XXXVII: The Drunken Bath

Crimson rivulets swirl into the grate, drinking the ritual’s bloody remains.

Aedan empties another bucket of water over his head, then upends it atop his basted rags, a lopsided pile of pale red. Cardamon oil forms prismatic clouds upon the water’s skin, its heady scent filling the humid air.

Of all the luxuries imposed while living among these wolves, he most enjoys their aromatic baths. The steamy pool lures him into its satiating embrace. Ears full of warmth, he surfaces so the chill can bite his shoulders.

Fragrant waters make short work of the bonfire’s stink, but they cannot wash away his vision, a strange dream that began when his knife crossed the offering’s throat.

The stage transformed into the villa’s sandy inner court, and past its white sands stirred the fountain. Severed limbs bobbed in the foul water, and a head with long dark hair rolled wildly at its churning pillar.

Mother’s voice whispered his name from the tree.

There, hanging by a thick rope, was the lifeless body of Welletrix. Golden hair obscured the regally dressed Gaul’s face, but as he reached for those wild locks, a gaping wound spread across Aedan’s stomach.

No pain came with it, not even when something bulbous crowned the gash. Liquid life spilled from his wound, coating his legs in scarlet that formed deltas over his feet.

Mother’s laughter drifted from the shadows, and he followed that cackle to a trail of large feline pawprints in the sand. The lion strode past, ignoring him and his blood on its way to the fountain.

Pain seized Aedan then, forcing his fingers into the wound. He found a head inside the sticky, cloying trap and hastily tugged. With a sickening squelch, the bloody newborn tasted the air, but no cries came with her.

Curious brown eyes observed him as if he were the only man in the world…

“There’s my ugly little owl!” Body bald and naked, Skipio announces himself like a thunderclap on a sunny afternoon.

His need for a bath feels suspect, given the discarded towels in the dressing room upon Aedan’s arrival.

“You put on a rather exciting show tonight, A-Dawn,” his words slur, and his gait hints of unsteadiness. “That stringy body of yours, flitting around in the dark. Cutting throats and scaring babes.”

Skipio teeters on the pool’s edge.

“Little owl, hiding those blood-hungry eyes behind that mask.” He blinks slowly through his stupor, his arousal pointing at Aedan. “Your body…your eyes…so magnificent in battle…”

The Roman’s hunger is evident—damn this beautiful bastard.

“Stay back!” Aedan warns in Greek, standing in the water. His thumb traps his middle fingers as he aims his pointer and pinky at him. “I cannot be touched while still tainted with his blood!”

“Whose blood?” Skipio taunts. “Your lord of darkness?”

Aedan jumps away as the Roman splashes down the sunken stairs. Water conspires to slow his escape, enabling the capture of his legs.

“Inside these walls,” Skipio boasts. “I’m the lord of darkness,”

“Stop this!” Aedan cries, wrenching free on the steps. “Damn you, Servius!”

Skipio’s brawny mass falls upon him like a tossed blanket.

“Did you just address me as if we’re comrades?”

“Stop!” Aedan struggles under the Roman’s weight.

Skipio’s wine-laden breath melts his skin.

“You’re my prisoner, druid!”

Aedan’s body betrays him, though his mind holds the line.

“I’m not yours for the taking,” he snarls, twisting around in his captor’s arms.

Skipio rises to his knees and contains the druid’s gangly body.

Strong arms surround Aedan in a smothering embrace that renders his legs futile. His bony chest presses against the chiseled Roman’s, weakening his resolve, but it isn’t enough to make him reveal his understanding of the bastard’s drunken language.

“Yes! Fight me, A-dawn,” Skipio pleads, his face buried in black curls. “No one in this life fights me like you do,”

Aedan cannot punch that princely face. He pummels at the Roman’s muscular back until that smooth head wedges into his neck.

“Your bones no longer poke me as they once did,” Skipio complains as the druid, slick with oily water, twists free of him.

Grinning like a child, he catches his slippery lover by the hips.

“I can’t even see your ribs anymore.” Skipio flips Aedan onto his back. “You’re filling out. Living under my roof, eating my food, drinking my wine!”

Aedan finds the Roman’s anger irresistible, but his fear of the Dark Lord governs his heart. This cannot go further, no matter how badly he wants it. He takes the man’s taut midriff between his thighs and hooks his ankles together. Then, he squeezes with all his might.

Driven upright, Skipio howls in pain, driving a fist into the druid’s cheek. His head strikes the tile, putting him into an intoxicating haze that Skipio knows well.

“You do not need to rouse,” he groans, thick lips pressing sloppily against the druid’s cheek. “My skin upon yours is more potent than any wine.”

Aedan’s clarity fades as the Roman utters the sweetest nothings.

**

Hands paw roughly at the globes of his ass.

“My bites have faded, but they’ll never go away.” A stinging slap. “Just like your fire upon my skin.” A throaty chuckle. “Your hole keeps my girth. A perfect, hairless gape, wet and red like apple skin after my cock has its way…”

Aedan savors the ache in his guts before daring to open his eyes.

“When I’m alone, my mind conjures this hole,” Skipio’s voice drips with longing. “My fingers feel it, my tongue tastes it…”

The Roman moves over him and breathes hotly in his ear.

“No lord of darkness will come between us here,” he says, rubbing that smooth brow between Aedan’s shoulder blades. “I made a pact with your island gods to have you.”

Eyes closing, Aedan continues playing the possum.

“I wished to have you, body and soul, but your gods didn’t wish to part with you,” Skipio continues his drunken ramble. “Oh no. They offered up so many others to satisfy my lust, and I devoured them all while thinking of you.”

