Raise me a dais of silk and down

[maculategiraffe]

Any time Bran fell asleep with Jer, it was a safe bet that he'd wake up well along the way to getting fucked again-- strong hands rubbing with controlled impatience over his skin, cupping and groping his ass, or fisting in his hair, a bruising mouth at his neck, a large, hard cock grazing or poking him somewhere. Bran was far from minding this; Jer was rough, but he was also careful, and a hard morning fuck tended to put him in such a good mood that he was almost as tender and gentle as Holden, afterwards.

So when Bran woke up, abruptly and inexplicably, to find Jer still sound asleep beside him, Bran decided to initiate matters on his own. He was pretty sure Jer would like that-- and if he didn't, well, he could always shove Bran away and go back to sleep. Bran wouldn't get his feelings hurt.

Much.

He squirmed closer to Jer, his chest against the older man's broad, wiry-haired chest, liking the heat coming off the sleeping body, and moved his pelvis tentatively up against Jer's morning erection. Jer grunted vaguely; when Bran put his arms up to wrap around Jer and give him better leverage, Jer opened his eyes.

He regarded Bran for a few moments with a deliberately neutral expression that made Bran nervous, and then smiled and pulled Bran in for a long, slow, deep kiss on the mouth, running a hand through Bran's curls and sliding the other to the small of his back.

"Hey, slut," he said when he had pulled away. "Couldn't wait till I woke up, huh?"

"No, sir," said Bran demurely, moving his hips so that his cock slid against Jer's, and Jer grunted again and rolled him over on his back, pinning him down and looking down into his eyes.

"Not this morning, kid," he said, smiling again at Bran's look of surprised disappointment. "Thanks. But you'll see why, later."

He moved off Bran, collected both of Bran's wrists in one fist and raised them while he looked Bran's body carefully up and down, then rolled him over on his belly and repeated the examination. Bran made a small noise of surprise when Jer's hands parted his ass cheeks, but Jer didn't touch his hole before releasing them.

"Not a mark on you," he said, inexplicably satisfied, and patted Bran's ass firmly before starting to caress his back; Bran relaxed into the oddly soft, rhythmic brush of Jer's fingers. "You really are a pretty kid. Even for your age. You know that?"

Bran blushed. "I-- Thank you."

"Good kid, too." Jer kept stroking, the lightness of his touch entirely bizarre considering that it was Jer. "Polite. And a damn sweet fuck."

Bran was starting to be unnerved by this uncharacteristic effusiveness, not to mention the soft petting. And why wasn't he supposed to get fucked-- or have any marks? A horrible suspicion suddenly wrenched through him, paralyzing him.

"What's wrong?" Jer asked, and pulled Bran over on his back. "Bran?"

"Wh-- why are you saying all this?" Bran managed.

Jer squinted at him. "What, a guy can't compliment a nice piece of ass?"

"You just-- don't usually--" Bran cleared his throat. "Is-- is there something-- is something going to happen?"

"Nothing bad," said Jer, his usually brusque voice suddenly very gentle. "Hey. It's okay, Bran. There's nothing bad. I promise."

"What's happening?" Bran pleaded, and Jer stroked his cheek with a careful finger.

"Hell," he said, and smiled. "Don't you know what today is?"

Bran was puzzled-- it wasn't any day in particular. The summer solstice had been more than a week ago--

--two weeks ago, in fact.

"Oh," he said, in a small voice.

Jer shook his head.

"Does it really take that much reminding?" he asked. "When you're my age is when it's time to start trying to forget your own birthday."

"I just..." Bran blinked up at Jer. "Wait-- how did you know it was my birthday?"

"Hey, this may come as a shock," said Jer, "but the master actually keeps a file on you. And since part of the midlife crisis you set off apparently involves him using you as an excuse to celebrate everything in sight, he wants to celebrate your birthday. I don't know what he's got in mind, except that Yves and I aren't supposed to fuck you or mark you up today-- he wants you all to himself."

Bran blushed. Jer grinned at him.

"You like the sound of that, huh?" he teased, poking Bran in the ribs, and Bran squirmed, blushing harder. "Course, I don't guess there's much he could do with you that you wouldn't like the sound of, is there?"

Bran shook his head, then rolled impulsively into Jer's arms and nuzzled against his chest. He felt Jer tense for a moment, before his strong arms wrapped around Bran and hugged him.

"You crack me up, kid," he said, his voice thrumming in his chest, against Bran's ear. "I don't know why the hell you like me so much when I'm such a cranky bastard."

"You're not," said Bran, and kissed Jer's neck.

"Quit that," said Jer gruffly, "before I get too horny not to fuck you. Go find the master."

