Chapter Text
Anders didn't look like Anders.
At least that's what Anders thought when he saw himself on the portrait.
The painter had taken a lot of liberties. Anders' hair was subtly longer and definitely darker. The blond color was gone, replaced by a kind of chestnut brown, though it was hard to pinpoint the exact shade. The eyebrows were darker as well, giving him an austere look.
The eyes were not Anders' either. The painter hadn't been bold enough to make them brown, but they were now of a kind of iron grey that had nothing to do with Anders' pale blue eyes. His long, slender nose had been enlarged. The Aklànder's manly chin and his full lips were the sole things the painter had found nice enough not to modify.
Anders stared at the portrait some more. He should probably feel offended, but he was rather fascinated to see himself as what people thought he should look like. It was interesting to see a version of himself who would never get any funny looks.
Of course, on the portrait, John resembled John: because Anders' regal husband already was the epitome of what North-Hillers considered aesthetically pleasing in a man: the dark, curly hair, the long lashes and the triangular nose.
"What did you do to my husband's face!?" Lord Mitchell asked the painter: undeniably displeased with the result.
They had been posing for hours now: John seated on his throne and Anders standing up by his side with his hand placed on his spouse's shoulder. The consort didn't really understand why his husband was in such a hurry to have their portrait made. Anders had tried to question that choice, but the lord had argued that he wanted a miniature portrait of Anders and that the painter had assured him it would be easier done if he had already painted a larger version. To kill two birds with one stone, the Great Lord had commissioned the painted to make their official, large portrait first.
It still didn't answer Anders' interrogation. He couldn't see how John getting a miniature portrait of him was such an urgent business.
John was too busy with duties at the castle to pose during the day and hence, they had no choice but to do it at night. Anders had complied with those horribly long sessions in the council hall under the light of hundreds of candles, standing still for hours until his bladder and his legs were in agony. He discovered that love could make a man do very stupid things.
John pointed at the canvas where most of the painting was still a sketch, except their two figures, painted from face to chest. As the painter seemed to ignore his lord's question on purpose, John insisted, hints of anger in his voice that made Anders wince. "Can you explain that to me? Trust me, I know what my spouse looks like: I wake up by his side every morning. The man in that painting is not my consort."
The painter cleared his throat, uneasy. "Well, you know, Your Highness, it's a common thing to rearrange small details to embellish one's portrait."
"These are no small details," John groaned. "And when you say 'embellish': what are you insinuating exactly? Because I see none of those embellishments you seem to be so fond of on that portrait of me. If it is a common practice: why didn't you apply it to my face as well?"
Anders prayed in silence that the artist would be wise enough not to confront his lord, because the rage he was feeling boiling inside his lover's veins would take the smallest spark to flare.
"It's not under my control, my lord, there are portraits that need more enhancement than others. The changes are meant to make your spouse match with you. I'm sure you'll be pleased I painted your consort the way I did in the future,” the man explained, like Anders wasn’t in the room. “Then again, I guess you wouldn't want your descendants to wonder if Sir Anders really was part of clan Mitchell."
Anybody who knew John James Douglas Mitchell even just a little was aware that he had two types of frown: one that meant: "I'm concentrated on something or I'm listening to you", and one that meant "I'm going to rip your face off and feast on your still beating heart." Anders actually felt the face-ripping frown coming even before he turned his head to look at his husband's face; just by the way John's shoulder stiffened under his hand.
"John," Anders said in a low voice meant to be a soothing one, but that came out rather alarmed. He squeezed his spouse's shoulder in a vain attempt to contain the cataclysm that was about to go down on the poor, unsuspecting painter.
It was too late and the young man had already stood up and taken one of his long daggers out of its sheath.
He's going to kill him, Anders panicked as John rushed across the room.
Fortunately the dagger didn't pierce the painter's chest but the canvas as John ripped it from one corner to the other before the artist's horrified eyes. John grabbed the middle-aged man by the collar and pulled him so close their noses were nearly touching. "You are fired," the lord spat, his eyes wide and red with fury. John shoved him away and the painter tumbled to the hard floor. The young brunet slammed the double paneled doors open and stormed out of the room without a look back.
Left alone with the shaken artist, the consort rubbed his face with a sigh. He could still hear his husband's angry footsteps echoing away in the Great Hall.
The painter was pale as he stood up and dusted his clothes. He had probably pissed himself in his kilt. Anders threw him a compassionless gaze before leaving the council hall, in search of his hurricane of a husband. Anders knew he had little choice but run after him and try to pacify the brash beast.
