It is 1998. Fourteen-year-old Sören can feel him before he can see him - he can smell him, the alcohol stench is overpowering, but Sören plays the maybe-if-I-ignore-him-he'll-go-away game, headphones blaring. He continues to sketch, though his heart is hammering in his ears, his mouth dry.
Where figures from the past stand tall
And mocking voices ring the halls
Imperialistic house of prayer
Conquistadors who took their share
That keep calling me
They keep calling me
Keep on calling me
They keep calling me
Einar comes over to the bed, snatches off the headphones and throws the Walkman to the floor. Sören knows Einar has probably broken it, and won't pay to replace it. Fuck.
"Why are you in your room again?"
Sören can't make words.
"Why do you always stay in here, every afternoon, every evening? Nose in a book, or nose in this." He gestures to the sketchpad. "Why don't you play a sport like a real man?"
Sören finds his words. "I have asthma. Also, I think I missed the memo about how having a cock obligates me to play a sport. Women play sports too, it's not just a man thing." A sneer. "I don't exactly see you out there playing a sport, unless you consider drinking a sport -"
Einar backhands him. Sören starts to wheeze, and it becomes a full coughing fit when Einar snatches the sketchbook away from him, rips off the page Sören was working on, tears the picture in two and crumples it. Sören is coughing so hard he can't even protest. He pulls his inhaler out of his pocket, which feels like a herculean effort with how violently he's coughing, and then Einar rips that out of his hand, too. Sören points at it, gasping for breath.
"You spend all your time doing this bullshit, it's why you're weak. You cry about how you don't have any friends, you get picked on, it's because you waste your time on nonsense like this - " Einar throws one of the crumpled balls of paper at him. "Rather than learning how to be a proper man." He throws the inhaler at Sören, and it falls on the floor; Sören has to get on the floor to retrieve it, and once he's on his knees Einar backhands him again. "Look at you on your knees. Pathetic."
As Sören puffs on the inhaler, Einar looks at other pages of the sketchbook, scoffs at them. "You think you're going to be the next Van Gogh, or something? These are worthless. Ugly. Ugly and worthless." One by one he tears the pages off, crumples them. "Just like you. You're nothing. You're never going to amount to anything, not when you waste your time on this. Art. It's not art, it's trash. You're trash."
"Stop it."
"Stop it? You think you get to order me around, boy? Who puts a roof over your head, food in your mouth, and has since your bitch of a mother died? You know she thought she was too good for me? Wouldn't put out?"
Sören is shaking with anger. "Don't talk about my mother like that."
"She bought all that feminist garbage, so did your father, and even though you weren't that old when she died I can see she poisoned your head with it, emasculated you -"
Something in Sören's head snaps. From his knees, Sören lunges, and Einar's hands grab his fists, then Einar knees Sören in the chest, knocking him to the floor, and stomps on his balls. Sören starts to cry, in physical pain, as well as emotional pain from Einar's words, the hopelessness of his situation.
"There you go crying again. I'll give you something to cry about -" Einar unbuckles his belt and drags Sören back to his knees, yanking up his shirt. The belt hits him across his back -
_
Sören woke up with a shout, heart pounding.
"Sören." Anthony's voice, husky with sleep. Sören squinted at the clock, and the first light streaming through the curtains. Even with Anthony being an early riser, this was too early. He'd woken Anthony up.
Anthony's voice again. "Sören, elskan, it's OK." Anthony was rubbing his back now.
Sören fell apart, crying, and crying harder for being like this, even though Anthony had never once judged him for crying, even though Sören rejected the kind of toxic masculinity that said "boys don't cry", and Anthony was working on that himself. Fifteen years later, and it still feels like yesterday. Whoever says "time heals all wounds" was a fucking liar because he still owns property in my head. It wasn't the first time Sören had woken up from a nightmare in bed with Anthony. It wasn't even the tenth or twentieth time. He knew it wouldn't be the last time.
I am so, so tired of this. Especially with Anthony's recovery - though he was doing much better these days - Sören didn't like disrupting his rest. He, himself, was exhausted of playing roulette every time he went to sleep, not knowing if he'd have a nice erotic dream about Anthony and/or maybe a threesome with a hot guy, or if his brain would decide to "rewatch an episode of PTSD Theatre", as he called it.
