Love Me

“Who am I?” Mytho asked again, his arms still spread in a posture that reminded Fakir uncomfortably of a crow. “I’ll tell you, Fakir... but are you sure you want to know?”

The sudden tone of darkness in Mytho’s voice, when the boy had been in such pain just a moment ago, took Fakir aback for a moment, but he shook the sudden fear out of his mind. He had to save his prince, he must. “Yes, I do. Who are you and what have you done with Mytho?”

Mytho stepped closer, an unreadable smirk on his face as he reached out and, incongruously, ran a lock of Fakir’s hair between his fingers. Fakir took a step back, only to bump into the wall. There was no escape now, unless he shoved Mytho away and made a run for the door... but he couldn’t do that. It was his duty to save Mytho. Even in this state--and he wasn’t even sure what this state was--he was bound to the prince.

“I’ll show you, then,” Mytho almost whispered, placing one hand on the back of Fakir’s neck, the other beside his head on the wall. “Only you, because you’ve been so kind to me. Watch closely.” And without another word, he delved in and kissed Fakir firmly.

Fakir was stunned enough for a moment to passively accept Mytho’s kiss, and the younger boy took complete advantage of his shock. He roughly devoured Fakir’s mouth, thrusting his tongue in to dance fiercely with the knight’s; a hot, wet pas de deux. His hand slowly traveled up the back of Fakir’s head, holding him firmly, fingernails scratching at his scalp through his hair. Only when Mytho thrust his tongue deep enough to make Fakir gag did Fakir realize what he was doing, and by then it was already too late. Mytho’s grip on the back of his head ensured that he wouldn’t be going anywhere, no matter how hard he struggled.

Eventually the prince decided he had had enough and pulled back, leaving Fakir panting desperately for breath. A thin string of saliva stretched between the two boys’ mouths before slipping away from Mytho, landing on Fakir’s chin. Fakir’s eyes were half-lidded, his breath coming in short gasps. “What the hell?”

Mytho laughed, brushing away the saliva from Fakir’s face. “Oh, Fakir... if only you could see how worthless you look right now...”

Fakir’s eyes opened slightly at that. “What?”

“It’s only the truth. I haven’t said anything that isn’t true.” Mytho kept a firm grip on the knight, who appeared to be getting his senses back after the shock brought on by his kiss. “Why are you struggling? You’ve always wanted me. That’s true too, isn’t it?”

Fakir snapped out of his haze and jerked violently against him, only succeeding in banging his head against the wall. Of course Mytho was right. He had always wanted him, from the time he had been old enough to know what sex was, but he’d been careful to ensure that Mytho never found that out. Or he thought he had, at least. He’d never intentionally treated Mytho with anything but platonic affection.

Mytho laughed again, the sound eerily similar to a crow’s caw. “You don’t have to answer, I can see it,” he replied, his hand sliding down from the wall to rest between Fakir’s thighs. “It’s okay, though,” he went on, moving his fingers just enough against the bulge there to make Fakir squirm. “I want you, too.”

“Stop it, Mytho,” Fakir groaned. “This isn’t like you.”

“Make me,” Mytho breathed against Fakir’s ear. The older boy only let out a strangled moan in reply, trying without success to stop his hips from moving against Mytho’s hand.

With that perceived approval, Mytho raised his hands to Fakir’s throat again, eliciting a sigh of combined relief and disappointment from the knight. “Don’t worry,” he whispered darkly, taking his reluctant partner’s arm to slip his jacket sleeve off inch by inch. “I’m not anywhere near done with you yet.”

“Mytho, please,” Fakir panted, eyes tightly shut as Mytho pulled his jacket off agonizingly slowly and moved on to unpinning his cravat. “Come back to your senses.”

“Hmm,” Mytho replied, brushing his fingertips against Fakir’s throat as he let the cravat and its pin fall to the floor. The gem shattered on the floor, shards scattering across the room as Mytho deliberately toyed with the first button on Fakir’s shirt. “Are you talking to me, or to yourself?”

The only answer was the older boy’s labored breathing as Mytho slowly moved down his body, undoing one button at a time, kissing at his gradually revealed flesh as he slid downward. Mytho grinned at the sight of Fakir’s scar, the purplish mark running from shoulder to hip, and paused for a moment to run his tongue along its edge. Fakir tensed and stifled a gasp as Mytho licked his scar, sharp fingernails following the slickness of Mytho’s tongue with a shock of pain.

“Does it hurt, Fakir?” Mytho asked, scraping at his skin with his nails--had they always been that long? “Pity you’ll end up torn in half again at the end.”