"John… JOHN!" the blond hailed when he caught a glimpse of his spouse on the other side of the Great Hall. The younger man ignored him until Anders ran after him and grasped the tartan fabric across his shoulder to make him stop. The consort repeated his name again and Mitchell looked at him. His breath was still heavy and his jaw tense with rage. Unlike many, Anders had no fear in the face of the legendary temper of the Mitchells: at least not anymore.
"Damned Gods, husband! Calm down now!" he ordered.
The lost, confused and hurt look he saw on the lord's face told Anders that he had not taken the best approach. He tried another tactic. He seized John's belt and drew him closer. As he put an arm around the lord's waist, he placed his other hand on the dark stubble. "That's fine. I know you were trying to defend my honor again, but don't you think you overreacted a bit there?" he asked.
Anders was amazed at how the warrior could be a dangerous bear one second, and then become the toy version of it as soon as he took him in his arms. He felt him relax almost instantly. "That's it, just breathe," Anders whispered. He raised himself on tiptoes and put a light kiss on the trembling lips. He pulled away to gauge how steady John was. Not satisfied, he did the same thing again: kissing his husband with barely a brushing of lips and whispering soothing words. He did it as many times as it took to get the brunet's breathing to get back to an even and controlled state.
"I can't let people treat you like that," John hissed, holding Anders close," you are a Mitchell in every right and I want our descendants to see you just as you are."
"I know that," Anders reassured him, his hands searching for warmth under John's unbuttoned coat.
"I probably look crazy in your eyes," the brunet added, "but if I let people act this way toward you, I'm afraid it would degenerate and the spirits know what they could attempt against you."
"If it can please your male ego; I don't feel threatened when you're around," the blond man winked, but what was meant as a joke to ease John's stress made him pull a sour face instead.
"You shouldn't take it to heart so much," the aklànder went on, moving his hand to place it the curve of his husband's waist. "You can't prevent people from being prejudiced. Just like I can't help looking the way I do. You hold me in high regard and I don't need anybody else's esteem."
"You're too good, Anders," John sighed, resting his chin on top of the smaller man's head.
Anders chuckled. "I never thought anybody would say such thing about me."
The blond peeked above at his husband's face to realize he was still in a dark mood: his eyebrows perilously low on his handsome face. "We should take our minds off things," Anders suggested. "Why don't we go to town and join the party? We are probably the only ones in the whole country not celebrating the coming of winter right now."
"That's true!" Mitchell remembered, offering his spouse his first real smile of the day. "Who would remind me of things like fun and parties if I didn't have you?"
"Fun is my best feature," was the playful reply as Anders broke their embrace and tugged on the warrior's hand to lead him to their room where they could get rid of their fancy clothes and put on something more practical and discreet to go to town.
***
As a reflex; John went the other side of the folding screen to change. Anders pondered that they should now get rid of that piece of furniture. They didn't have any use for it now that they had seen each other naked many times. And to be totally honest, admiring his husband's shapely body was an activity Anders had grown fond of.
The blond man adjusted his plain grey kilt and hid his blond curls under a tam hat. Being able to go out incognito was something else Anders got to love. When he was still in Aklànd, it was the contrary. He wanted everybody to know he was an heir of clan Johnson. He liked to brag about his title and it was the only way he could get people's respect. Despite his foreign looks, some girls liked the idea of sharing a night with an heir. Now that he was married and had become the second most powerful man of the country, he had discovered the advantages of anonymity. Not all people were hostile to him: but since, every time John and he were going somewhere public, they attracted a crowd around them: wanting to speak to them, touch their hands and ask for their blessing or give theirs to them. More than that, Anders was fed up with good-intentioned people constantly asking when their rulers would get their first baby. Every time, John would give him a questioning side-glance, expecting him to give an answer, and the only thing Anders wanted was to disappear under the ground. The words "baby", "heir" or "heiress" sent shivers of horror down his spine. Not that he hated babies; he had had little brothers, so this was no unknown territory for him. It was the idea of fatherhood itself that made him scared. He was not even sure he was a good husband: taking care of a son or a daughter was a step he didn't know if he would ever be ready to make. So, being able to go out with John without having people implanting frightening ideas in his head was much appreciated.
