(Rated Adult; you must be of
legal consenting age in your country of residence to read this
NOTE: This was a prompt story,
meaning I wrote it specifically to go with a particular
Cryselle's blog. You can see the pic
HERE, should you be so inclined. I don't know if it'll
add to your reading 'experience', but it sure added to my
“Piper… oh, God.” Cynric set his
teeth and thought quite forcefully of Gran’dam in her knickers.
Because if he let himself concentrate on what Piper’s hands were
doing, this would all be over before he had a chance to do much
more than shove Piper into the wall and rut against him like a
feral tom. He snatched Piper’s hand away from its torturous
wandering, Cynric’s fingers digging in to the tendon and bone of
Piper’s wrist a little harder than they should be doing; but
Piper only smirked, set the tip of his tongue to his upper-lip
and gave it a long, slow lick, white teeth flashing. Cynric
couldn’t help the groan, nor the way heat fizzed from his thighs
to his groin and all up his backbone. “You,” he growled, low and
as fierce as he could make it, “have the devil in you.”
Piper merely crooked that scimitar grin,
all sly and wicked. “Yes, and that’s all I’ve in me.” One
dark eyebrow rose up into the heavy mass of straight chestnut
fringe that hung askew over his brow. “Plan on fixing that any
It was the look in those brown eyes
that did it—that chill intent, that ‘Yes, I’ve beaten you and we
both know it,’ that… that subtle power that could afford
to be subtle, defied you to doubt it, because Piper had the
skill to back it, and he didn’t care if you knew it. Didn’t
care, because if you dared test it… well. Piper had always
enjoyed a test.
Gran’dam in her knickers, and with
Gran’da’s bony arse between her wrinkled thighs.
Cynric winced a little, but it did the
job—he managed to keep himself from messing his drawers long
enough to get them off and fling Piper to the bed. Piper landed
with that evil little chuckle he trotted out when he was trying
to prove he had the edge, and though Cynric would certainly
concede the point when they had weapons in their hands, in here
the edge was never a given.
Thrust through the forward attack then
parry the sideswipe. Try not to get dragged in by that look,
that face, the way the setting sun wove russet and smears of
gold through rich chestnut. Deflect the advance and feint in
with a compound attack then spin through the dodge and cross.
Try not to note the way shadows spilt themselves over the
angular face, anointed it sharp and transcendent, almost
sanctified, like even they couldn’t resist the touch.
Gran’dam without her knickers, and
No, not helping.
“Cyn,” Piper panted. “Cyn… God,
Long, strong legs wrapped about Cynric’s
ribs, squeezed. Deceptively slender arms slid about his neck,
pulled him in. Cynric dipped down obediently, sank his teeth
into the thick muscle that ran from Piper’s neck to his
shoulder, and groaned as Piper’s hips snapped up and back,
Cynric’s own following helplessly. He’d wanted to keep the
rhythm slow, wanted to draw it out, make it last, torture Piper
just as ruthlessly as Piper had tortured Cynric in the
tournament, but he couldn’t keep from sinking deep, over and
over again, long, slow strokes turned to faltering drives from
one moan to the next.
“Yes, yes, Cyn, bloody fuck,
so good, it’s… you’re… God so—”
“Piper,” Cynric groaned, breathless and
desperate, “shut up, I can’t—”
Cynric gave up on making sense of the
demand—plea—and just shut them both up with a kiss,
because it was fast reaching a point where ‘control’ was just
another nonsensical word inside the tempest of heat and
sweat-slick skin and brutal sensation that was Cynric’s world
Can’t hold out when you beg like that,
can’t keep from fucking you so hard neither one of us will be
able to sit a horse for a week.
The muted squeak of the bed’s rope
supports, the thin whine of the mattress’s ticking—a weird,
cacophonous discord that wound through Cynric’s head and melded
with Piper’s gasping groans, his whispered supplication. Met and
twined through the sensation of Piper’s body, against and
around, rocking up and back, swamping Cynric’s senses and
pummeling them into nothing but animalistic need.
The glint of the sword, the honed tip
leveled right at Cynric’s throat, the failing burnt-ruby of the
sun slanting off its silver-blue edge like a stain of blood.
Cynric stubbornly set his gaze to the leather bindings of the
vambraces, the stitching of the gauntlets, the dip and curve of
chest-plate and hauberk—anything but those eyes and what he knew
to be waiting behind their cool invitation, that mouth and its
“Do you yield, Sir Lindley?”
A sharp cry slid up Piper’s throat, and he
arched, head thrown back, eyes locked to Cynric’s and anything
but cool—a welter of warmth and passion—before they closed and
Piper came. “Cynric… Cyn… ah!”
Cynric watched for as long as he could,
rapt with the sheer beauty of abandon, the heady possession, the
surrender, before he had no choice but to follow. Bright-white
fire closed him in a tight fist as his body pulsed and thrashed,
throat grinding out graveled curses, and Piper wrapped about
him, holding on, tricking a few more shudders and jolts loose
with a wicked twist of his hips.
Piper’s hands on his back, stroking, and
Piper’s voice in his ear, whispering— “So good, Cyn, love you so
much,” —and Piper’s body beneath his, a firm line of sinewy
muscle strapped directly to the bone.
Do you yield, Sir Lindley?
Oh, God, yes.