s cock, stroked with slow, sure movements.
“No one else like you, Dhanra. No one. Just you. Only you.”
Picture, for a moment, a thunderstorm rolling in over the horizon. A brilliant blue sky, and those dark clouds moving fast. The air heavy and hot, but now with that frisson of possible relief.
And … danger.
Storms are more than beautiful, and here the riverbeds have been dry too long. The ground is too parched to receive, and the sage-gray hills will light with the slightest spark.
Without rain, the land will continue to die. Slow starvation, The wear of wind on sand.
The rain is necessary. But this storm has built not for days or seasons, but generations. When relief finally comes, it will change all that it passes over. Strip the land down to its very core.
A thousand year storm, they call them.
Sometimes, they take longer than that to truly break.
Slickness and heat.
The stroke of a hand. The slow rhythm of in, of stretched and full and deeper and again.
Robin’s voice. His touch.
Ecstasy isn’t merely a synonym for pleasure. It means to be overwhelmed. Beyond reason.
Robin snapped his hips, hard, drove in deep, his strokes still slow, slow.
Ecstasy.
The sky gone bruise purple. The first drop of rain, sweet, falling on parched soil.
A flash of lightning. The skies open. The storm breaks.
Zyr broke. Not euphemistically, cock still hard with unspent need.
Broke, like broken open, heart there where Robin could reach it, tears wetting the Faerie-weave that kept him in the sacred dark. Helpless, hitching keens fell from his lips, while he shivered like a single leaf in a storm.
“Fuck, fuck,” Robin gasped. Or Zyr did. It didn’t matter.
This wasn’t like bleeding into like, two stormfronts merging into one. It wasn’t opposites attracting, like the poles of a magnet.
This was a hurricane drawing strength from the warm waters below. Sea spray carried to new heights by a winter squall.
And it was, too, a hot drink and an open book, the comfort of a rope drawn tight around offered wrists.
(A comfort to both, the one who held the rope and the one who wore it.)
It was Robin, and it was Zyr, there in the sacred dark. Rolling thrusts that never left him, of deep and then deeper, like Robin knew how much it hurt to have any space between them. It was salt kissed from bitten lips, praise mingling with raw, unfettered moans.
“Fuck, beithir, too goddamn good, fuck, shit, you’re beautiful, so hard for me, so good, Dhanra.”
Not-quite steady strokes, and Zyr existed only within the endless present. Couldn’t say how long he’d been hard, how much time had passed while he ached in that space of close-but-not, kept on the edge of shattering.
“Now, Dhanra. Come for me.”
Zyr could only obey. Came the way Robin touched, the way he fucked, slow like rolling thunder, shaking and sobbing with it, and more with Robin’s every movement, every biting kiss.
Relentless.
Robin held him, held on, chased his own climax, hard and deep and swift now, chest to Zyr’s bound arms, nails digging in, breath harsh and close and everywhere, rewarded with the gift of Robin’s pleasure. Pleased by Zyr. Or with him. Or both.
“Dhanra, fuck, my storm, so good. Dhanra. Beithir. Fuck. Perfect, so perfect.”
Remained close, deep, after he finished, panting against Zyr’s skin.
“Yours, Raven-Robin. Now and always.”
Together. Both wet with sweat, shaking and breathless. Joined in body and soul. Their bond celebrated with one of the oldest, most sacred magics.
“I believe…” Zyr trailed off, huffing a sound that was almost laughter. Giddy. “...I begin to grasp the appeal of bindings.”
Robin’s own breathless laughter came with the brush of his lips over Zyr’s damp cheeks.
“Think you might be willing to have them used again?” he asked, nuzzling Zyr’s neck.
Euphoria shouldn’t melt so easily into languid calm, yet it did, as Robin settled against him. This space that Robin had created, where only the two of them existed, didn’t require anything of him but that he be present. And Robin rewarded attention very handsomely indeed.
“I suspect, clever bird, that you’ve more to add to my nascent understanding.
And I’m not one to be satisfied with a surface study.
” He tilted his head toward where Robin nuzzled close.
Just to feel him. “I usually devote more than a few centuries to my chosen subjects. But I believe we can make good use of the time.”
“That was the most fae way of saying ‘fuck, yes, Raven-Robin, please tie me up for the next however many centuries we have left as often as you want’ I’ve ever heard.
” Robin’s words came with his sharp smile, pressed to Zyr’s neck where he could feel it.
“Yeah, Dhanra. We’ll make fantastic use of that time. ”
Centuries of this. Of them. It might have seemed a vastly truncated existence, had Zyr not been counting his lifespan in hours earlier that day. And been quite ready to simply fade before that.
Before Robin.
Treasure among treasures and so endlessly fascinating. Zyr would take his centuries, and be glad of them.
“First though. These.” Robin’s hands trailed up, tugged at the rope near Zyr’s shoulder. “As much as we like them, I need to untie you a bit. Slowly. I’m going to stay close. Just need to free up bits of you.”
“Slowly, yes. They feel like an extension of you. And I like you near.”
Robin answered with a quiet hum, that verbal equivalent of a nod, pulling back, and out, slowly enough that Zyr didn’t hiss or whine. Petted after, like he wanted to be sure that Zyr would remain as he was, calm and spent. Unobjecting.
“Linen drying on the line turned to linen ropes?” Robin asked.
“Exactly that.” Further explanation of souls and perceptions and how the two mingled and influenced each others were …
best saved for another time. Now, he only sighed as Robin began to work at untying him.
“It’s pleasant here. Like being held. I could be very comfortable at your feet, were you to permit me darkness and the ropes didn’t bite. Is that something I might ask of you?”
“I think that sounds like a wonderful night in.” Robin said, still working methodically, each tug leaving Zyr less tightly contained. “And you’d be beautiful like that. There’s plenty of designs that would work, hands free or bound. Yeah, Dhanra. That’d be something you might ask of me.”
“Then I will. For tonight … I feel very quiet, Raven-Robin. Would you, perhaps, read to me again?”
Legs loose, and Robin remained close, as he’d promised.
Kissed Zyr as those slim, clever fingers worked away at the knots he made, easing the pressure of ropes.
That easing was nearly unsettling, would have been had Robin not climbed into his lap.
If each lessening of tension didn’t come with another kiss.
“I would like that. Both asking later, and reading tonight. Once we’ve gotten these off you, and some water, and we’ve counted. Are you interested in continuing the book we started?”
Zyr rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders as Robin magicked the mess of sex away, using only the slightest tug on Zyr’s power.
“You’ve a facility with that,” he murmured, tilting his head to encourage another kiss. “I am. Though I’m somewhat less forgiving of intruding knights than your storybook dragon.”
“Kazul’s not my dragon,” Robin said, curling his hands around the base of Zyr’s horns. “You are.”
Words punctuated with an insistent pull, Robin positioning Zyr’s head as he pleased before he kissed him, tongue running playfully over the ridges of Zyr’s teeth, love and liking running between them.
“Now,” Robin murmured, measured and pushy, the way Zyr liked best. “It’s time to bow your head and count to nine, beithir.”