He had discovered he enjoyed being nobody when they had gone to Eelry during what his husband insisted on calling their "honeymoon". The Great Lord's advisors insisted on John taking the usual dispositions for a formal travel, which meant they would have been accompanied on the road by six soldiers from the castle's guard and two others from the city's guard, plus a banner holder, a drum player and a bagpiper. Lord Mitchell had refused, arguing that what he wanted was precisely not to attract attention, which would already be difficult with the presence of the two war horses. As a compromise, they had taken two guards as an escort and the men weren't wearing their uniforms.
They had taken the best room of the HighPine Inn in Eelry under false names, pretending to be a couple of rich cloth merchants from Bailtean.
The weather during their stay had been awful: cold rain for two days. The great spouses barely noticed it: too busy making good use of their bed. They had eaten in bed, John had taught his husband a few card games, but mostly, they got better acquainted with each other's bodies with mouth and hands.
They had left their room only once; spending a few hours under the roof of the garden's belvedere. Lying on a bench, his head resting in Mitchell's lap, Anders had read three chapters of a book to his husband as the rain on the belvedere's roof was accompanying his voice with a soft drumming sound.
It was also raining when they traveled back to Brastàl, both riding on Ornàn's back, sharing their warmth under the fabric of John' large cloak. Unlike during the second trial, this time Anders didn't feel diminished in his manliness to have the brunet enveloping him in his arms and clothes. Why stay alone when he could have some human warmth?
Anders stood up from the edge of the bed when he saw John stepping from behind the folding screen, his fingers struggling with the clip of his cloak. The blond man walked to him to help him clip it. With his black tam hat, his dark-haired husband looked like a boy: but the look in his eyes was the one of an older man.
"Ready?" Anders asked.
"Yes."
John's smile didn't reach his eyes. Being preoccupied seemed to be John Mitchell's permanent state, but when he looked like that: like a maelstrom barely hidden under the glassy sea, he reminded Anders of an old friend...
***
11 years earlier – Aklànd Castle
Anders ran the tip of his forefinger across the cool surface of the tank. The red fish followed the digit, swimming up and down.
The heir pondered that fish were not the unfeeling creatures people thought they were. Maybe the rumors were true, the young man thought, and he really was the son of a sea monster after all. It would explain his love for the inhabitants of the water kingdom and his feeling of loneliness when he was surrounded by humans.
His step-mother thought it was useless to keep fish. In her opinion, Anders was too old to entertain such hobby. She had threatened him to empty his tank in the garden many times if he didn't do what she wanted. Anders hated himself for being so weak, but it was a threat that worked, and he did everything she wanted not to see his fish disappear. Besides, he was not the only one to appreciate the tank. Axl liked it as well, and Anders had taught his brother not to knock on it and scare the fish, but just drag his finger gently across the glass.
It was the first day of Rëlm: the summer fest, and everybody was in the Great Hall. Mikkel was waiting for him and expecting him to attend the chieftains' arrival. But the first heir of Clan Johnson had no taste for power displays such as those, so he was hiding in his room the other side of the castle. Well, hiding was not the best word to describe it. His family probably knew where he was. The young man was just avoiding his duties until he had no choice but to fulfill them.
Even in the stone walls of the castle, it was excruciatingly hot and humid and he had left his bedroom door open, trying to catch a non-existent breeze. That explained why he did not hear the intrusion. He nearly died of a heart attack when, distorted through the glass of the tank, he saw a face appear on the other side: a face that could already be frightening even without it.
"Hi there," said the gravely but friendly voice.
"Death spirit!!" Anders cursed, trying not to fall off his chair.
"I'm sorry I startled you." the tall man apologized.
Anders hastened to stand up and bow. "How are you, my liege?" he stuttered. "Mike… I mean… my lord said that you'd only arrive tomorrow."
"Aye, but the wind and the current have been more favorable than I expected," the warrior explained, taking a seat in front the tank to observe the fish. Anders took it as an invitation to sit down again. "If you thought I would be there tomorrow," the older man continued, "it explains why you didn't come to greet me."
"I beg your pardon, your highness," Anders apologized again.
"There is nothing to forgive… and how many times did I tell you to call me James, huh?"
"I… I can't…" the young heir protested.
"Hm, then you can call me 'Your Highness' in front of Lord Mikkel and Lady Elizabet and whatever you want when we are alone, would that be fine with you?" Lord Mitchell suggested.
"Yes… my lord."
The Great Lord burst into a roaring laughter that echoed between the walls of the heir's bedroom. Anders wondered what was funny in what he had just said, but he didn't make any comment.
The warrior brushed off a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye and reported his attention on the fish tank. "You didn't have this one when I came to visit last winter," he remarked, pointing at the red fish with long fins.