His antidepressant medication only did so much. It was a volume control, not an off switch. Talk therapy was like re-opening old wounds, and there had been a lot of pressure on him to "forgive" his abusers and "not carry around anger", so he'd stopped. He found most days it was better to just keep himself distracted. That was how he coped.
But in moments like this there was no distraction, only that feeling of being frozen in time, small and powerless all over again. Anthony was petting him, rocking him, and Sören had the sense like he was floating outside his body, like somehow the present reality of Einar being back in Akureyri and him being here in bed with the man he loved - the Alpha who protected him - wasn't actually real.
"It's OK, Sören. It's all right. I'm here. You're safe. You're safe with me. I've got you." Anthony rained kisses over his face, his jasmine-and-musk Alpha scent strong and soothing.
"I'm sorry," Sören heard himself saying. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry -"
"You have nothing to apologize for."
"I woke you up."
"So?" Anthony gave him a stern look. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I do everything wrong." Sören started sobbing again.
"Oh god, Sören. Sören, no. Don't say that. That's not true at all..."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."
"Hi Sorry."
Now it was Sören's turn to give Anthony a stern look. Anthony kissed the tip of his nose and tweaked it. "Here, let me rub your back some, OK?"
Sören rolled onto his stomach, and Anthony began to rub his back. Sören knew, as he felt Anthony's hands on him, that it wasn't just to soothe him, but was a symbolic gesture of acceptance - his back was scarred from Einar's belt; he'd gotten the phoenixes on his back over the scars in the months following his suicide attempt. Anthony's hands kneaded, soothing him, and Anthony's fingers brushed the outline of the birds, one fire, one water, tails entwined. His fingers stroked the scars. Anthony leaned down to kiss them, and Sören felt himself break again, sobbing into the pillow, this time because he was touched, grateful for Anthony's love for him. It was something he never took for granted.
"That's all in the past now," Anthony said, rubbing, kneading, stroking. "You're here, with me. I love you."
"I love you."
"It's going to be all right. We're starting a new life up here. A happy life."
Anthony rubbed his back some more, and finally he stopped and patted his shoulder. "I'm gonna piss, then let's have breakfast, OK?"
When Sören didn't respond with the expected "Hi Gonna Piss", Anthony gave him a sad look. Sören watched Anthony walk out of the bedroom, admiring Anthony's naked body, but feeling too upset as yet to react to it. Sören closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths and when Anthony came in, he pulled on a bathrobe, and threw Sören's bathrobe at him.
Sören gave fresh food and water to the kittens, and then he saw Anthony had out two bowls, two spoons, a scoop, and a carton of ice cream. Sören raised an eyebrow.
"We're going to have ice cream for breakfast," Anthony said, pulling out a chair for him, "because we're fucking adults."
Sören did manage a smile at that - Anthony stolen his line from the occasional morning when they lived in London. Anthony scooped ice cream into the bowls and sat down across from him. It was Anthony's turn to raise an eyebrow when he spooned ice cream into his mouth and Sören was still staring at his bowl.
"Sören, are you still upset?"
"Well, yes, but that's not it." Sören looked at the fresh fruit on the kitchen counter. "I feel like we ought to do something healthy, like... put a banana in it, or something."
Then his mind finally went in the expected territory, and Anthony caught it just before Sören could break into a grin; he facepalmed and groaned loudly, but was shaking with silent laughter.
Sören got up, chopped up a banana, and added half the contents to Anthony's bowl over his ice cream, and half to his. Then he got a second banana, and when he'd finished his ice cream with banana slices - Anthony was still working on his - Sören unpeeled the banana and stuck as much of it in his mouth as he could, not able to help himself, needing a distraction from earlier, and humor frequently worked. Anthony almost choked, and once he'd swallowed, he shook with laughter again, beet red.
Sören pulled the banana out of his mouth and wrapped his lips around just the tip, giving Anthony a naughty look before he bit the tip off.
"You're incorrigible," Anthony told him.
