It is a known fact across the whole of Rosohna that the Shadowhand is the hands-off sort. That's what it's called in polite company, at least. When the man himself and anyone who might report back to him are supposedly out of earshot, he's more likely to be called frigid.
Apparently it's a shame, according to many. Even setting aside the power he holds (the youngest Shadowhand in history!) and how appealing a target he makes (the youngest Shadowhand in history), he's very easy on the eyes. He has the willowy, androgynous build that tends to be associated with classical elven beauty, with delicate features and fine-boned hands and striking violet eyes. Yet he hides his slightness under voluminous robes and billowing cloaks, hides his narrow shoulders beneath the sharp curves of his mantle--all the more enticing, then, to catch a glimpse of a long, slender leg or arm as he goes about his business. Essek Thelyss turns heads. The fact that he keeps himself closed off to everyone, untouchable, aloof as a cat, only means that there are plenty who'd betray the crown itself to be welcomed into his personal space. It's calculated.
The thing about cats is that despite their reputation, they are needy little things. As effortlessly as he gives the impression to the contrary, Essek has his needs. Picky as he is, there is only a single man who can meet them.
If anyone knew who, that would be gossip fodder for a decade. A good secret to have on hand; compromising enough to account for shifty behavior, but far less dire than treason. These things happen with some frequency among the dens, where consecution can sometimes result in unusual permutations of standard relationships. Still, this sort of closeness between siblings is the sort of thing one is expected to grow out of by their age. But they are both considered young--first lives, only partly into their second centuries. Such youthful foolishness would lead to general finger wagging and some embarassment for the den, but they wouldn't get worse than a slap on the wrist.
Still, Essek would prefer it not come to that. Having to be even more discreet while pretending to distance themselves would be a real pain. Especially when he finally has a reason to keep Verin close at hand.
They kiss, and Essek spreads his legs as he whimpers encouragingly against Verin's mouth. He buries his hands in his brother's long, loose hair as Verin's fingers comb through his own--much shorter, but the motion still sends a frission of excitement down his spine.
"You are not going anywhere now," Essek declares in a low, fierce whisper. "You are mine. I am keeping you."
When they kiss again, deeper, he sucks on Verin's tongue, scrapes his lower lip with his sharp teeth. His lip color may or may not be holding up. Barely needing to lift from the bed, his thighs find a natural position squeezing Verin's waist. Everything about the way Essek draws his brother in is deeply, unabashedly possessive.
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Apparently it's a shame, according to many. Even setting aside the power he holds (the youngest Shadowhand in history!) and how appealing a target he makes (the youngest Shadowhand in history), he's very easy on the eyes. He has the willowy, androgynous build that tends to be associated with classical elven beauty, with delicate features and fine-boned hands and striking violet eyes. Yet he hides his slightness under voluminous robes and billowing cloaks, hides his narrow shoulders beneath the sharp curves of his mantle--all the more enticing, then, to catch a glimpse of a long, slender leg or arm as he goes about his business. Essek Thelyss turns heads. The fact that he keeps himself closed off to everyone, untouchable, aloof as a cat, only means that there are plenty who'd betray the crown itself to be welcomed into his personal space. It's calculated.
The thing about cats is that despite their reputation, they are needy little things. As effortlessly as he gives the impression to the contrary, Essek has his needs. Picky as he is, there is only a single man who can meet them.
If anyone knew who, that would be gossip fodder for a decade. A good secret to have on hand; compromising enough to account for shifty behavior, but far less dire than treason. These things happen with some frequency among the dens, where consecution can sometimes result in unusual permutations of standard relationships. Still, this sort of closeness between siblings is the sort of thing one is expected to grow out of by their age. But they are both considered young--first lives, only partly into their second centuries. Such youthful foolishness would lead to general finger wagging and some embarassment for the den, but they wouldn't get worse than a slap on the wrist.
Still, Essek would prefer it not come to that. Having to be even more discreet while pretending to distance themselves would be a real pain. Especially when he finally has a reason to keep Verin close at hand.
They kiss, and Essek spreads his legs as he whimpers encouragingly against Verin's mouth. He buries his hands in his brother's long, loose hair as Verin's fingers comb through his own--much shorter, but the motion still sends a frission of excitement down his spine.
"You are not going anywhere now," Essek declares in a low, fierce whisper. "You are mine. I am keeping you."
When they kiss again, deeper, he sucks on Verin's tongue, scrapes his lower lip with his sharp teeth. His lip color may or may not be holding up. Barely needing to lift from the bed, his thighs find a natural position squeezing Verin's waist. Everything about the way Essek draws his brother in is deeply, unabashedly possessive.