“How—?” Wren began, and found he hadn’t the self-command required to both restrain himself and finish his question; to ask what he must do to increase Shrike’s pleasure over his own.
Shrike understood regardless. His lips brushed Wren’s as he whispered, “Roll into me.”
Wren rolled his hips, his prick sliding in a fraction of an inch, then out again, his cock-head grazing a certain hard point within Shrike that made him shudder in Wren’s arms. Even these minute movements proved almost too much for Wren to bear—particularly when combined with Shrike’s trembling in his embrace and around his cock in the hot, tight, slick velvet sheath consuming Wren’s blade. What little presence of mind remained in Wren allowed him to take Shrike’s cock in his fist and stroke it swift and sharp in rhythm with his own thrusts.
“Now,” Shrike hissed. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me—”
Any further command cut off as Wren withdrew until only the tip of his lance remained within Shrike—then in a swift powerful thrust, plunged it in again, this time to the hilt.
Shrike shuddered so, Wren feared he’d hurt him, until Shrike’s clenched teeth split into a breathless laugh, and in a broken gasp, he demanded, “Harder.”
Wren obeyed.
Shrike clawed Wren from his shoulder-blades down to his buttocks, gripped the back of his thighs hard enough to bruise, and slammed Wren into him again and again.
Wren held on—barely—and stroked Shrike’s prick, matching the rhythm Shrike set. It pulsed against his palm in time with the hammering of his own heart. Pearls of seed leaked from its tip with every pull. He could almost feel the power between them growing, rising, like a sunrise about to break over the horizon, like wildflowers on the brink of bursting into bloom. Wren couldn’t hold himself back much longer.
Never ceasing, Wren bent to bring his lips to the pointed tip of Shrike’s ear. “Are you—?”
The restraint required to rein in his own spend forced him to bite off the end of his enquiry.
In a voice broken with overwhelming sensation, Shrike replied, “Command me, my king. I am at your mercy.”
To hear those words nearly sent Wren over the edge. He gasped, bit his bloodied lip, and choked out at last in a rasping whisper, “Shrike—come.”
Shrike obeyed. His cock pulsed in Wren’s palm. Seed spilled through Wren’s fingers and onto Shrike’s belly, drops falling like mistletoe amidst the scars. His back arched, his whole body trembling taut like a bow-string, his inner heat clenching rhythmically around Wren. Then, with a final gasp of the breath he’d held throughout his spend, Shrike collapse beneath him, his eyes fluttering shut.
The sympathetic magic of surrender.
An instant after—yet an instant proved enough—Wren’s stones drew up. He poured his essence deep within Shrike, his sword driving in blow after blow, long and sharp, fit to impale, spilling what felt like torrents of ecstasy. Shrike groaned, biting his lip with a grin of deep satisfaction. With the last of his strength, Wren bent forward to capture his mouth in a kiss, one which Shrike hungrily returned. The ritual’s power thrummed through both their bodies in a final paroxysm of pleasure. Spent, exhausted, wrecked, Wren fell into Shrike’s embrace, the strong arms around him the only thing anchoring him to consciousness on the tides of bliss.
A wild roar filled his ears.
Wren opened his eyes, too stunned to do more than stare back at the raucous crowd leaping and flailing in their wild celebration.
Shrike arose, slipping from beneath Wren as if he weighed no more than a feather quilt. Wren hastened to tuck himself back into his trousers, though Shrike seemed to feel no such shame. He bent to draw Wren up beside him. Hand clasped forearm to do so, then lingered afterward, trailing down the inside of Wren’s wrist to thread their fingers together in an unbreakable knot.
Though all the whooping throng watched them, Wren found he had eyes for Shrike alone. Shrike gazed down at him in turn, with warm dark eyes yet gleaming with desire and his small, handsome smile of satisfaction. Something more had changed in his face; belatedly, Wren realized the antlers, broken and unbroken alike, had fallen away, leaving his bronzed noble brow as smooth as if they’d never grown in.
“My lords?”
The herald had returned to the rim of the duelling circle, though as of yet they dared not do more than perch on its perimeter. Their gaze flicked between Shrike and Wren, returning again and again to a spot just above Wren’s brow.
Wren raised a hand to the crown of thorns and found it softer than he remembered. He plucked off a piece and brought it down for inspection. A golden flower bloomed in his fingertips. Not just a crown of thorns, he realised, but a crown of furze.
Shrike, meanwhile, had bent to regather their discarded garments and implements. He’d already tied his hose with shortened knots and shrugged his tunic back over his head. The broken gyrdel jingled as he slung it over his shoulder.
The herald cleared their throat.
Shrike didn’t look up.
“Your queen,” the herald continued, “bids you attend her in her bower.”
“We have no queen,” said Shrike.
The herald balked. Wren stifled a half-hysterical laugh.
Shrike glanced up at last with an arched brow. “You may go and tell her so, an’ it so please you.”