“No,” Fakir muttered, almost to himself. “I--I’ll...”

“You’ll what? What will you do?” Mytho looked up at him with mock-innocent eyes. “Are you going to save me, Fakir, bring my heart back? Princess Tutu is better at that than you are. You’re losing to a girl in a tutu.”

“I’ll protect you,” Fakir forced out, his words choked. “I’ll... I’ll...”

Mytho laughed, unbuckling Fakir’s belt and pulling it from its belt loops. “Stop talking, Fakir. You’re digging a deeper hole for yourself every time you open your mouth.”

Fakir’s eyes opened wide when he felt leather against his skin, cold metal pressing against the bones of his wrists. Looking down, he saw his hands imprisoned in his own belt, the leather pulled tightly through the buckle to create a makeshift slip knot. Mytho held the other end of the belt, grinning to himself, obviously pleased with his ingenuity. “That’s so you don’t do anything stupid,” he explained, standing up and turning toward the bed, tugging Fakir with him. “Lie down.”

“What are you going to do?” Fakir asked, his bound hands trembling in fear.

Mytho fixed his gaze on Fakir, his eyes flashing a faint reddish-pink. “I said lie down.”

Fakir knew from the tone of his voice that refusal was not an option. Still attempting to hide his shaking, he lay down on the bed, allowing Mytho to tug his hands above his head. Mytho stayed behind him at the headboard, knotting the belt around something Fakir couldn’t see. “You’re too skinny,” he commented, pausing in his knots to brush a hand over Fakir’s stomach, making the older boy arch his back and moan softly. “There’s hardly enough here to make a proper knot.”

“Sorry,” Fakir muttered automatically, and then wondered where that had come from.

“Didn’t I tell you to stop talking?” Mytho crawled on top of Fakir on the bed, still fully-clothed, his thighs on either side of Fakir’s stomach. “You struggle too much against your feelings, Fakir. This will be much easier for you if you just relax,” he commented, running a small, soft hand down the side of Fakir’s face and over his arm before leaning in to kiss him again.

If the first kiss had been intoxicating, this one was altogether blinding. Fakir’s mental faculties were abruptly stolen from him, replaced with a consuming, burning desire that raced through his veins. Mytho’s lips seemed to exude some powerful drug, leaving him helpless, a passive but needy doll beneath the prince. His vision blurred and then blacked out entirely, though whether he had actually closed his eyes he could not say. Fakir had no sense of his own body, just an overwhelming need to feel Mytho and be with him and love him. Only him, forever.

Mytho pulled away after what seemed like an eon, allowing Fakir to regain some semblance of sanity. Fakir’s eyes blinked open--they had been closed, after all--to the sight of the same strange smirk on Mytho’s face. “There, now,” Mytho murmured, lying his own chest against Fakir’s bare one, “don’t you feel better now?”

As fuzzy as Fakir’s mind was, he could realize that what was happening was very, very wrong. “Goddammit,” he groaned, struggling against the belt around his wrists, which stubbornly refused to open even the tiniest bit. “Mytho, snap out of it and let me go!”

“Hmm, no,” Mytho replied absently, sliding down the bed to remove Fakir’s shoes and his own. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

“Untie me! Let me go!” Fakir was at a loss; in the past, Mytho had always responded to his commands. Now every protest he made just seemed to make the prince more determined to keep him prisoner. In desperation, he kicked at Mytho’s knee where it rested on the bed, hoping the pain would shock him out of whatever trance he was in.

Mytho hissed softly in pain as Fakir’s heel connected with his joint. “Now that’s just not fair, Fakir. You’re so much stronger than I am.”

“Like hell it’s not fair. Let me go!”

“I told you, no.” Mytho rested against the wall at the foot of Fakir’s bed, looking at Fakir’s ankles thoughtfully. “Now, if you’re not going to behave yourself I’m going to have to make you behave. But I’m going to have to get your pants off at some point...”

“Why do you need to do that?!”

“Patience, my dear useless knight. I’ll show you soon enough.” Mytho crawled back on top of Fakir’s calves, his weight on the older boy’s legs ensuring that he wouldn’t be kicking anymore. “That’s better. For now, at least.”

Fakir thrashed and squirmed on the mattress, to little avail as Mytho simply sat more firmly on his legs. “Damn it, Mytho!”