"I spent a little fortune on that one. A merchant from Pine Port sold it to me. It's really one of a kind," Anders said with pride.
"Just like its owner," James pointed out with a smile.
Anders appreciated the Great Lord's company and with the years, he had learnt to see past his ugly looks. The warrior was an impressive man who didn't even have to talk to impose respect and he really had a heart of gold. Though, he had that one big flaw; he was the father of Anders' archenemy: his future husband. For now, John Mitchell was still a fourteen years old boy fighting his way through pimples and puberty, but that didn't prevent people from telling Anders how agile, strong, well-spoken and well-mannered Sir John already was: amazing for a boy that age. These were things Anders really didn't give a damn about, and he had developed a remarkable skill that consisted in becoming suddenly deaf every time someone started singing his betrothed's praises.
"My John loves animals a lot, just like you," James said, like he had read his future son-in-law's mind. "He is dreaming of having a war horse of his own, but it'll have to wait a few years."
At least, it was no praise: just facts. And still, Anders chose not to react.
James watched the fish swim in their tank for a while, until he spoke up again, his expressive eyebrows frowning. "Lord Mikkel told me you weren't too happy about the marriage match your father and I have made.."
Anders froze. Why on earth did Mike say such a thing to Lord Mitchell? Surely he had lost his mind. Anders' head was to finish on a pike…. metaphorically if not physically.
"That's fine," James said with a dismissive gesture when he saw the fear in the young man's eyes. "I didn't want to get married either when I was your age."
"You're not…. angry?" the heir asked slowly.
"Why would I be? I trust the spirits, Anders. I know that when you are going to be with my son, everything will set at its right place," he prognosticated. "You may see each other as monsters for now, you will change your mind when you meet."
"What makes you think I will change my mind?" Anders couldn't help but snort.
"Because John won't leave you any other choice, my poor lad."
***
He had tried. The spirits know Anders tried to resist his fiancé, and then resist his husband, but James was right all along. John had indeed not given him any other choice but to get attached to him.
Throughout his young adult life, the aklànder had fought off any desire toward male sex: knowing that he would be forced one day to share the bed of a man he already detested. He had strived to push away any fantasy that involved strong, muscular arms around him. He hadn't allowed himself to feel any attraction for manly features, even if he had succumbed to temptation of touching and kissing other men one time or two: abuse of alcohol making him forget his resolution.
Anders had thought that decades of hatred would make him immune to John's charms, but he was wrong. As soon as he had laid his eyes on that undeniably attractive and intelligent young man in the courtyard of Brastàl castle, something inside him had broken. It had made him angry at first. In Anders' eyes: John was everything he would never be: a real North-hiller beauty, respectable and respected, successful, powerful, tall, strong... He could have hated him for that. He had tried to convince himself he hated him for that. But, in truth, he had been inescapably drawn to him. The blond man had had to give up at some point. And somehow, failing to resist John was probably the best thing he had ever done. The battle was lost in advance and the surrender was quite enjoyable.
It was true liberation to finally unleash those urges. It felt beyond good to act with his guts instead of acting out of pride. Anyway, it would be a crime to deprive himself of what his rightful husband had to offer. Now he knew it was too late: he couldn't get enough of that gorgeous body willingly given to him.
That's what Anders was thinking about as he let his lord drag him by the hand through the crowd of the winter fete.
A huge bonfire was built in the middle of Brastàl's marketplace, its flame growing like yellow leaves of light in the night sky. From lines crossing the place in every directions were hanging pieces of white, vaporous fabric: one for each day of winter. Anders pushed one aside as he tried his best to follow his husband who was apparently hasty to go to the area where they served mulled wine.
As John was fetching cups of wine for them both, Anders stood back from the crowd, observing the revelers dance and drink.
He opened his mouth and blew softly, his breath condensing into white vapor in the cold air. For some reason, it made him think of his brother. The first week of winter was also Ty's birthweek. When they had come back from Eelry, John and him had packed and shipped to Aklànd a wrought basin and a jug inlaid with blue and green agate stones. It was the perfect gift for a future husband and Ty would be able to bring it to Keirmoor to use it in his conjugal bedroom.
Anders smiled when the young lord made his way back to him through the crowd to give him his cup.
"Happy winter," the blond man told his husband, lifting his cup for a toast. "May this new season fill your every wish: the known and the unspoken ones," he added.
John hesitated, like some remorse was holding him back, but soon, a smile warmed his features. "Merry winter, my darling," he said, making his cup clink against Anders'.