"Takk."
Sören continued to eat the banana - slowly, teasingly, working it in and out of his mouth like he was sucking a cock, making "mmmmmm" noises once the banana was almost gone. He enjoyed Anthony's reaction, watching him get more and more flustered - it was just the distraction Sören needed. When Anthony's bowl was finished, Sören was on his last couple bites of banana, and couldn't resist giving Anthony a wicked grin before he took a few licks at the banana before putting it back in his mouth to finish off.
Anthony got up, snatched his bowl away, and Sören continued grinning as Anthony slammed the bowls down in the sink. His grin got even bigger when Anthony came around the table and tugged the collar of Sören's bathrobe. "You. Me. Bedroom. Now." Then Anthony started dragging him.
As soon as they stepped in the bedroom Anthony yanked off Sören's robe, letting his own fall to the floor, and then he shoved Sören down on the bed. Anthony climbed over Sören and scooted up on his knees until his cock was in Sören's face.
"Here, you slut," he teased.
Sören greedily took Anthony's cock in his mouth - Sören was already hard and slick and the feel of Anthony's cock in his mouth made his own cock jolt, slick dripping down his thighs. The heat in Anthony's eyes, riveted, made Sören's hole twitch. Sören reached down to touch himself and Anthony slapped his hand away. Sören sucked harder and faster, hungry for it, and Anthony grabbed Sören by the curls and gently fucked his mouth, panting, grunting. Sören whimpered around Anthony's cock, going mad with lust, and Anthony moaned in response. The hand that had been playing with himself slid up Anthony's hairy thigh, and cupped Anthony's balls, rubbing as he sucked in earnest. Anthony groaned and tugged Sören's curls. A few thrusts later and Anthony pulled out of Sören's mouth, making a popping sound - Anthony was trembling, looking ready to come.
But instead of letting Sören suck him to completion, he leaned in and gave Sören a rough kiss, then kissed and licked his way down Sören's body, teasing his nipples, his stomach, and thighs, before hovering at Sören's cock, nose in Sören's dark bush, breathing in his Omega scent. Sören groaned as Anthony took a few licks at the head of his cock, chasing the precum flowing down the shaft.
"Mmmmmm." Anthony licked his lips, and swirled his tongue around and around the head of Sören's cock, then lashed at the frenulum before lapping at the head.
Sören groaned, arched to him, cock throbbing, hole twitching and pooling slick. "You want to sixty-nine?"
"Later, maybe. I want to be able to look at you while I do this, and watch you fall apart." Anthony took a slow, loving lick at the head of Sören's cock. "You're so fucking hot."
Sören's cock leapt at that. Anthony smiled before he wrapped his lips around it. He began sucking slowly, their eyes locked. Anthony's right hand caressed up and down Sören's hip and thigh, and then a moment later Sören saw Anthony's left shoulder moving and knew Anthony was stroking himself. Anthony moaned with his mouth full, and Sören groaned at the feel of Anthony's mouth, those sexy green eyes, and knowing Anthony was that turned on that he was touching himself.
Anthony continued sucking him slowly, focusing on the first few inches of Sören's cock - his right hand moved from Sören's thigh to rub the bottom of his shaft and play with his balls. Then, a few minutes into it, the fingers of Anthony's right hand slipped inside him, one, then two. He found the prostate right away, making Sören buck his hips and cry out.
Anthony kept the pace slow with sucking and fingering, continuing to stroke himself, his precum-soaked cock making a wet rattling sound. Sören's moans got louder and louder, and at last, Anthony withdrew his fingers and Sören let out a whimper of protest. Anthony stopped sucking, took a few licks, gave Sören a wicked look, and then got up. Sören screamed through clenched teeth, frustrated, and Anthony gave him a sassy butt wiggle on his way to the bedtable...
...where they kept some interesting things in the drawer, like toys. Anthony pulled out a curved, rippled glass dildo and strutted back over. Sören watched as Anthony sucked on the dildo, getting it nice and wet, then Anthony got back in place between Sören's legs, and with a little smile he started to push the dildo into Sören, an inch at a time.
Sören's breath hitched and he quivered. "Oh god."
