#cristayne

Yes. Criston Cole felt disgust and shame.

Why was this so?

He, the new Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had come to the Street of Silk and ensconced himself within the walls of a dimly lit room of a luxurious pleasure house. He was abed with another man—the brother of the dowager queen, no less—moaning out his pleasure while submitting to that man’s embraces the way a woman did when she was taken while face down and on her hands and knees. Each time he raised his gaze, he saw what that man—Gwayne—was eagerly doing to him. Each time he looked at his reflection, he saw the state he himself was in. His hair, always neatly combed and slicked back with oil that carried hints of mint in its scent, was utterly dishevelled and falling all around his face. His body, honed and well-formed from years of sword fighting and jousting, arched and trembled as he braced himself against the featherbed. His skin, warm and olive and now somewhat leathery from days spent under the sun’s heady glare, was covered in a thin sheen of sweat that glistened in the flickering candlelight. And his nails, trimmed and clean for the day, dug into the silken sheets each time Gwayne grunted and pushed in, sending fresh waves of need coursing thick through his veins whenever he struck that place of pleasure deep within him. Lastly, there were his eyes. They were filled with wantonness and lust, and they reflected the wanton and lustful nature he had succumbed to during the course of the night.

Criston loathed himself for this. He loathed the weaknesses of his flesh. He loathed how much he relished yielding to another man and allowing him to have his way with him. He despised the immeasurable ecstasy he found in an act deemed unlawful and unnatural by the very faith he so ardently followed. Yet he could not help himself. He could not bring himself to stop. Gwayne made it nearly impossible for him to stop; he made it nearly impossible to refuse him. His touch—gentle but commanding—always roused him in a way no woman’s could. His kisses—sweeter and more potent than any intoxicant to be found—always whipped him into such frenzies that it shocked even him. It was too much. It was too good. And he, he often reluctantly admitted to himself, loved it.

Gwayne then spoke, his clipped, clear voice cutting through the fog that had shrouded Criston’s every thought. “Does this feel good, Lord Commander?”

“Yes,” Criston managed to breathe out. He closed his eyes to the scene in the mirror before him and moaned again. “By the gods, it feels so good.”

“If only the others could see you now,” Gwayne teased. “What will they say, my lord, when they learn of you, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, going to the Street of Silk just so that you could give yourself to me?”

“They will think I have taken leave of my senses. They will think me a fallen man.”

Gwayne laughed. He ceased thrusting and ran a hand over Criston’s back in a tender, soothing gesture. “And have you taken leave of your senses, my lord? Are you a fallen man?”

“After a fashion, I am. Yes.” Criston dared to look at the mirror again. Gwayne was on his knees behind him, a vision of stunning hardened elegance, looking at him in its reflection. His chest was heaving. His body was slick with sweat. His cool blue eyes were fixed intently on him. How often Criston found himself awakening after dark and sinful dreams of those eyes and those eyes alone, he could not say. “What we are doing goes against the laws of both gods and men. What we are doing is unlawful and unnatural, a sin in the eyes of the Seven; you know this as well as I do.”

“What we are doing is a sin,” Gwayne echoed gravely, his hand still brushing tenderly over Criston’s back, the ends of his hair. “Yet the gods have not struck us down. They have not hindered your rise or changed the king’s high opinion of you. They have not hindered my rise in the City Watch. They have done nothing to put a stop to the many victories we have both gained or our steady ascent among those who support us. If anything, our arrangement has shown the gods do not care.” He paused for a moment’s reflection and then added, “Does it disgust you, the things that we do?”

Criston swallowed, not knowing what to say. Despite his inner turmoil, he cared for Gwayne, and he did not want to wound him. In the end, however, he chose the truth. “I despise myself for it and how much I relish it.”

“I see. Have you decided this is not for you? Do you wish to put an end to our arrangement?”  

Criston had indeed considered putting an end to the arrangement he had with Gwayne. He had considered it more than once. Each time he did so, he found he could not bring himself to do it. Gwayne had this hold on him, one he could never truly define. For as long as he was aware of it, he thought of tearing it asunder. Yet he could not do so. A warm feeling would wash over him whenever he thought of Gwayne, making him forget, even for a brief while, all the shame and disgust he felt toward himself. It was this warm feeling that made him so unwilling to refuse Gwayne and break the bond between them. It was what made him go to Gwayne when Gwayne called for him. It was also what decided his answer for him now.

“No,” he said quietly. “Truth be told, I am uncertain if I ever want to.”

Gwayne nodded. When he spoke again, his voice was as soft as his kisses. “Then shall we continue as we are—as each other’s paramour—until you decide otherwise?”

