For a Song Pt. 09

The cold water has no power anymore. There is a suggestion of complacence stillness, but I am also running my hands up and down, up and down his shaft. The sensation becomes known and at least and I am no longer straining my neck to hold in his skull. My other hand goes to his chest and starts playing there.

He mewls and moans and it is song made crystalline. It freezes in smoky quartz behind my eyes. I can feel it. I can taste it. I can sense everything he is in that one noise. I hold on his tip and gently circle my palm. That is a different noise, but still a very, very good one. It is one of my favorites in the world. Eliza has her deep purr in her chest, almost a mountain yawning in my ear, the echo of a canyon in the dead of night. Gawain has a sizzling hiss that peters out only to turn into a tea kettle whistle when I press on him a certain way. Then a crack of a fire log settling.

I stroke him and weave the pink back into his being. His skin takes the color and brings it deeper, down to his torn flesh and broken will. He shivers as something tender becomes something whole. I imagine it's like being turned inside out in the best way. I keep him here with me, blowing on his ear, kissing his neck, running my fingers alone his collar bone. The color of his being surrounds a kernel of tone, brighter and denser than the rest.

I stop. I don't want that bubble to burst just yet. He whines again and kicks against me. I soothe him back down and let him have his little tantrum.

"I hate you so much," he whimpers.

"Congratulations, that's the smart thing to do," I hum.

"Shut up. You always do that. You're not supposed to agree with the person who says they hate you. You should be mean to them."

"Do you want me to be mean to you, then?"

"Listen, I've learned a couple things being with you and Eliza. And the answer to the question is yes, a little. Not too much."

"I can be a little mean. Not too much."

He giggles and one more noise sets me at ease. I splash him with the cold water, and he sputters. I'd say that qualifies as a little mean. Not in the way he wanted but doing it in the way he wanted would have been nice. A fun little paradox that I think I solved rather succinctly. And I solve the little pout playing his lips with a soft kiss, pressing in my stubble a bit to make it just as mean as the rest of the play. He doesn't seem to mind that as much though. He turns his back more and lets me feel his sides. I keep touching him and going down again.

I start stroking again once more. He tenses and relaxes again, even as my other hand joins. He is not quite big enough for the whole two-handed deal, but I can touch more of him like this and that's always fun. There are lines to tickle and fondle, with soft pinches and tickles. He's back to twitching and jolting in his body. I feel the muscle revolt in their stillness. I feel the color in his body slowly collect again.

I dip my off hand lower, finding his ass. He tenses again as the realization hits him.

"Relax," I murmur in his ear, "this will feel good, but you have to relax for it."

He whines wordlessly, but melts at the suggestion in my voice. He gives himself over. His bad arm snaps as something aligns as it should, but he is too far gone in me to care. He is in my hands and that is a terrible amount of power to give me. He should hate me. He should hate me in the best way. Frustration and anger are very potent aphrodisiacs. He is so easy to play, giving himself over to me like strings and keys. I trace his entrance and he whimpers. It is so beautiful to play him like this. It is enthralling.

He gets a little taste and that is enough to send him spasming. I go deeper and that is enough to blast away his reason. His legs are shaking, splashing the ice-cold water all over us. I watch his arm flex and try to rebreak itself. It better not. I am still working on it, melting bone back together. Not the most complex thing I've done in my vast studies of the healing arts. But it is still delicate work, better suited to bedside manner and clean bandages. He gets his ears nibbles and a finger going a bit deeper in him. He squirms and mumbles the gentle insanity of pleasure. I bite a bit harder and that is mean. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to let him know I could. His hands scramble and one finds my horn. He could break that too, but that's the fun part we share. It could go so south so quickly.

It takes a bit more probing, and I find the hot button inside him. The color shifts and pulses finally fusing everything back together. He is whole and contempt, just as he goes into his bursting tea kettle whine. The floral scent is gone, and he is lost in the noise. Soap and smoke and heat, he is flourishing in it, thrashing and convulsing. I chuckle. He is fun, plain and simple.

I take that final pulse of color and suffuse it through his body. Everything torn is mended. Everything broken is whole. The scouring peace throws him into chaos, jumping in my hand with each shot. I nibble his neck again, putting more and more texture to the motion of my hands. He is lost to everything. It's all gone.