And then he was in Anthony's mouth again. Sucking slowly, fucking him slowly.
"Oh god, Anthony." His hands reached for Anthony's short hair, rubbed his scalp. Anthony let out an "mmmmmm" and he skritched Anthony like a cat. Anthony sucked him a little harder and faster.
Soon Sören was rolling his hips gently, and the rattling sound of Anthony stroking himself got louder. Anthony kept Sören on that edge, eyes never leaving him as Sören panted, gasped, moaned whimpered, cried out, rocking his hips, the pleasure more and more intense. Finally he tugged Anthony's hair and belted out, "Anthony, fuck me."
Anthony worked the dildo in and out of him hard, and bobbed up and down on his cock, sucking him hard, wet slurping noises. Sören felt his balls tightening, felt himself rushing towards orgasm, trying to hold back just a little more, savoring the rhythm on his prostate, the sucking around his head, his shaft, it was too good...
He was starting to be overtaken, less and less able to hold back. It was like being at a volcano just before it was about to erupt, knowing what was about to happen, but still surprised by the sheer force of it anyway. Their eyes met and he cried out, "Anthony," and Anthony gave another "mmmmm" as Sören flooded his mouth... then Anthony's eyes widened and the "mmmm" was louder and more urgent, his body shaking. Anthony swallowed, and was panting after he pulled Sören out of his mouth, hands trembling as he grabbed the sheets, white-knuckled. "Oh, fuck," Anthony gasped.
"You came?"
Anthony nodded. "Right when you did."
"It turned you on that much?"
"You turn me on, Sören. Yes."
Anthony came up to kiss him, and Sören groaned with satisfaction as he tasted himself on Anthony.
Anthony lay against Sören's chest for a little while, and Sören stroked Anthony's hair as they came down from their orgasm. They shared a last few tender little kisses, noses rubbing, before Anthony got up, and Sören watched him change.
"You have plans?" Sören asked.
"Not really, but I thought I'd take the car and run a couple errands, like grocery shopping. Maybe even go for a little walk."
Once again, Anthony was going out by himself after the knife attack. Sören was proud - but also a little worried, hoping Anthony wasn't going to come back in panic. At Sören's look of concern, Anthony said, "I won't be gone terribly long, maybe an hour or two at the most, but yes, I can do this. And I need to do this, not just to prove to myself - and you - that I can, but I also need to start exploring our new home, get a feel for what's around here. It was one thing to visit Brighton a few weekends a month when we were living in London, it's another thing to live here now."
"Jæja, I'm sorry, I know I worry too much." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls.
"You do, but I understand why you do."
"Take your cell phone."
"I will."
_
While Anthony was out, Sören painted, working on the seascape - the shingle beach of Brighton on an overcast day. All the little subtle details of the shades of grey, the light through the clouds, the sparkles on the water, the different stones, no two pebbles alike.
To an outside observer, the painting was done and had been done for a couple days now, but Sören kept fussing with it, adjusting the flow of the rays of light, the foam of the tide. There was still something missing, and Sören didn't know what.
I should stop messing with it, he told himself. This is as good as it's going to get.
And that bothered him. He knew that Anthony would probably like it, so would other people, and if it was painted by someone else he'd think they had done a very fine job, that it was a gorgeous piece of art. But he couldn't escape that nagging feeling like it wasn't quite done, that there was something else that needed to be added to the painting. Enough was enough, but it still wasn't enough.
Nothing is ever enough.
It wasn't the first time that Sören had felt angst while working on a painting. Sometimes, when he worked on longer projects, he'd actually cry when it was over, not understanding why. But this, he understood. It was that feeling of inadequacy, that even when he'd painted what he wanted to paint and other people found it more than acceptable, he felt like he hadn't done it justice in the translation of the visions burning in his mind's eye, and what he was able to bring to the canvas.
He'd felt it before, and it was something he could usually work past. Today he remembered the dream of his uncle Einar, reliving Einar destroying his work - not the first time, not the last time. When he'd dropped out of med school after his suicide attempt and taken up painting, he remembered the wealthy patron he was briefly involved with, and the admission at the end: You're a rank amateur. Your arse interests me much more than your art.