Then, the blond man put his forearm around John's carefully, not to spill the wine, and they took a sip from their cups with their arms entwined, making sure not to break eye contact, because otherwise it would mean bad luck. And if somebody needed good luck it was surely the ruler of the country.
The kiss they shared after tasted like raisin and spices.
Nobody seemed to have recognized them yet. They were just a couple like the others: enjoying the fest and some kissing.
Suddenly, the music of the uilleann pipes and flute stopped. Everybody fell in a collective silence: looking at the fire at the center of the marketplace. John moved aside to stand behind his spouse and face the bonfire as he put an arm across the blond's chest, keeping him close against his front.
The sound of the drum started, steady and low: like a heartbeat. The first priestesses appeared, wearing diaphanous white dresses that left very little to the imagination.
They were still more clothed than what Anders was used to. When the priestesses came from Mistbank temple to celebrate the season-coming in Aklànd, they usually performed their sacred dance completely naked, no matter if it was the summer or the winter.
The young women's dance got the audience instantly captivated, and when their clear, pure voices ascended to the night sky, everybody was bewitched. Even Anders who was not especially into religious ceremonies couldn't help a shiver, feeling that the spirits were really there, around him. He leant further into his husband's embrace and John tightened his arm around him.
Accompanied by the sound of the priestesses’ hands clapping and the jingle of the bells they were wearing around their wrists and ankles, the Gaelic chant was speaking of couples sharing love and pleasure to fight the long, cold winter nights together and the children who would be born in the fall from those unions. Fortunately, Anders couldn't conceive children with his husband, but he was glad to have someone to fight the cold with him for his first winter in the hills. The weather was freezing here compared to the one of Aklànd, where the ocean currents made the climate temperate. When they were younger, Mikkel liked to scare his little brother by telling him that when he would live in Brastàl, his fingers and toes would surely turn black and fall down from the cold. That prospect had terrified Anders, until, when he was about ten years old, he had dared ask the question to Lord James who had assured him that his toes and fingers were safe, showing them his own as a proof.
As the dance went on, one of the priestesses stepped in their direction, and as she spinned around gracefully, Anders allowed his eyes to linger on her curves. The dances and the songs were meant to be tributes to the spirits, but they were not innocent. If these priestesses had chosen to leave the safety of their temple in Somerled to come here tonight, it was because they knew there were several men here hoping to get their favors. The young women of the temple who wished to get pregnant would choose men and spend the night with them during the winter festivities. During every seasonal fest in Aklànd, Anders had tried his luck without success. Spending a night with one (maybe two) of them always was his ultimate fantasy. He didn't mind to father a child he would never know and never see. In fact it suited him not to be responsible of any kid and just perform the agreeable part. But priestesses were superstitious, and taking the chance of giving birth to a baby with such strange hair and eyes made them avoid him.
"John! Anders! Your Highnesses!" a woman voice hailed them as soon as the dance was over.
"Oh genius…" Anders breathed in a stern voice when he saw the druidess of Somerled coming their way: enthusiastic, as always. "Our cover is blown up now," the blond man grunted. Instantly, people around who had been standing beside their rulers all along without noticing it, started moving aside, bowing down and whispering among themselves. Soon, the spouses were the center of attention.
John greeted Madraìd Aileen and offered her the compliments of the season while the aklànder sulked.
"We enjoyed the dance a lot, did we, my love?" John said and Anders nodded politely. "Your protégées are truly talented and beautiful: all of them," the brunet added, congratulating the druidess.
"I'm glad you think so, my lord," Madraìd Aileen smiled, "because they want to know if you two would be disposed to take one of them into your bedchamber tonight."
Anders choked on the sip of mulled wine he had just drank. He was bemused. Not because it was a shocking offer: conjugal fidelity didn't forbid what was considered as a sacred privilege. "It's not unfaithfulness if it's with a priestess," said the proverb. What was surprising the blond man was that the priestesses wanted to bed him, of all men. "Me as well!?" he asked, just to be sure he had heard the right thing.
"You especially, Your Grace," the druidess rectified.
Anders stayed dumbfounded.
"You made quite an impression on my girls when you came to the temple for the wedding,”she added. “Since I explained to them that you were born the way you are, that you weren't dangerous in any way and that Lord James had chosen you to be our lord's husband precisely because of your uniqueness, now they all want to sleep with you," she explained with a fond laugh.
"Who can blame them?" John chuckled nervously, shifting from one foot to the other.