“Language, Fakir.” Mytho reached out with one finger, brushing it across Fakir’s lips, laughing when the other boy attempted to bite it. “Now, now, we both know violence won’t help,” he chuckled softly, trailing his finger down Fakir’s chest and stomach. His other hand crept silently up Fakir’s inner thigh, eventually coming to rest on the bulge at the junction of Fakir’s legs. “Your body isn’t as opposed to this as your mouth would have me think.”

“I can’t help what my body does,” Fakir groaned, his breathing becoming a series of labored gasps as Mytho unzipped his pants.

“Precisely.” Mytho reached down into the waistband of Fakir’s boxers, his fingernails lightly scraping at the skin of Fakir’s lower belly.

Fakir’s eyes opened wide at the touch, so close to his manhood, but not quite reaching where he most wanted to be touched. “Please,” he panted softly, desperate to end this before he was unable to do so. “Please don’t do this, Mytho.”

Mytho only laughed darkly and thrust his hand downward, grasping Fakir’s length in his hand and giving it a firm stroke.

Every objection Fakir had had to this encounter flew away at that moment. He was no stranger to being touched like this, but it had always been his own hand doing the pleasuring, and never with a pair of bright red eyes on him, watching him with desire as he writhed and moaned--which he was, against his own will, a will that hardly existed any longer. Mytho tugged Fakir’s pants and underwear downward, earning a moan from Fakir as the cold air hit his heated cock, a delicious contrast to the warmth of Mytho’s hand wrapped around him. “Mytho,” he groaned softly.

Mytho grinned, apparently pleased with Fakir’s sudden loss of conscious will. “Tell me how good it feels,” he purred, slowly working the other boy’s pants down his body.

“So good,” Fakir managed, his mind and vocabulary so incapacitated by the pleasure it was difficult to form sentences. “Better than... anything... ah!” he cried, thrusting his hips upward as he felt a tongue touch the sensitive head of his cock. Sometime while he was searching for words in his mind, Mytho had lowered his head and begun lapping at him, his hand still working furiously on what he wasn’t licking.

A low growl was the only warning Fakir got before being enveloped in the soft wetness of Mytho’s mouth, that skilled tongue--where on earth had he learned to use it like that?--moving against Fakir’s length as the younger boy removed his hand. The prince began to bob his head in roughly the same rhythm he had begun with his hand, his lips sliding up Fakir’s shaft and nearly touching the head before sliding back down. Meanwhile his hands wandered across Fakir’s belly, down his thighs, up between them as he gently massaged Fakir’s testicles.

Without realizing it, Fakir began to rock his hips along with Mytho’s head, instinctively trying to keep himself buried in that hot mouth. It simply felt too good for him to take--Mytho’s lips, his tongue, his hands, all focused on that expanse of flesh between his legs. Abruptly, Mytho swallowed around him, and Fakir nearly came at that instant, his hands struggling unconsciously against his bonds. How badly he wanted to just grab Mytho’s head and finish this...!

Mytho continued in that vein, taking more and more of Fakir into his mouth and down his throat, swallowing and licking at him in rhythm. Fakir could feel his mind about ready to snap, tortured to the breaking point by the pleasure he was receiving from Mytho. He had to come, he needed to come...

He nearly screamed in frustration when Mytho slid off, leaving him stiff and wanting, desperate to release the unbearable pressure inside himself. “Mytho, please!”

Ignoring his captive’s struggles, Mytho sat back on his heels, slowly stripping himself directly in Fakir’s line of vision. Fakir couldn’t help but stare, his erection becoming even more insistent if that was possible, as Mytho’s lean, white body was revealed. The boy was so incredibly beautiful, exactly the way Fakir had imagined him when he’d gone so far as to touch himself with thoughts of his prince in his mind. Every muscle, every bone, every expanse of smooth pale flesh was perfect, and it only made the blood pump faster through his cock, his body constantly reminding him of why he had succumbed to Mytho in the first place. He wanted him. He always had, and he always would.

“Do you like my body, my knight?” Mytho asked, sliding his underwear down his thighs, providing Fakir with a head-on view of his erect manhood.

“Yes...” Fakir breathed, his wrists trembling against the belt around them; though whether to touch himself or Mytho, he wasn’t sure. “You’re beautiful, Mytho.”

Rather than go back to touching him, Mytho stretched out on top of Fakir, pressing the latter’s erection against his own, making them both shudder slightly in pleasure. “Fakir...” he whispered almost gently, along with another of those all-consuming kisses.

“Yes?” Fakir murmured against his lips, letting his mind slip away entirely this time and not caring.

“Do you love me?” Mytho asked, in between planting soft kisses along the knight’s neck and chest.