He thought of his ex Justin Roberts, breaking canvases, throwing paint on them. You talentless hack. Look at this shite. Why don't you get a real job?
Sören broke down sobbing, fighting the urge to throw his own painting across the room, not doing it because it wasn't just his, it was Anthony's. He lay on the nest in the corner of the studio in the fetal position, and Anthony found him like that when he came in. Anthony knelt beside him, petting him.
"Sören. What is it?"
He pointed to the canvas. "That."
Anthony looked at it and gasped. "Sören. That's..." His breath caught. "That's gorgeous." He got up and walked to it, studying it. "I'm probably biased, but this is your best work, and you've done some amazing pieces. It looks almost photorealistic, which is something you've achieved many times before, but this is like..." He sighed. "It draws you in. I can almost feel the warmth of the light, looking at it."
"And see, I feel like I did a shitty job."
Anthony's eyes widened with shock. "What?" Anthony went back over to him, giving him a stern look. "Sören, no. No." Anthony started shaking him a little. "That's Einar talking. That's Justin."
"I mean, I spent days, so many hours, working on that and I still don't feel like I got it right, between what I saw in my head and what came out, and..." Sören rubbed his face and sniffed. "Something else belongs there and I don't even know what -"
"I don't know, I think it looks pretty amazing as-is."
"But..." Sören let out a sob, feeling ashamed that he was being like this over his art. "People are dying, and I'm laying here getting all worked up over this shit, crying. God, no wonder Einar used to yell at me for crying so much -"
"Sören."
" - and it's over nothing. Literally, nothing. I paint for a living instead of working a real job -"
"People buy your paintings."
"What if they weren't selling? Would you still think it was worthwhile?"
"Yes." Anthony's eyes challenged his. "I would."
"You say that now, but we have money right now."
"It won't run out for some time, and you'll probably sell some more paintings before then, and I'll probably go back to school or find a new job before then and if not, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But I don't ever want you to think that you painting is not 'a real job'. Because it is. It is to me."
Sören cried onto Anthony's shoulder. Anthony pet Sören's curls, kissed the top of his head.
"You could do better than me," Sören said. "You deserve better than me. I mean, you were a barrister -"
"For fuck's sake." Anthony grabbed Sören's chin and gave him another stern look. "You know how miserable I was in that job, how work ate my life. I worked so hard for everything I thought I wanted, except it turned out to be the opposite of what I wanted when I got there, and looking back? I feel like I've wasted my life. Those were years I could have spent doing something else rather than pushing myself to have 'a real job' and be 'successful' and all the lies this world tells us. And even if I was happy being a barrister and doing that still? You don't get to tell me I could do better, that I deserve better. I chose you. And I'm even more in love with you now."
"Dammit, Anthony." Sören broke again, a fresh torrent of tears.
Anthony rocked him and rocked him, petting him, making soothing noises. Sören breathed in his Alpha's scent.
When Sören's tears subsided, Anthony got up and came back with tissues, wiping Sören's nose like he was a big kid. "Now," Anthony said, "I'll make dinner. I wanted to make cheese on toast tonight for you anyway, since I know that's your favorite, with soup."
"You're too good to me."
"No, I'm not. You deserve all the good things."
Sören played fetch with the kittens as Anthony cooked in the kitchen; dinner didn't take long. They ate together in companionable silence, and then they curled up on the couch, watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix on DVD with sleepy kittens purring away.
"I should really re-read Harry Potter," Sören said.
"You should. Though you said you were going to read my copy of The Dark Tower."
"Oh, I did. Derp." Sören rubbed his face. "Kinda got lost with painting..."
"I know. You're consumed by it. Which is another sign that, you know, you don't suck."
Their minds both went into the gutter at that, and Sören felt mischievous again. He got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with an orange creamsicle. Anthony tried to watch the movie, but his eyes kept wandering back to Sören's lips wrapped around the frozen confection, sucking it slowly.
Sören couldn't help the smile as he heard Anthony's breath hitch. "You know..."
