The prince's hands are everywhere. Bryn's ribs, his hips, the backs of his thighs where they grip Ithyris's waist. His fingers dig into the muscle and the strength of his grip, the size of his hands spanning the width of Bryn's thigh, the absolute certainty that he could hold Bryn here indefinitely without effort, sends heat bolting through Bryn's groin. The prince swallows his gasp and kisses him harder, deeper, his tongue finding Bryn's, and Bryn tastes the sacred water and beneath it the taste that is justIthyris, cedar and heat and the faint mineral edge that he has come to crave.
Bryn pulls at the prince's shirt. The wet fabric clings and resists and he makes a sound of frustration against Ithyris's mouth and the prince shifts his weight to one arm, holds Bryn pinned with his hips, and strips the shirt over his head with the other hand and drops it. Bare skin against bare skin and the contact is a revelation, hot and slick with water and sweat, and the scales on the prince's stomach are smooth against Bryn's skin and he arches into the prince and feels every ridge and every plane and his cock is aching, trapped between them.
"Down," Bryn manages. "My trousers. Get them off."
The prince sets him on his feet. His hands work Bryn's laces and the trousers peel away, heavy with water, and Bryn kicks them off and he is naked against the wall of the antechamber with sacred water still drying on his skin and the mountain's heat pressing in and Ithyris's eyes travel the length of his body with an expression that is reverent and starving.
"Yours," Bryn tells him, because the pool stripped away his ability to be anything other than honest and the honesty has not worn off. "All of it. Yours."
The prince makes a sound, low and guttural, and strips his own trousers and lifts Bryn again and they are back against the wall with Bryn's legs around the prince's waist and skin to skin, nothing between them, and Ithyris's cock is pressed against him, hot and thick and hard, and Bryn's body clenches in anticipation so fierce it borders on pain.
Ithyris's hand reaches between them. His fingers find Bryn, pressing, circling, and Bryn is still loose from this morning, still open for the prince the way he seems to always be open for him now, his body attuned and trained to receive him, and the prince's fingers slide inside with an ease that makes Ithyris groan against his throat.
"Always ready for me." The prince's voice is rough against Bryn's skin. His fingers curl and press and Bryn's hips jerk and his nails dig into the prince's shoulders. "Always. You were made for me, Bryn. Your body knows it. The bond knows it. And now you know it."
"Then stop talking," Bryn says, his voice wrecked and breathless, "and fuck your husband."
The word again. Husband. Bryn feels it hit the prince through the bond, the same detonation, and Ithyris's fingers withdraw and his cock replaces them, the blunt head pressing against Bryn, and he pushes inside in one slow, devastating thrust that pins Bryn to the wall and fills him so completely that the sound he makes is not a word. It is the sound of a body being completed. His head falls back against the stone and his legs tighten around the prince's waist and Ithyris is inside him, deep and thick and pulsing, and the bond between them ignites.
The prince fucks him against the antechamber wall with agonizing thoroughness.
Not fast. Slow. Deliberate. Each thrust a complete sentence, a rolling movement that starts at his hips and drives through his body and into Bryn's, pressing him upward against the stone, grinding deep before withdrawing and driving in again. He watches Bryn's face. His eyes are locked on Bryn's and they are dark and wet and blazing and he watches every sound he pulls from Bryn, every gasp and shattered breath, and the attention is as devastating as the act.
His hands hold Bryn's thighs open. His thumbs press into the soft skin of Bryn's inner thighs and the pressure is grounding and possessive and Bryn is spread wide around him, held against the wall by nothing but the prince's strength and his cock and Bryn is making sounds he has never made, raw and high and uncontrolled, because Ithyris is hitting that spot on every strokeand the pleasure is building in waves that crash and rebuild and crash higher.
"My husband." The prince says it against Bryn's mouth, between thrusts, and his voice cracks on the word. "Mine. You said it in the water. You said forever. You said yours. And I am going to hold you to that, Bryn. Every word. Every promise. You are never getting free of me."
"I don't want free of you." Bryn's voice is barely there. His arms are locked around the prince's neck and his body is trembling and the pleasure is cresting and he can feel the prince's pleasure through the bond, the feedback loop, their sensation amplifying each other in a spiral that tightens with every thrust. "I want this. I want you. I want... oh gods, Ithyris, right there, don't stop, please..."
The prince doesn't stop. He drives into Bryn with the same devastating rhythm and his mouth finds Bryn's throat and his hand works between them and wraps around Bryn's cock and the dual sensation converges into a peak so sharp it whites out Bryn's vision.
He comes in the prince's fist. The orgasm tears through him and he clenches around Ithyris and the sound he makes is the prince's name, broken and repeated, and Ithyris feels it through the bond because his rhythm shatters and his hips drive forward hard and he buries himself deep and comes with a groan that vibrates through Bryn's whole body, his cock pulsing inside Bryn in hot, flooding waves, and his forehead drops to Bryn's shoulder and his arms lock around him and they are shaking, both of them, pinned together against the wall.
He holds Bryn there. His cock softens and his release trickles down Bryn's thigh and his breath is ragged against Bryn's shoulder. Bryn holds the prince's head against him, his fingers in the wet hair, and feels the aftershocks rolling through them both through the bond.
The prince starts to pull out.
Bryn slides down the wall.
Ithyris's arms loosen in surprise and Bryn slips from his grip, his feet finding the floor, and he goes to his knees on the warm stone. The prince looks down at him and his expression shifts from confusion to understanding to something raw and disbelieving as Bryn settles between his legs and looks up at him and wraps his hand around the base of the prince's cock, slick with his own release.
"Bryn. You don't have to..."
"I know I don't have to." He holds the prince's gaze. The cock is softening in his hand, still thick, still warm, and he strokes once, slowly, and watches the prince's stomach clench. "I want to. I want the taste of you in my mouth. Let me."
The prince's hand finds Bryn's hair. His fingers thread through the wet strands, gentle, trembling, and he nods, once.
Bryn takes him in his mouth.
The prince is sensitive from coming. Bryn feels it in the way his body jerks at the first touch of tongue, the way his thigh muscles lock. Bryn is gentle. Slow. He tongues the head, tasting them both, the salt and the musk and the faint mineral trace of the sacred water. Ithyris twitches in his mouth, thickening, the softness giving way to renewed hardness as Bryn works him with his tongue and his lips, unhurried, thorough.
The prince's breathing fractures above him. Short, harsh gasps, and his hand in Bryn's hair tightens and loosens in a rhythm that matches the rhythm of Bryn's mouth. Bryn takes him deeper, swallowing around the length of him, and the sound Ithyris makes is guttural and helpless.
He works the prince with the obsessive, systematic attention he brings to everything he's decided to master. The flat of his tongue along the underside. The pressure at the frenulum. The hollowing of his cheeks when he pulls back to the tip. He hasmapped Ithyris. He knows the sounds each touch produces, the specific catch of breath that means close and the specific groan that means more and the specific silence, the held breath, the locked muscles, that means the prince is trying not to thrust because he is always conscious of the damage he could do.
Bryn pulls off long enough to say, "You can move. I can take it."
The prince's eyes, fixed on Bryn's face with the intensity of a man witnessing something sacred, go wide. Then dark. Then his hips move, a shallow, careful thrust, and Bryn opens his throat and takes it and the sound Ithyris makes is ruined, the composure crumbling to nothing, and his hand fists in Bryn's hair and he thrusts again, deeper, and Bryn swallows around him and the prince breaks.