The blond man felt his lord's arm coming around his waist and his hand squeeze his opposite hip through his kilt. He had learnt to recognize that gesture by now. That was the one of an insecure John.
"I appreciate the compliment and I'm sorry to disappoint your protégées, Madraìd," Anders apologized, "but unless my lord decides otherwise, we will enjoy what is left of this night solely." He never thought he could turn down that kind of opportunity in the blink of an eye. It had been surprisingly easy and he was stunned to realize he didn’t feel any regret whatsoever.
The arm around Anders' waist relaxed and the hand moved to the small of his back.
"I understand, don't worry," she replied, "but there will be a few broken hearts I'm afraid."
The druidess wished them both a good night and a happy winter, and she left in the crowd.
The spouses were left alone: at least, as alone as they could be in a crowd of citizens who were staring and gossiping.
"You should have put on a scarf," John remarked in a low voice.
"Why? Are you afraid my delicate neck might freeze?" Anders teased, before emptying his cup of mulled wine in one gulp.
"No… well yes… but it's more about hiding the…marks," John said, running a thumb on the side of Anders throat, brushing carefully over the purple mark his teeth had left there the night before. "I don't want people to think I'm molesting my husband."
"We are in the dark, John, and anyway, most people can recognize a love bite when they see one," Anders argued. "Let them see," he added with a naughty smirk, pulling his collar down to reveal it even more, "I really don't mind."
Obviously, those words had put the brunet's insecurity to rest for good. "Why do I want you so much?" John purred, capturing his spouse's chin in his hand.
"Hmm," Anders pondered, "my athletic shape, my boyish good looks, my sexy brains perhaps?"
"All of those reasons and many more," the lord replied, before taking a shameless kiss from his lips as the whispers around them gained in vehemence.
Anders didn't care about the audience. He had only one idea now: getting under his hunk of a husband's kilt a soon as possible. "Remind me what we are doing here?" he asked, slightly breathless from the long kiss.
"Celebrating."
"I suggest we take the celebrations somewhere private."
"You're reading my mind."
***
"… and spend the long nights in cheerful delights to drive the cold winter away," Anders hummed as they walked to their apartments. "How did it get so cold here?" he noticed with a shiver when they stepped in the bedroom and he made the mistake of removing his coat right away.
"All the servants are at the fest: that explains why nobody came to rekindle the fire," John remarked, kneeling on the thick carpet in front of the hearth.
"They didn't have a thought for their poor, neglected masters. We should fire them all," Anders joked, reaching for the lighter on the table.
John chuckled at the bad pun and took the lighter from his husband's outstretched hand.
Annie was also gone to town visiting some friends and she had brought Tiolam along since she was supposed to take care of the baby fox while Anders was posing for the painter. The bedroom was awfully quiet without the pup's constant happy and hungry yelping. The consort looked forward to getting his pet back in the morning.
He sat in the armchair as John put brushwood and logs in the hearth.
Too bad the servants were all gone tonight. The blond man took personal pride knowing that some of the manservants would now heave desperate sighs every time they passed in front of the bedroom's door. They knew that their Lord would not invite them in his bed anymore. The blond man was now a permanent company to the young lord, making sure he never felt lonely. As often as he could, Anders also tried to make John moan loudly when he knew that one of them was outside in the corridor.
"I'm hungry," Anders stated, detailing John's silhouette against the light of the fire. He didn't even need to see his husband's face to know that he was desirable. The cascade of wild curls falling on his shoulders and back when he removed his tam hat had the color of onyx with highlights that reminded Anders of a stag's coat. It appealed him like a selkie without its seal skin.
"You're always hungry," John laughed, adding a log into the hearth. "I can go to the kitchen and fetch some bread and fruits we can eat here if you want."
Anders stood up from his chair and crossed the few steps separating him from his lover. He put his arms around the brunet's shoulders, unclipped his cloak and tossed the piece of clothing away. Then, he kneeled on the carpet behind his husband, pushed the dark mane to the side to get access to the tender spot under his spouse's ear. "I'm not hungry for food, John," he told him, letting his breath tickle and tease the neck of the taller man. "Not for food…" he repeated before placing two kisses where the smooth skin of the neck met the stubble on the cheek.
"What are you hungry for?" the brunet asked, playing dumb: his hushed, breathy voice betraying his already growing desire.
"My husband," Anders replied, his hands pushing the brown tartan fabric off the brunet's shoulder. Still on his knees, Mitchell turned around to face his husband and he tied his hair in a low ponytail with a leather lace to keep it out of the way.