"I know." Sören grinned and gave the creamsicle a few licks before popping it back in his mouth. When the creamsicle was gone and there was a little left on his tongue, Sören kissed Anthony with it, and Anthony groaned into the kiss.
Then Anthony kissed him back hard, and shoved him down on the couch. They spent the rest of the movie making out on the couch, grinding against each other, and when the credits rolled, Anthony pulled back Sören's T-shirt and drew a pierced nipple into his mouth. Sören was painfully hard, straining against his jeans, and drenched with slick. He moaned as Anthony palmed the bulge in his jeans, lapping the nipple, sucking harder.
When Anthony was done licking and suckling Sören's nipple, he pulled Sören up from the couch and led him down the hall. They undressed each other, clothes pulling on the hall floor, and walked into the bathroom to shower together. Under the water Sören felt himself crying again, and Anthony held him. "Wash this morning away, elskan," Anthony said, rocking and petting him some more. "Let it out."
After they had lathered and rinsed, they kissed under the shower, Sören calmer, and the kisses became more passionate, a return to the fevered mood on the couch. They practically chased to the bedroom, naked, giggling. Sören pounced on the bed and pulled Anthony on the bed with him, and Anthony climbed over him, pushing him back down on the pillows. They held each other for a moment, looking into each other's eyes, before Anthony leaned in to kiss him deep and hungry.
"You know what you need?" Anthony asked, finally.
"What."
"To let go. I don't mean in the bullshit sense that therapist told you. I mean to just... completely get out of your head for awhile."
Sören smirked. "Sounds like you have something in mind."
"Yeah." Anthony kissed him again. "Something we haven't done since before the knife attack."
Sören's eyes widened when Anthony stole another kiss, and he kissed Anthony back, hard.
They kept a pair of black silk scarves in the bedtable drawer, even though it had been awhile. Anthony pulled them out now, kissing Sören as he tied one of Sören's wrists to the headboard, then the other.
When Sören was bound, Anthony proceeded to kiss and lick him all over, from his neck down to his ankles and back up. Anthony lingered at Sören's nipples, his stomach, his hips, his thighs, behind the knee. Anthony's fingers wandered over him, and he rubbed his cheek, his nose against Sören's skin, planting soft little kisses before more sensual ones. Sören moaned louder and louder, already transported far away from his problems, into the fire of passion, and Anthony had only just begun. When every inch of the front of Sören's body had felt Anthony's mouth, Anthony came up to kiss him, and Sören moaned again as he felt Anthony rubbing against his thigh, rock-hard. Slick dripped down Sören's thighs, hole twitching, aching for him.
Anthony reached between Sören's legs and his finger circled Sören's opening. "I love feeling how wet you get," Anthony husked, and then he brought his finger to his mouth to taste Sören's slick.
Anthony dove back down, split Sören like a peach, and started eating him in earnest, tongue lashing away, making murmurs of pleasure. Sören trembled, feeling like he was losing his mind as Anthony's wicked tongue teased that sweet spot inside him, lashing away, then taking slower, more deliberate strokes. The lightest flutter, then fucking hard. Anthony's tongue threatened to set Sören off to climax right then, but kept Sören's release just out of reach, dangling him on that delicious edge, helpless. Anthony reveled in teasing him, looking up every now and again to smile, his fingers walking over Sören's sensitive thighs and calves.
"Oh, you like that, do you?"
Sören nodded and whimpered.
Anthony laughed softly, tonguing him some more, making Sören howl, writhing against the restraints, trying to roll his hips and fuck himself on Anthony's tongue. Anthony moved in closer and his tongue worked faster, eating him with a hunger that surprised Sören, pleasure and tension building and building, so close and yet so far...
Finally Anthony relented. "OK, I know you need more. But first..."
Anthony climbed up, got on his knees, and sat on Sören's shoulders. Sören obediently took Anthony's cock in his mouth.
"That's a good boy." Anthony stroked Sören's hair and face. Sören let out a little whimper, his cock throbbing at that. Anthony knew Sören had a praise kink, and he smiled as he continued, "Such a good boy. I love watching you suck cock, like a good little slut."
Sören gave another whimper, hardening further, feeling himself gush slick.