Gawain babbles and sighs as the shots pulse out of him, dirtying the water. We might have another bath on the horizon. Strictly business that one. Maybe. Who knows?

He turns my chin again and I taste him on my lips. The hand is gone from my horn, lavishing my chest, my neck. We kiss and hold and let the glow fill everything we have. Warm and cold, water and flame, mixing and swirling and shifting together.

I give him everything back and he breaks from me. Space, just a bit, so he can breathe and recuperate as he needs to. One last little shiver together and that is enough to get him back.

"You're hard," he murmurs, breaking his attention from the self. He is back to what he is, smirking and playing, a little unsteady, but certainly in control.

"I wonder why." I hum. He gets another kiss on the cheek. I hear another set of steps and that is enticing and enthralling coming to meet us. I grin. I feel Gawain grin. It makes the kiss taste sweeter.

"I demand reparations," growls Eliza.

"This is reparations," Gawain says, "You had dream time. I have bath time."

I feel a very strong hand land on top of my head. It pulls me away from the water and I am left shivering and destitute. Gawain is alone in the vast sea, drowning without support. She's angry, playful angry, but angry all the same.

"We're all a bit out of sorts at the moment," I negotiate, "So I propose a bit of a parley. To be held in our shared room. As soon as possible."

She smirks. Warfare is her area of expertise, but diplomacy is definitely a part of that.

---

She has chosen out and out war, based on the violent motions she has carried forth. Kidnapping two sovereign citizens, foisting them to her own personal abode, despite their protests, is certainly a crime in this part of the world. And my brother is a man of no small import. He will have a very strongly worded letter penned to him in an attempt to garner aid. I am sure that our future treatment will violate several treaties. I hope it does. Laws were meant to be tested and I see no better way to test them.

She throws me on the bed first, followed by Gawain. Should have been him first. He is a much softer landing, but the bed takes most of us with a loud protesting creak. Gawain works to throw as much of the sheets off as he can. He keeps the pillows, but those are tools. The sheets and the blankets just get in the way. I try and be as distracting as possible as Eliza finishes her preparations.

Her robe falls open and I have her breasts full and clear in my vision. Heavy and vast, the sway and bounce. No matter the pull I feel in my stomach on any given day, they will always be breath taking. She watches me watch her and lavishes in the attention. I have been neglecting her on the whole. Maybe. I don't know. But she needs attention and those are certainly worthy of such a high and mighty thigh. She stretches and I watch. She bends and I watch. I keep her in my sight and look to make room for her. They hang as she slowly bends down towards us. Gawain is just as lost as I am. I think he prefers me, but again, anyone who cannot see the appeal of her body and its enormity cannot see at all. And if they are blind, they merely have to touch.

I reach out and take and she does not stop me. I am a scoundrel, a rouge, and I deserve to be put in my place. But Eliza is a woman of justice and punishment without sin is tyranny. A real champion of the people. Her own little enjoyment of my hands on her breast is a side effect and nothing more. The other hand doing the same is more than welcome. Kneading and rolling lifting and dripping her form is more than enough for the both of us to share. She sighs and I feel the world turn with her.

"Never thought I would like a pair as much as I do," she murmurs.

"Why not?" I say, "From my experience, they can be rather fun."

"Shut up. Things get complicated when there's more than one other head to worry about. Gawain's air headed enough to not really count."

"Hey," he huffs, "I am not air headed."

She turns over and kisses him deeply. Bright eyed and scared, he fights for a moment, only to fall into the deep abuse of no escape. Once more, he is consumed so thoroughly and there is nothing that can be done in his power to rectify it. Torment and terror, he will forever be a plaything for beings so far beyond his comprehension. I smack his cute little ass and that gets another fun little yelp from him.

She breaks after a moment and watches him try and regain some composure. HE doesn't and that's the point. She turns to me. Gawain is left to his own confounded mind.

"You're getting inside me," she growls.

"I don't think that's quite fair to him," I say, "We did have-"

"The dream doesn't count. I was in you. Not the same thing."