Anders kissed his lord insistently, taking off the warrior's coat, still giving him all the time he needed to turn him away if he had changed his mind and didn't wish for a physical intercourse. But the way the taller man was quivering under his touch as the Aklànder proceeded to unbutton his shirt, treasuring every inch of skin he uncovered in the process with kisses and nips, told Anders that John was very much into what they were doing.
"Is it alcohol making you that flirty?" John inquired, stretching his neck and closing his eyes as the blond man threw his shirt on a nearby chair.
"No, it's you that has this effect on me," Anders objected in a hoarse tone. "Your voice is music to my ears," he went on, his finger tracing the dark aureole of a perky nipple. "Your beauty is fire to my loins," he added, before replacing his digit with his tongue and teeth. John let out a short "ah!" at the sudden, sharp sensation.
Anders' palm was going down the warrior's stomach, marveling at the firmness of the contracted abdominal muscles, but John caught his wrist midway to guide his hand directly under the woolen fabric of his kilt. "Touch me, Anders," he shuddered.
The consort's hand grazed the skin of the heavy testicles and went up along the hard, pulsing shaft. He allowed his fingers to run through the tuft of curls between the young man's legs. It was a sensation he was not yet fully accustomed to. Touching his husband felt so different than touching a woman and Anders found it incredibly arousing. There were plains and valleys where he usually found hills and there were angles instead of curves. Even if he had taken the time to map his husband's body during their stay in Eelry, he could still feel the excitation of novelty.
"Let me see what I'm doing to you," Anders demanded. He could feel and hear John reacting to his caresses, both vocally and physically, but now he also wanted to watch.
John grabbed the front of his kilt, lifted it up and tucked it in his belt so the older man could get a better view.
"You make me want you very bad right now," John panted, pulling Anders closer for a kiss.
There were rare times when Anders realized how young his husband actually was: a still quite young man whose life, titles bestowed on him and the weight of power had forced into acting older than his days. He was asking for sex, sure, but those doe eyes were screaming "make me feel loved and alive."
"You look magnificent like that," Anders commented, running his hands over his lord's thighs and bended knees. He leant forward to kiss John's neck and whisper: "would you like to kneel on top of me?"
"You want us to make love that way?" John asked, his pupils getting darker and drinking the firelight.
"Yes. I'd like to try, but only if you want it too," he replied. It was the blond man's favorite position with girls, but he had never tried it with John… he was curious and aroused by the idea of his beautiful spouse being on top of him. When the brunet nodded, Anders removed his shirt, he brought their naked chests together and showered the brunet's shoulders with feverish kisses.
Leaving on the carpet in front of the now roaring fire a young man panting with anticipation, Anders went to the nightstand to fetch the oil vial. He could feel on his back the hazel gaze monitoring his every move impatiently.
Once by his lover's side again, Anders made him lie down gently on the carpet and then, he took his time to make sure his lover would be comfortable enough to take him in.
Neither of them had removed their kilts, but they didn't have to, since they never wore anything underneath. Anders lied on his back on the carpet. John straddled his hips and pushed the front of the blond's kilt up on his stomach.
His young husband was obviously a natural at riding another man, because none of the girls Anders had slept with ever got him hot so quickly as that hairy brunet who was lowering himself on him with fervor.
They lost themselves in their lovemaking, basking in the halo of warmth coming from the fireplace. Anders found his husband magnificent and irresistible; his olive skin kissed by the firelight and his sweaty flanks glistering like molten copper. John looked down at him, mouth agape and his breath heavy. Suddenly, Anders felt it once again: this fear that was taking him every time he saw his husband so enraptured. "Will I ever be able to love him enough?" he worried. "Will I ever be able to give him all he needs and deserves?"
Shaky and clumsy from the intensity of the pleasure: Anders' hands reached for John's belt buckle. He freed his husband's legs from the kilt's fabric and roamed his palms on the toned thighs and stomach. With a groan of possessive lust, he grasped the young man's hips and dug his thumbs in the hollows inside the jutting hipbones.
John gasped for air and moaned from the sensation as Anders guided him up and down. The brunet wrapped his hand around his achingly hard member, but one of the blond's hands left his hip to lace his fingers with John's around his erection. "Let me," he offered.
"Anders!!," John whimpered, overwhelmed by all the sensations invading his body as his partner stroked him.