"Get that cock nice and wet so I can give you the fucking you deserve," Anthony said. "So I can fuck you good and hard, like my little slut needs."
Sören loved it when Anthony talked like this to him, showing his dominant side. Anthony's Alpha scent was stronger, muskier, intoxicating. Anthony grabbed Sören's hair, fucking his mouth, and Sören whimpered again, sucking even more enthusiastically, begging with his eyes.
When Anthony's was glistening from Sören's mouth, Anthony teased Sören a little more, working the fingers of his right hand inside Sören as his left hand stroked his own cock.
"God, Anthony." Sören shivered.
"You want it?"
"So bad."
"Beg for it."
"Please."
Anthony groaned and stroked himself a little harder.
"Oh god, Anthony, please. Please." Sören bit his lower lip and whined. "Please, Daddy."
Anthony let out a grunt of approval and his cock leapt - Sören smiled at that. Anthony, too, had a weakness.
"Please Daddy," Sören begged. "Please Daddy, fuck me, Daddy, I want it so bad, I need Daddy's cock so fucking bad, please, Daddy, please, give me your cock, Daddy, I need it, please, Daddy..."
Anthony gave an exaggerated "twist my arm" sigh, flinging his arm across his forehead, and then his face lit up in that dazzling grin Sören loved. Anthony got in position, one of Sören's legs on his shoulder. Sören moaned as he felt the tip of Anthony's cock at his entrance, and then Anthony took him slowly - even though he was open from the play this morning, Anthony was of course considerably bigger. When Anthony was all the way in he rested a moment, and then he started to work his hips, thrusting into him, a good moderate pace. Sören cried out, bucking back at him.
"Good?"
"Yes."
"God." Anthony shuddered. "I love watching you take this cock. Love seeing how much you want it."
"So bad, Daddy."
"Such a slut for Daddy's cock."
"Yes, Daddy, yes..."
Anthony groaned. "You're Daddy's good naughty boy."
"Oh, god, Daddy, fuck..." Sören was panting, gasping, rolling his hips in time with Anthony's thrusts. "Oh god, Daddy, fuck me..."
Anthony began to thrust harder, playing with Sören's cock as he did. Sören loved watching Anthony fuck him, his perfect sculpted body in fluid motion, dark chest hair glistening with sweat, mouth open, green eyes fevered and glazed with desire. Soon Anthony was knotted, and Anthony pounded away, his knot rubbing that sweet spot inside him over and over again just right. Sören couldn't make words, only animal noises, and Anthony was moaning too, panting, trembling. Finally both of Sören's legs were on Anthony's shoulders and Anthony gave it to him as hard as he could, bed slamming against the wall, balls slapping against his ass, wet suctioning sound competing with Sören's broken cries, Sören screaming in Icelandic as he was undone, nothing existing except this, sensation, passion, lust, bottomless hunger, needing to be taken, claimed, fucked, his.
"Daddy," Sören howled.
"Yes, baby." Anthony gave a deep groan. "I'm close, baby boy."
"Ohgod. Ohgodohgodohgod Anthony... Daddy, Anthony..."
"Come for me, baby. Come all over Daddy, sweetheart."
Sören did, almost sobbing with the force of his orgasm, as Anthony called out, "Good boy. That's a good boy," and then a few thrusts later Anthony came with a cry. He collapsed onto Sören, knot pulsing as Sören continued contracting around him... seed shooting deep inside him. Anthony rested in Sören, knot fusing them together as Anthony reached to unbind Sören's wrists. Sören flexed his wrists and Anthony took Sören's hands, kissing him deeply. Anthony smelled delicious, and it seemed like everything was glowing. Anthony started to purr and Sören smiled at the sound of his sated Alpha.
"How was that?" Anthony asked, stroking Sören's face.
"That was hot." Sören kissed him again. "You. Were hot."
They kissed and kissed, and Anthony started playing with one of Sören's nipples. "You think you have it in you to go again?"
"Probably." Sören hardened at Anthony's tongue lapping his nipple. "Definitely."
"Good." Anthony rolled onto his back, pulling Sören atop him, straddling him.