Flawless logic as always from her and I don't have any rebuttal in my back pocket. So that is the first play. I am still ready from my time in the bath and not much is going to take that away. So as Gawain tries desperately to get his bearings, I slowly crawl over to mount her. I lay on her stomach and feel her heart quicken, sandwich myself in her breasts and let that presence ground me. Heavy, heavy and strong, her dark eyes gaze into mine and dare me to challenge. She is the endless shore. I will crash against her in due time. I will be worn down. I will crumble. I will falter.

"That look doesn't suit you," she whispers.

"He has been kind of off," Gawain says, "Pensive, almost."

"Are you alright, Dumile?"

Such tenderness doesn't suit her either, but I am not about to remark on it. Not my place to decide when she feels affectionate. And if I am the source of it, then I have a duty to respond in kind. Gentle kisses along her collar bone, careful of any errant horn pokes, just to keep my mind somewhat in the moment. I am about to have more fun with Eliza. I just have to process something else first.

"Don't like killing," I mumble, "Doesn't sit right with me. I'll be fine."

Her arms collapse around me and try to merge our bodies. An ounce more pressure and it would be uncomfortable. She's right on the edge. I'm right on the edge. Gawain wiggles in a bit and tries to breach the wall. He doesn't. He is let in once the gatekeeper relents. Warm and cool, everything pleasant and refreshing. I shiver and shudder and choke down a harsh sob. Almost forgot I could make that sound. The chestnut in my throat grows larger. Pain, it is pain.

"You don't have to like it," says Eliza, "You shouldn't like it."

"I've had this conversation before," I say, "I'll be fine."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't have it," hums Gawain, "We all have those conversations that don't go away."

I am deep in the blue sorrow and then it swirls a bit. The feeling swimming in me changes and flows and folds and bends. Constant change, constant chaos, never settling and never sitting. There is a warm sunshine fireside orange circling around that. Never mixing and never collecting, separate and strong. I take a shaky breath. There are tears in me, but not enough to spill over.

I kiss Eliza's collar bone again, working up her neck. One of her hands finds my spine and scratches and strokes. Calm, I am calm, I am collected. Gawain does his best to find some more actions to add, and he does. Sides and shoulders, feather touches on my body from his lips, from his fingers. Everything is light and tracking and dancing together. A cocoon of sensation, a blanket of soft love, I am entrapped in an endless quagmire of my own creation. I want to touch and be touched. I am touched and touching in turn.

Eliza laughs a bit as I grow more and more bold, kissing up to her chin, her cheeks her lips. Her eyes catch mine and hold on for a moment. Nothing burning or cold, no grand determination. For all the weight and presence I give her, she's a person. And she's smiling at me with a giddy excitement in her stomach. All the bells and whistles are gone, and we are about to have sex. Nothing so momentous as I like to ascribe to it. Gawain pulls me away for a moment to have his own little burst of touch and I find the same look in his eyes.

"He kind of has a horny face," he mutters, "Doesn't he?" Just for good measure, he plays with the blunted tip on his forefinger.

"Oh yeah," chuckles Eliza, "It suits him much better than a sad face."

"I don't have a sad face," I huff.

"You do, and it's adorable, but I don't want adorable. And I don't think you do either. Kiss me again."

I do and I'm not sure what face this is making, but it is a nice one. She rolls her stomach, and my attention is brought lower. I can feel her pulse through the line of hard muscle. I can feel my own pulse along my length compete against it. Heat on heat, maddening spirals and endless loops. My hands trace her sides as best I can. She is so vast. There is so much to explore. I doubt in all of our sessions together, I have touched on more than half of her. My attention tends to focus on a few areas over others. I have no regrets.

I pause as I watch some terrible knot in my stomach unwind. I don't even know it was there. Some large sickly violet bruise soothed away with a writhing touch. I am in the waves and the rock. I am in her arms and lavished upon by him. I am softening and hardening. I move my own body against her and feel the composure shatter upon both of us.

I move away again and take in my space. It is freeing to have so much room. And Eliza is there to close the gap. I can breathe. I can see her shiver and gleam. I can watch Gawain wiggle his hips and entice me further. Her hands and his hands meet below her navel. Together, we all line up and begin.