Anders let it go; moaning and feeling the delicious yearning one experienced when he had everything but kept wanting more. "Come here so I can kiss you," he demanded, pulling his husband down gently, but the younger man resisted, shaking his head frantically, the moans tumbling from his parted lips growing louder. "I…I can't…" he stuttered.
"Oh," Anders understood, "you found a good angle there, yes?"
"Ye..yess," John nodded. He threw his head back and his low-pitched cry echoed in the room.
"That's fine, maiseach…. keep on pleasuring yourself on me… I'm … here for that…… aahh… so good….," Anders encouraged him, feeling by the thickness of John's member in his hand and by the tension building up somewhere in his own overheated body, that they were both close to climax.
Digging his blunt nails in the flesh of the blond man's pectorals, John bit down his lower lip and Anders felt the strength of his lover's orgasm wash over him like the forceful waves of a sea storm. As John stayed there, moaning and shuddering through his release, Anders took him firmly by the waist. He rolled his hips forward, off the floor and into his husband's body: three, four, five more times and it was his turn to be carried away by the tide.
He closed his eyes and didn't move for a while, boneless and breathless, only moaning in protest when he felt John leaving his place on top of him. He didn't move either when John worked off his belt to discard his soiled kilt.
"It was… hmm… it was delicious…," Anders whispered, finally opening his eyes when his lover came back to snuggle with him on the carpet after cleaning himself up.
"Did I quench your thirst for me a little?" John inquired with a little laugh, nuzzling the side of the blond's neck with a content sigh.
The aklànder rolled on top of his husband, taking him by surprise and traced a path of kisses along the brunet's sternum. "I'm afraid my thirst for you is unquenchable."
John stretched his back under him with a sleepy smile. "I can't help but be a little flattered by those words."
"I allow you to be flattered," Anders smiled. A thing he appreciated of being married with a man, and a strong one, was that he could lie on top of his partner and never have to worry about crushing him. John could take Anders' compact weight just fine.
The aklànder laid his head down on John's left pectoral and long fingers came carding into the hair at the base of his scalp in an affectionate massage.
Anders felt good, perhaps even too good. His spouse's steady heartbeat and calm breathing, the fingers in his hair and the hand traveling up and down his back, the warmth of John's skin and of the fire, the crackling of the logs in the hearth: all of that was lulling Anders to sleep and he felt powerless to resist. He really was on the verge of falling asleep when he felt John stirring under him, uncomfortable. Anders changed position and lied down onto his side on the carpet. He took John's kilt he had tossed away earlier and placed it on their naked bodies as a blanket. When he kissed the younger man and looked into his eyes, he understood that the discomfort wasn't a physical one.
"There is something I need to tell you," John said, caressing his husband's arm like he wanted to soothe a wound he hadn't caused yet. "I swore to myself I would tell you before the winter, but winter began a few hours ago so I have no choice anymore."
Of course, those words made Anders worried. "It seems serious. What is it? Tell me." It's been a few days that he had the vague intuition that his lord was hiding something from him. He would finally get to know.
John brought his spouse closer and left a kiss on his forehead before answering the question. "I got news from the south border," he whispered in blond hair, "rumors speak of an imminent nomad attack. I called for the nine clans to gather their armies as soon as possible."
"Right," Anders murmured, thoughtful. It was not good news, but it was not dramatic either. He didn't understand why his husband had concealed that information from him until now. Winter was the time of military campaigns: it was the same thing nearly each year so it didn't really come as a surprise. Anders wasn't pleased, but could live with that change in his life.
His next thought was for his fox. What about Tiolam? he wondered. He could always leave her here in Brastàl. Annie would surely be happy to do fox-sitting for a few moons… but Anders would truly miss the little fur ball. Maybe John would agree if he asked him to be allowed to bring his pup along. Foxes had keen ears. She was still young. He could train her to yelp and warn them of dangers and ambushed enemies. Also, since his wedding, Anders had spent his time mostly in bed and eating too much: he would have to get back to weapon training seriously, but he could manage to get fit and ready in a few weeks. This campaign would be a good thing for Ornàn as well. A warhorse that had never seen a battle in its whole life: it was getting a bit ridiculous.
"When are we leaving?" the blond wanted to know, lifting his chin to meet the young man's gaze.
John cupped his husband's face in his hands with a sigh, running his thumbs on Anders' cheekbones, looking into his eyes with a sadness that made the blond man expect the worst.
"I’m leaving next week, but you won't be accompanying me," John told him.
And instantly, Anders knew what it would feel like to fall down a donjon tower.