Sören was so hot and wet, full of Anthony's cum besides his own slick. Anthony's hands went to Sören's hips, guiding them as Sören rode him hard. Then Anthony's hands roamed over him, and as they got close, one settled on a nipple and the other at Sören's cock, rubbing away. "Oh god, Daddy," Sören panted. "Oh fuck... just like that..."
They came together, screaming. Giggling as they collapsed together, rocking each other, lost in euphoria. "I love you," Sören said, arms tight around his Alpha. "I love you so much..."
"I know." Anthony kissed him gently. "I love you too. A whole lot." Anthony stroked his face. "I wish you loved yourself more."
Tears came to Sören's eyes. He didn't know what to say to that.
Anthony pulled him close, letting Sören feel his heartbeat, as his knot continued binding them together. "I love you enough for the both of us, Sören."
And Sören heard himself say, "I know."
Anthony lifted Sören's chin up, looked into his eyes, and Sören repeated, "I know." Sören leaned in to kiss Anthony's forehead, and spoke the truth. "My heart knows. It's why I trust you more than I've ever trusted anybody." He took Anthony's hand, put it on his heart. "I trust you with my life."
And unspoken, the words came to him. I want the rest of my life to be with you.
_
The next morning, Anthony went for a run, and Sören knew that if he hung around the house he'd angst over his painting some more, and then he'd worry about Anthony having a panic attack and he needed to not be a stifling mother hen. So he took the Audi for a drive, not really knowing where he was going.
Except he did, as he pulled into a jeweler's.
Sören was aware he was being watched by the bespectacled, balding old man who presumably owned the place, as he browsed the display of engagement rings. They were all nice, but none of them really suited Anthony. A white diamond solitaire was classic and elegant, but it was also something like everyone else had, and Anthony always had to stand out just a little.
Finally the man walked over to the counter, as Sören shuffled his weight awkwardly from one foot to another. He took a moment as if sizing him up, and Sören knew the man probably thought he couldn't afford anything on display, with his obvious foreign accent and dressed as he was in jeans, a Metallica T-shirt, and Doc Martens, the tattoos visible on his arms, earrings visible in his ears.
"What can I do for you, laddie?" the man asked, finally, in a broad Scottish accent.
"Right, so the engagement rings. They're very nice, but do you have something different?"
"You mean something less expensive?"
Sören fought back the smirk. Called it. "No. I mean something different. You have anything that's... more impressive?"
The man almost spluttered at that, and Sören fought really hard to suppress the grin. He brought Sören over to another display. "Well, this has sapphire with a circlet of diamonds... this has a very large sapphire..."
"Can I get a closer look?"
The man took the tray out and Sören studied the cut of the stones, and some of the rings had subtle patterns etched in the metal. Sören finally said, "Did you make these?"
"Aye, I did."
"Do you take custom work."
The man's eyebrow shot up at that. "I do, but it'll cost you -"
Sören waved his hand. "I'm not worried about that."
"What did you have in mind?"
Sören thought of the painting he did of Anthony in the garden, nude, looking like a fertility god. The ring began to take form in his mind's eye. After envisioning for a few minutes, noticing the man was growing impatient, he said, "For the centerpiece, an emerald, round cut. Set in a figure eight, but the figure eight is two serpents, like the Auryn from The Neverending Story, and each of them has smaller emerald eyes, and the ring is platinum but on either side of the serpents I want a small flower, set in yellow gold. Can you do that?"
"I can do that. It's not a traditional engagement ring -"
No shit, Sherlock. "We're not a traditional couple." We might find someone to have a threesome with.
"My time is money, Mr..."
"Sigurðsson. Sören. Call me Sören, I'm Icelandic and my surname's a patronymic." He got tired of explaining this to people in the UK, but accepted it as a part of life.
"All right. My time is money, like I said -"
"How long do you think it will take?"
"About a month."
"Quote me."
He did.
"Make it a fortnight and I'll pay you double," Sören said.
The man's jaw dropped. He stood there staring at Sören until Sören finally said, "Yes?"
"Y-yes, sir -"
Sören shook his hand. "Credit?" He pulled out his wallet.
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