It's slow. I take it slow. I want to make it slow. Eliza wants it slow. Gawain watches with awed glee as it happens. He watches the shape rise in her stomach. She watches him with a satisfied grin. She has everything she wants right now, and nothing could ever change that. I am hers forever more. He is mine and thus hers. We are all in each other's embrace, supported like an interwoven basket. Watertight and strong, endless against the flow of time. I take a deep breath in through my nose. I smell smoke and river rock and fresh rainy earth. I am out under the endless sky and shining sun. Not a cloud in the sky and helpful trees with plentiful shade. A cool breeze shifts through the endless waves of grass. Her hand goes to my waist and pulls me in deeper. I can savor all of that in a moment. I need to move. For both of us.

She is tight. All of her strength collapses onto me and I don't have the stalwart bearing to take it in stride. A shuddering sigh comes from me, shaking my whole body. It is right. It is where I should be. I am enveloped and embraced. Her hands keep me close. Gawain keeps watching us. I like being watched. I like the show. I like being the show. I sigh and move and feel everything slip away.

The physical is where I belong. The urge always helps. The motions always help. Sitting there, stewing in whatever emotion, positive or negative, is never quite as good. The mind needs the body to give the impulse direction. The body needs the mind to give the direction impulse. It is always good to work out things physically. I put more of my legs into the thrust, taking more out, putting more in. For all the tenderness she has shown me, Eliza is still a fan of strength. She needs boulders crushed and mountains moved. She needs an army to charge down on her. I am more than that. I can be more than that. I still appreciate the buildup.

Gawain's hands go to my chest in a gentle veneration. They go to the tense muscles and make them soft. They go to the soft muscles and make them hard. Constant flux of shifting priorities and transforming states. I am in. I am out. I am being touched. I am touching. I feel a pair of lips on mine. I devour them sweetly.

"Use your tongues more," Eliza moans. And we do. Gawain and I entwine and wrestle. A hand leaves her and goes to him, tilting his chin to deepen and engorge. His hips are moving, trying desperately to find something to rub against. They settle for Eliza's thigh. A good choice and one he enjoys, from the way his legs buckle and shake.

For a second, all our tones match and collide. Color and noise in perfect harmony. A heartbeat later, and it's gone. A heartbeat after that, then it's back. We are rising and falling together with the climax close at hand. It is going to be beautiful, our shared cataclysm. Tension in the best way racks my spine. I feel Eliza embracing me with her legs. I have no possible avenue of escape. I can't even think of such a thing. I am lost in the gathering storm.

It breaks and I go still. It breaks and I am left speechless against the storm. I am pulsing through her with my entire body. Gawain takes his beautiful face away and I am left to ride out my terrible end alone. He comes back into my shoulder, stammering and mumbling as well. Warmth hits my stomach, and he is lost in his own release. Eliza rumbles and she has her own starburst epiphany. It's softer than the ones we are used to being, but it's the one I need. It's the one she has given me so wholeheartedly. Warm, I am so incredibly warm. Everything swims together under an open sky.

The bed creaks again and we freeze as one. It breaks with a resounding thud. I am laid out on top of Eliza, trapping Gawain's' recently unbroken arm between us. There's a bit of a panic in him as he realizes he is close to a repeat. I work to free him, and he suffers not a mote of unpleasantness. Other than what will probably be a terrible bump on the head from the floor.

There is no pain. There is only giddy laughter. It starts as Gawain's bubbly meanderings. Eliza takes the pitch and turns it into a deep chuckle. I am the last to turn and I dive into the moment with utter abandon. I laugh into Eliza's chest, feeling everything jump and dance with the sound. Gawain's kicking and I feel it through the floor. I can feel everything through the floor. That realization just sends me deeper and deeper gone. Far, far gone.

"Do you think," Gawain gasps, "do you think Kay will be mad?"

Eliza just howls and holds me tighter. I can't laugh anymore. There isn't enough space for me anymore. I don't want any more space. I want tight hugs and crushing embraces. Until I can't breathe. I tap and she breaks the hold. A bit. Not a lot, but I'll live.

"Not a chance," I say as I start to come down, "My parents would go through a bed almost every two weeks. I honestly thought he'd get sterner ones for his set."

"Still wouldn't be enough for us," Eliza sighs. She kisses the crown of my head and pinches my ass. Or that might have been Gawain. I'm not really sure and I don't want to be sure.