Wren’s own prick had softened in Shrike’s palm at the first breach. It stiffened anew as the tip of Shrike’s cock grazed the acorn within him. A gasp escaped his bespeckled lips. Shrike braced a steadying hand against his quivering thigh, his eyes searching Wren’s face for any sign of pain. But even as Wrenbit his lip, he smiled. When his lashes left off fluttering, he met Shrike’s look at last with blown pupils and hungry gaze.
And, with a sigh, sheathed Shrike’s blade to the hilt.
It felt as if it were made for him, like leather moulded to fit the particular curve of a scimitar. Wren’s prick fit into Shrike’s fist likewise. The heft of it pulsed in his hand. Milk-white beads of mistletoe bloomed from the tip. Shrike smeared them over the cock-head with the pad of his thumb. A muffled keen escaped Wren’s throat.
Shrike couldn’t quite keep a sly smile of satisfaction from his lips. “Will you not call out for your king, Wren?”
Wren’s exasperated laugh broke off with a gasp as Shrike tugged his prick.
How well and how fondly Shrike remembered how Wren had wrestled him down into the green grass of the tourney field on Midsummer, how he’d thrust his rigid blade into Shrike’s sheath, how he’d bent him double and fucked him and whispered his true name and commanded him to come, and how his spend had thrilled through his whole frame.
Now, upon the Winter Solstice, it was Shrike’s turn to lie still and withhold his spend. Despite Wren biting the freckles that adorned his lower lip. Despite the tight heat encompassing his cock. Despite Wren daring at last, in minute increments, to move.
Fucking himself on Shrike’s prick.
He hardly moved his hips at first, looking almost as overwhelmed by the sensation as Shrike felt. Then the corded muscles in his trembling thigh tightened beneath Shrike’s palm. He raised himself ‘til Shrike’s cock slid halfway out of him—then slammed down again, drawing twin groans of pleasure from them both. Again and again, each swifter and harder than the last.
All the while Shrike forced his own hips into still submission. He would move only as his Wren commanded, even as Wren yielded to him.
And even as his own hand wrought ever more pearls of seed from Wren’s blade.
“Shrike,” Wren murmured; his thighs trembling, beads of sweat sparkling on his brow, his breath coming in gasps. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck—”
Shrike rolled his hips to meet his thrusts.
A broken moan escaped Wren. “More—harder—please, I’m nearly—”
Shrike wanted nothing more than to grant him everything he begged for. Still, there remained a ritual to enact. “Do you yield?”
“Yes,” Wren hissed. “I yield, I yield, please, fuck—”
Shrike let his hand slide up from Wren’s thigh to brace against his jutting hip-bone as he thrust up into his Wren. His other fist gave his cock the swift, sharp strokes he knew Wren liked, until Wren shuddered within and without, clenching around Shrike as seed like snowdrops began spilling over Shrike’s knuckles.
“Shrike,” Wren whispered in a broken rasp. “Come now, come quick—”
Shrike did not need to be told a third time. The delicious shiver of his true name upon Wren’s soft lips thrust him over the brink of ecstasy. The ferocity of his lust broke through all restraint, and he poured forth torrents into Wren’s willing vessel. He beheld Wren’s head thrown back, his mouth agape in a silent cry, his whole frame trembling with delight as Shrike filled him with the potent seed of the Oak King.
In the same instant, he felt the heart-stopping force of the rite fulfilled, another wave of pleasure cresting over them both as Wren collapsed atop him in his embrace.
Some moments passed before either caught breath enough for speech. Shrike spent them staring up at the wintry stars, which matched those sparking at the edge of his vision as his pulse returned to its customary rhythm. He cradled his fallen king in his arms, combing his fingers through his chestnut locks, untangling and weaving knots as he went. Wren’s shaking breaths shuddered through Shrike’s own ribcage, then gradually grew steadier.
“All right?” Shrike whispered.
Wren nodded against Shrike’s chest with a dreamy sigh.
“Nothing hurt?” Shrike continued.
Wren tilted his chin up to shake his head.
“Are you certain?” Shrike pressed.
Without opening his eyes, Wren reached out and traced Shrike’s lips to shush him, mumbling as he did so, “I’m fine. Better than fine. Now shut up and kiss me.”
Shrike obeyed his fallen king.
~
The Holly King’s Peril