He moved again when Criston uttered a barely audible yes, pushing his hand down between Criston’s shoulder blades and pressing him down against the featherbed. Then he sped up, his other hand gripping hard at Criston’s hip as he plunged his cock again and again into the welcome heat of Criston’s body.

Like Criston, Gwayne once did not envision himself sharing a bed and his body with another man. He had pictured himself wedding a woman of noble birth and starting a family of his own. Unlike Criston, however, he was not so conflicted about who and what he was, for he had come to understand and accept all there was to himself.

But he knew there were dangers awaiting him as well. The greatest danger of all was the danger that would arise once his lord father and his sister—the dowager queen—learnt of his true nature. Gwayne knew he could lose all that he had gained if his father perceived his desire for the intimate company of a man and the threat it posed to his nephew’s hold upon the Iron Throne. His sister—a woman who had thrown herself wholeheartedly into adhering to the tenets of the faith—may want nothing to do with him. He could be compelled to wed a woman of high birth and sent far away. But he and Criston had been careful and discreet up to now, and if they continued to do so, no one would learn of the two of them. And then, when the war was finally over and Aegon ruled as the undisputed ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, he and Criston could leave for the Free Cities and live out the rest of their lives as they wished.

Of course, the success of the notion hung on Criston's desire for such an outcome. For now, Gwayne decided, he would put his thoughts about the future aside and fix them on his and Criston’s pleasure instead.

His pace grew erratic just as his thrusts did. When his orgasm finally ripped through him, he groaned, long and throaty and deep, and dug his nails into Criston’s side. Red indents marred soft flesh while his body shook violently, and he emptied himself of his seed. It was the most visceral experience he had ever felt. And indeed it was—like his very soul left his body for an instant before it returned to him again. Gwayne latched onto that sensation for as long as he could. He savoured it and committed it to memory, much like he savoured all of the other sensations he experienced while with Criston. The habit of doing so had become second nature to him of late; one he did not mind in the slightest, for he found himself growing fonder and fonder of him. Then he sighed deeply, satisfied, and after his body shuddered one final time, he went still.

But he did not remain so for long.

He pulled out of Criston and flipped him onto his back, giving him no time to even think as he settled on his belly between his spread thighs. Criston offered no resistance. He let out a sound of gratitude and curled his calloused fingers around locks that reminded him of the fiery light of a setting sun, a strangled sob rolling off his lips when Gwayne dipped his head and took his erection to hand.

Gwayne ran the flat of his tongue along the underside of the shaft, then kissed the tip. He did it a second time. Then he did it a third time, teasing Criston the way he did often before. Criston whined.

“Why do you torment me?” He cried from amidst the strewn cushions and rumpled sheets.

Gwayne laughed softly, then propped himself on his elbow. He dipped his head again, this time to swallow Criston’s length to the hilt. He bobbed his head up and down, his cheeks hollowing out and his lips leaving a wet, heated trail in their wake. He would then cease, and begin stroking with his free hand. He would then cease that, and he would instead put his hungry mouth to good use again. On and on he went, ceaseless and insistent. And then, when Criston bucked his hips and whispered his name, he swiftly drew back. Spurt after spurt of pearly white spend coated his hand and spilt onto Criston’s stomach. It was a lovely sight, but Gwayne did not give himself the luxury of admiring it. He kissed his way up over Criston’s body and was pleased to find himself being welcomed by a pair of willing arms and bruised but luscious lips.

He kissed Criston deeply. And Criston kissed him back, having fully let go of what troubled him for the night. Gwayne paid no mind to the slick smearing against his belly. He paid no mind to the fingers raking desperately at his shoulders or the legs that clamped tight around his hips, locking him to the one beneath him. He simply kissed and kissed, drunk on the euphoria of the moment like a lord drunk on too much fine wine. Suddenly, a gong rang out in the corridor beyond, signalling a quarter to the hour. His time with Criston was drawing to an end.

“Our night together must finish,” he panted, moving to sit up on his knees. “More’s the pity, truly.”

“Yes.” Criston was content to just lie back and watch him. He knew all that troubled and shamed him would return soon enough, but for now, he would make himself at ease and bathe in the warm afterglow of his lovemaking with Gwayne. “More’s the pity indeed. Who should leave first? You or me?”

Gwayne slipped out of bed. “We leave as we entered: together.”

“Very well,” Criston said. He rose from bed as well and wandered around the chamber, picking up the pieces of his raiment as he did so. “Are we making use of this chamber again?”

Gwayne looked at him, considering what he said. “Perhaps.” He stooped to pick up his small clothes. “It is safer than meeting in one of our rooms. And it is far more comfortable than a tent. But tell me. Is that what you wish?”

That warm feeling washed over Criston once again. He yielded to it the way he always did and replied with his assent.