Bran obeyed reluctantly, wiggling out of Jer's arms, only to be pulled back in for another sweet kiss on the lips.

"Happy birthday," Jer said, and pushed Bran away. "Now get out of my face."





Bran was still smiling when he got back to his own bedroom, intending to grab a fresh tunic and neaten himself up a little before breakfast, and found Holden asleep in his bed.

He wasn't sure how long he stood in the doorway wondering what to do before he finally worked up his nerve to climb into the bed-- it was his bed, after all, at least insofar as Holden would surely expect him to be in it at some point-- and lie down next to his master.

Holden stirred and opened his eyes; he smiled, and his arms went around Bran and pulled him in close, pressing his head down against the warm, naked shoulder as gentle lips pressed against the top of his head and Holden's legs wrapped around his. Bran's muscles went liquid, and his eyes crossed slightly before closing.

"Hey, birthday boy," said Holden in his ear. "How does it feel to be nineteen?"

"Good, master," Bran whispered, as Holden ran a hand through his curls, caressing his back with the other hand. "Very... very good."

"What do you want for your birthday?" Holden asked, with a smile in his voice. Bran burrowed closer.

"This," he said firmly, and Holden chuckled.

"I think we can do better than that," he said, but he didn't let go, and he didn't say anything else for a while. Bran was so happy and relaxed, cuddled close and breathing in his master's warm skin-scent, that he was almost asleep when Holden said softly, "Sweetheart?"

"Master?" Bran murmured, hoping for longer in Holden's arms. It couldn't be time for breakfast yet; it was still barely light.

Holden laid him down on his back and examined his face. "Are you happy?"

"Yes, master," said Bran, immediately and with heartfelt intensity, as he looked back into his master's dark, sweet eyes.

Holden smiled, but he looked sad. "I don't just mean right now. I mean-- in general."

"Yes, master," said Bran, suddenly worried again. "Very happy."

"But there must be something you want," said Holden, stroking Bran's hair back from his face, and Bran relaxed slightly, as his master didn't seem about to go down the conversational path he'd feared, about whether Bran was really better off here than with someone like Andrei Taganov. Lord Taganov was extremely nice, but nevertheless, Bran was sort of starting to hope he'd be hit by a convenient meteorite. "Something I can give you. You never ask me for anything."

Bran couldn't think what to say. Of course he didn't. His whole life consisted of the one thing he'd ever asked of Holden, which he'd demanded with tactics that would make a good slave's blood run cold and which Holden had granted only under duress; Bran was hardly in a position to be making further requests.

"I was trying to think what you'd like," Holden continued, and Bran felt a shiver of pleasure go through him at the words. "And I was thinking back. Know what I got for my nineteenth birthday?"

"What, master?" Bran asked, interested, though Holden didn't exactly look happy at the memory.

"A horse," said Holden, and smiled mirthlessly when Bran stared at him in astonishment. "Pavel gave me a gods-damned horse for my nineteenth birthday. And did it ever piss Maria off. It wasn't too long after that that she sold me-- without any of my, quote, possessions."

Bran reached up with both hands and cupped his master's face between them. Holden turned his head to kiss each of Bran's palms in turn.

"So," he said. "I hope you don't want a horse. Or any kind of livestock. But it's your first birthday as-- mine. I'd like to give you something."

"You give me too much already, master," said Bran, smiling too broadly at the word mine, the slight hesitation and the half-involuntary emphasis his master had laid on it.

"What do I give you?" Holden asked, in apparent seriousness.

"Well," said Bran, cocking an eyebrow in a quizzical expression he would never have allowed himself with any other master, but it made Holden smile. "Let's see. You feed me three good meals a day, from the same table that you and the mistress eat at, and I get to sleep in a real bed even when I'm not warming somebody else's, and I have my own room, where I can close the door if I want. And-- you don't hurt me. And you don't let anybody else hurt me, either." His eyes stayed steady on his master's face, which wasn't smiling any more. "That's already more than anybody else gave me since my parents died."

Holden put his head on one side as he looked at Bran.

"You never talk about your former masters," he said. "Is it because you think I'm not interested, or do you not want to?"

"I don't want to," Bran answered immediately, then added, deferentially, "unless my master wishes it."

"Not if you'd rather not." Holden touched Bran's cheek. "Is that really all you can think of to ask for, kid? Food and a soft place to sleep? And not getting hit around at the drop of a hat?"

"That's not all you give me, master," said Bran, smiling a little. "You-- the solstices, and the equinox-- you remembered. You cared enough to--"

"Yeah, three days a year, I spend a little time with you," said Holden. "Very damn generous."