“Yes... yes, I always have...”

“Will you give me whatever I ask?”

“Anything, anything at all...”

Mytho’s hand slid down to rest flat against Fakir’s chest. “Your heart?”

“It’s yours,” Fakir gasped, bucking his hips gently against Mytho’s erection. “All yours, all of it... just finish this...”

“Good boy.” With a final kiss, this one leaving Fakir breathless and aching in more ways than one, Mytho moved down Fakir’s body again. “Just relax,” the younger boy whispered into the soft curls at the base of Fakir’s erection. “It’ll hurt less that way...”

Fakir didn’t have time to think about what that meant before Mytho began licking at him again, his tongue running teasingly up and down the underside of Fakir’s cock. At the same moment Fakir felt something thin and warm slide between his cheeks, probing for an entrance before sliding inside him, quickly joined by another. Fakir groaned softly, the pain of the intrusion more than made up for by the pleasure of Mytho’s tongue. If only Mytho would suck him again...

Mytho’s fingers gently stroked in and out of him, searching for something, making gentle scissoring motions inside him. Fakir moaned and squirmed at the uncomfortable sensation, only to be distracted with another long, wet stroke of Mytho’s tongue. The prince wanted him to enjoy himself, that much was certain, but he didn’t want him to finish yet, or he would have made him already. He was waiting for something, a fact that would have made Fakir nervous had he not been under the Raven’s spell. As it was, he would gladly accept whatever Mytho did to him, so long as Mytho would love him.

One of Mytho’s fingers pressed against a certain spot, and Fakir moaned louder and bucked his hips at the shock of pleasure. With a pleased chuckle, Mytho slipped his fingers out, placing his hands on Fakir’s hips and lining himself up between the knight’s thighs. “Are you ready?”

“For you, always,” Fakir whispered, the ghost of a smile on his face.

Mytho took that as his cue to thrust inside Fakir, slowly at first in cause it hurt him. Fakir hissed softly in pain, instinctively trying to push the prince away, but Mytho caught his thighs and held them firm. “Relax,” he ordered, stroking Fakir’s thigh soothingly. “I won’t do anything to you that won’t heal. Not tonight, anyway.”

Fakir nodded automatically and relaxed his muscles, allowing Mytho to penetrate him fully. Mytho sighed in pleasure, rocking his hips slowly against Fakir, thrusting in and out. “You’re so tight, Fakir... you’ve never had another man, have you?”

“Only you,” Fakir murmured, reaching up to trace the lines of Mytho’s face.

“Have you ever been with a woman?” Mytho asked, angling his thrusts so that they hit the bundle of nerves inside Fakir.

Fakir shook his head violently, tensing at the pleasure. “Ah! No, only you, only ever you...”

Mytho just laughed again, wrapping his hand around Fakir’s erection and pumping it in time with his thrusts. “Good boy.”

Fakir squirmed and moaned and thrust back against Mytho, his eyes shut tight in ecastasy, his hands now limp and useless in their bonds. Mytho only took that as an invitation to take him harder and faster, holding his hip with his free hand for stability, the other hand tightening around Fakir’s erection. Freed from Mytho’s weight, Fakir’s legs wrapped around Mytho’s waist, pulling the prince’s body closer to his own as they thrust against each other. Each movement was absolute bliss, each sound from either boy’s lips an expression of pure pleasure. Love had no part of it. Only undiluted desire drove them now.

“Mytho,” Fakir gasped, on the edge of his climax. “I love you.”

“Only me?” Mytho asked, tensing against him as he felt his own orgasm approaching.

“Only you.”

“Forever?”

“Forever!” Fakir shouted, throwing his head back and arching his back as his pleasure reached a peak. “Ah! Mytho!”

Fakir’s muscles tightening around him was Mytho’s undoing, and he spilled himself inside his knight, crying out in pleasure as he came. For a long moment all that existed were the cries and panting of the two boys, and their bodies shuddering against each other. Then the pleasure faded, and Mytho collapsed against Fakir’s chest, stroking his scar lightly. “You really love me?” he asked, holding him close.

“Only you,” Fakir repeated automatically.

Mytho sighed in delight, sitting up to examine the belt around Fakir’s wrists. “You promise to behave if I untie you?”

“Yes, I’ll be good.”

Mytho untied the belt from around Fakir’s wrists, kissing the leather burns affectionately. “Next time I’ll plan better and you won’t hurt yourself. Okay?”

“Next time,” Fakir whispered, “I won’t try to get away.”