Aedan’s lust grows as memories of slain druids haunt him. His heart struggles to fathom his Roman bride’s many words—so much truth never before heard.

“Through the screaming, the blood, and the shit, all I thought about was you.” Skipio’s determined hand wedges itself between Aedan’s groin and the stone floor. “You and this horse’s fifth leg!” Fingers grip his sex tightly. “I love taking this monster in hand as your hole swallows me to the root,”

Aedan longs to fight when a tongue licks at his spine.

“… fill you with my seed, A-Dawn,” Skipio murmurs. “Give you my babies…”

His mind summons the bloodied infant, smiling in his arms. Aedan fervently twists beneath his captor. On his back, he jabs at those emerald eyes with his fingers until strong hands get hold of his wrists.

“You’ve awakened,” Skipio laughs.

Aedan raises his knees and plants his feet against the Roman’s rock-hard stomach. One push liberates him, and he sprints for the cavern as the drunken fool gives chase.

Bare feet race over damp stone, the underground lake mocking his fear with its serenity. He rushes through the cold pool room, his toe catching a towel and launching him onto the slate floor. Strong hands clamp down on his shoulders as Skipio falls onto him.

“You can’t run from me, druid,” he scolds in Greek. “It’s time to breed you like a broodmare,”

Aedan rolls to his side, limbs flailing to gain purchase with the floor while the Roman sticks to him like a wet tunic. He hammers an elbow into his ribs, but it’s not enough to hurt the man.

Like that python in his barn, Skipio hooks his legs and arms around the thrashing druid, his thick arousal slipping into that pliable hole.

The gaping flesh remembers, clinging to the bastard’s cock, bringing pleasures Aedan cannot deny. His sex begs for attention, and he grabs it, jerking feverishly.

“Oh no,” Skipio grunts, taking the druid’s hand. “You’re not going to finish you. I am going to finish you,”

Cold air tickles his raw flesh when the Roman pulls out. He grips Aedan’s ankles and rolls him onto his shoulders. His toes tap stone as the beastly Roman bores into him. He cries out with the first stab, its sweet agony fueled by the bastard’s flushed face.

Aedan bears down, taking the Roman deeper, euphoric at his power over the virile fool—until his cock enters again and hits something that delivers a fantastic sting.

Another thrust taps the same spot, tickling his bladder.

“Stop,” Aedan grunts. “I’m going to piss,”

“No, you won’t,” the ashen face taunts with each new shove.

He’s pissed on the Roman bastard before, during raucous beat-downs that didn’t end in them rutting like dogs. Still, he cannot deny this sensation and closes his eyes for the inevitable.

Roman cock pushes into him again, striking the same place and sparking a delicious warmth in his guts. Tongue out like a thirsty dog, Aedan’s body trembles.

Skipio shoves into him once more, watching the convulsing bitch’s toes curl, feeling his wispy body shudder. Seed spits from the druid’s darkened manhood, pearling the slit as it empties onto his chest in fits and starts.

With each jolt, Aedan squeezes the Roman’s cock, and the blushing man’s eyes lose focus as his powerful legs falter. The breathless bastard moans out before falling onto Aedan’s spent body. Moments pass, their seed fusing them together. Chests rise and fall in tandem until a low, steady rumble comes as the Roman falls into slumber.

No sleep comes for druids who lose control.

Aedan touches his lips to the bald head beside him, inhaling its spicy aroma. Seed leaks from his hole, but he cannot collect a taste, not with his sturdy Roman bride snoring on top of him.

In the ceiling’s glass circle, darkness gives way to light.

This marriage cannot prevail. Aedan doesn’t belong in this place, in this life. He’s done nothing to earn it. There are limits to pleasure, yet such boundaries fade under the charming discomfort Skipio’s fiery body brings.

After a time, his Roman bride wakes with a snort, brow marked by the stone floor.

Aedan closes his eyes when the Roman’s weight rises. Strong arms slip under his knees and his back, lifting him. His bride using him like a whore and then carrying him to bed is too disgustingly romantic. It’s enough to make him vomit…until he splashes down into icy waters that seep into his soul.

Skipio stands over him, his flaccid meat impressive in dawn’s first light.

“Good morning, my ugly little owl,” he declares in Greek, suddenly sober.

Aedan glowers, frozen from the waist down.

“You should know that I’ll be spending next month in Comum,” Skipio leans in and brings his face closer. “If you try to run away, I’ll cut off your legs. You try to kill yourself with no legs, and I’ll cut off your arms,”

Skipio’s verdant eyes brighten.

“I quite like the idea of having you in a box, A-Dawn. Niko can take you out when it’s time to eat, and Welle can take you out for a bath after I’ve given you a hardy plow.”

Lust dampens Aedan’s fury.

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t enjoy such a circumstance,” he tells him. “But then, you would miss my fists and kicks, wouldn’t you?”

Skipio tuts. “What are you on about, druid?”

“You came here in the night, lost in your cups,” Aedan tempers his tone. “After too much drink…that’s the only time you ever admit what you’re feeling,”

“Are you, lecturing me, about feelings?” Skipio balks, “When the only time you feel anything, A-Dawn, is when you’re hungry or in heat.”

Aedan cannot defend against such truths as Skipio’s struts to the hot bath.

“I’m still going to kill you, Lion,” he promises.

Skipio’s voice carries over his shoulder.

“You’ll be underneath me, dead, before that happens!”

Aedan’s reflection on the water ripples away when he slaps it.