"You know you spend a lot more time with me than that, master," said Bran, almost scoldingly. "And I'm grateful, for all the time you give me. But it was more than that. That you remembered the holidays, when you don't celebrate them, just..." He swallowed hard, still smiling, at the memory. "And at midsummer-- you'd been thinking about that, planning and putting things together, just-- just to make me happy."

"I want you to be happy, kiddo," said Holden gently, and Bran smiled up at him.

"I know, master," he said, and took a deep breath. "And-- master? I know you-- don't-- well-- love me. Not-- well, not the way you love Yves and Jer. But whatever it is you do-- feel, for me-- or maybe just how you are with me--" He cleared his throat, blinking tears from his eyes, and managed to continue, fairly steadily, "It's the closest I've felt. To being loved. Since-- my parents died. I can't-- I don't think I can ever thank you enough-- for that, master."

"Bran," whispered Holden, sounding as if he'd just been punched in the stomach, and then he slumped down onto Bran, his head dropping heavily onto Bran's shoulder; Bran could feel him trembling. He reached up timidly to stroke the thick dark hair, with its threads of dull gray and bright silver, hoping that whatever was wrong, his master wouldn't mind the gentle touch. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, as his master's trembling gradually subsided and his body lay still on Bran's; then he reached up a hand, fumbling, caught Bran's, and squeezed it convulsively.

"I'm sorry, master," Bran said tentatively, and Holden snorted softly, muffled against Bran, and lifted his head, pulling himself up. His face was pale and drawn; he looked deliberately blank, closed off from expression.

"Trust me, kid," he said hoarsely, and cleared his throat, and smiled mechanically at Bran, who couldn't quite manage a smile back, "you've got absolutely nothing to be sorry about. I'm just-- I'm-- honored. That you feel that way. And I wish-- gods, Bran, I wish to hell it weren't true, that I'm-- the closest you've come. I wish I could get it through to you, that you deserve better than--"

"Better than you?" Bran finished when his master trailed off. "I don't want any better than you, master."

"See, there's our problem, right there," said Holden, who was starting to sound a bit more like himself. "Even Yves has the good sense to wish I were slightly less insanely possessive and temperamental than I am."

"I like you to be possessive, master," said Bran truthfully, which made Holden grin more genuinely. "And you aren't temperamental with me."

"What do you call flopping all over you like this?" Holden asked, tapping Bran's chest with his open palm, then leaning down to kiss him softly on the mouth again. Bran kissed back hungrily until Holden pulled away and furrowed his brow down at Bran.

"You still haven't told me what you want for your birthday," he said. "Come on, bright eyes. There's got to be something."

"I want you, master," said Bran, emboldened by happiness, and by his master's insistence. It was a presumptuous request, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. "I'd like-- if it's not too-- I'd like to spend the day with you, master. All day."

"That, I'd already arranged," said Holden, and Bran blinked at him as he added, "I cleared my calendar for today, kiddo. Wanted to make sure I had time for whatever you wanted. If you really can't think of anything else, what do you say after breakfast we walk down to the market together, and you see if anything strikes your fancy? Books, baubles, food-- maybe we can ask your friend Marta if she's got anything in particular you might like. And after that, we could-- well, whatever you want. I can take you to visit anyone you'd like to see-- Kit, or Jay, or--"

"You cleared your--" Bran began, and then he laughed, and flung himself so hard up against Holden that he rolled them both over and was lying on top of his master, grinning beatifically down at him.

"Or you can just lie on top of me," Holden offered, grinning back up. "If that's your idea of a good time."

Bran laughed again and leaned down to kiss his master, deeply and lingeringly, tasting his lips and running his tongue across his teeth, before leaning down further to whisper in his ear, "It isn't your idea of a good time, master?"

"Minx," said Holden, laughing, and gripped the back of Bran's hair, forcing their mouths back together. When they finally broke apart, panting and flushed, he added rather breathlessly, "You are my idea of a good time, boy."

"Likewise, master," Bran purred audaciously, nuzzling towards Holden's neck, but Holden pulled him back and said, "Not now, sweetheart, or we'll be late for breakfast."

"Who cares?" Bran wondered, grinding his hips slowly against his master's pelvis.

"Fox," said Holden. "I told her it was your birthday. I think she might have factored that into her cooking this morning. You don't want to disappoint her."

Bran stopped moving. After a moment, he laid his head down carefully on Holden's shoulder and lay very still, feeling his master's heartbeat, his warmth, the firm hands that came up to touch his back, the arms that encircled him, the rough morning bristle of his chin and the motion of his throat as he swallowed.

"Thank you, master," he said finally.

Holden sat up slowly, drawing Bran with him till Bran was curled in his lap instead of prostrate on top of him.

"Least I can do, kiddo," he said, and kissed Bran's cheek quickly. "Come on. Let's go get you something to eat."