It was later than normal for him to be heading over to the Jouster's quarters. (A Joust fanfic. Ari/Vetch)
Most of the Jousters were, in fact, in various courts, feasting and laughing and watching their dancing girls. The court that sided to Ari's apartments, however, was devoid of any such antics.
The lights were off in the front room, but one burnt in Ari's sleeping room. Vetch rolled his eyes, affection for the older man in the movement; it somedays seemed as though Ari's head might roll off if it weren't properly attached, considering his absentminded negligence.
Though it wasn't quite the way he'd expected--Ari strewn across his bed all akilter, instead of simply having forgotten the lamp--Vetch was not surprised. He hurried about, sweeping and tidying, and when the rooms were appropriately set to rights, he returned to the Jouster's bed to blow out the light and leave him in peace.
As the room fell dark, Vetch was surprised by a steely hand on his wrist. He yelped, tugging at the insistent grip, worried and understandably frightened.
In a sleep graveled voice, Ari spoke into the darkness: "Why so late?"
"Th-the day got away from me," Vetch replied unsurely, still uncomfortable with that hand on his wrist. Ari made a quiet noise of understanding. Vetch hurried said, "I'm sorry I woke you, sir."
With his eyes adjusting to the darkness, he could make out the tilt of Ari's face toward him. Those dark eyes would be boring up at him, thin lips would be parted from the clinging edges of sleep. Vetch's stomach was tight with that uncomfortable worry he sometimes got when Ari was overly friendly with him; his hand, still held by Ari, shook slightly.
Ari was suddenly sitting up, bed linens pooled at his waist, heat very close to Vetch's body, breath hot just under Vetch's nose and smelling of date wine. Vetch froze perfectly and swallowed heavily.
"Make it up to me." That large hand released Vetch's wrist, only to trail lightly up his arm, over his shoulder. His hand seemed as hot as the /kamiseen/, but held nothing of that brutal aggression. There was the sense that Vetch could fend him off. But--
--after all, he told his ailing conscience as he cautiously slid onto Ari's bed, he was a serf and Ari his master. He didn't really have a choice.
His face was hot, his hands shaking. He quelled his nervous start as Ari's hands began to slowly unwind his kilt, dropping it carelessly off the bed. With burning hands, Ari pulled Vetch close, pushing aside the linens and bringing the young dragon boy as close as he dared-Vetch's legs folded beneath him, spread to stradle the width of Ari's thigh, one lean leg tucked between Ari's.
If possible, his face grew hotter, with the thick heat of Ari--
He shook his head, choking back a nervous sob. Ari, nuzzling his neck, bumped his chin, pulled away just far enough to lean their foreheads together and brush his lips against Vetch's--
It had been so long since someone had treated him like anything other than the sand beneath their sandle. And he had forgotten the last time he'd recieved anything nearing affection.
And Ari, for all his apparent reclusive nature, seemed perfectly willing to supply that affection. His hands settled on Vetch's back, just above the curve of his backside, drawing the boy closer until he had to bend to receive Ari's kisses.
One of Ari's large, strong hands caught Vetch's own calloused palm. After a brief caress to the nack flesh, Ari laid it flat to his chest, and began to slowly drag it down--ever down--his hand shook and the loose one fell to the bed linens, clenching in and out of nervous, erratic fists as Ari's kisses stole his breath and his hand continued down--
--and he was hot/, but not like his hands had been before Vetch's skin had gotten feverish with uncertain arousal. Ari's fingers squeezed Vetch's hand snuggly, and began them in a slow tug along the hot skin--hotter than the /kamiseen/, hotter than the /sun it seemed, but Vetch couldn't pull his hand away, not simply because he wasn't sure of the consequences of his rebuttal.
--Ari stopped kissing him, panting against his neck instead and grabbing Vetch's hips, holding him still, thrusting into the tight pocket of Vetch's hand--
--because maybe he didn't want to stop. Though he could say he was insecure without Ari's kisses.
After a few moments of only Ari's panting and the quiet sound of Vetch's hand moving over Ari's stiff length, the Joust gave a soft groan of pleasure--deep in the throat and breathed along Vetch's neck--and Vetch was suddenly aware of the sticky slide between their close-pressed stomachs.
Ari's hands, cupped to the round globes of Vetch's backside, were very still for a moment. Vetch kept his eyes down, half-lidded, his hands still curled-though the linen felt far better between his fingers than Ari's-
"I'm . . . sorry." He didn't sound sorry to Vetch. But then, what was there to be sorry for? Vetch was, after all, nothing more than the land he was tied to. But Ari's hand were very suddenly gone, and the apologies were faster, more emphatic as he grabbed Vetch's kilt from the floor.
On shaking legs, Vetch rose beside the bed, taking the kilt with trembling fingers and quickly winding the fabric back around his hips.
As Vetch moved to step away, Ari caught his hand again. Vetch turned back, shy and sadly expectant.
A kiss graced along his lips, and Ari's breath was soft and quiet. "I'm sorry."
"Good night, sir." Vetch would deal with the linens in the morning.