Dhearmad mo athair chéim mé dall isteach sa dorchadas.
The words of his son echo.
The are a hollow sentiment left in the hollow of his throat, soft and gasping, a sin to stain. A sin to remind him that they were not like humans. And when he’d felt warm flesh, his flesh, give beneath fingertips and cry out with lust there was no sickness, no feeling of jarring wrongness.
No there was merely a father comforting his son.
There was merely Emrys satiating Aeron’s need.
So he excuses himself, taking a slow breath, and steadies himself against the weight of the call. His son sounds older, wiser, and it means that Cian has done her work mentoring him in his stead. There is soft laughter and his throat catches.
What little he would not do to ensure the safety of his last remaining heir. Though it defies the laws of the North ( laws he helped write at their creation centuries, eons ago ) Emrys would move the world to keep that laughter ringing.
“An bhfuil tú chailleann dom?” comes Aeron’s voice, edged with laughter and inky mischief. An answering smile twists across his lips. “Always,”he begin. “You know I enjoy a vigorous exercise.” There’s a sigh on the other edge of the phone followed by quiet words, “Ah, and I suppose you can’t talk freely either. Should I whisper sweet nothings in your ear later?”
Emrys wishes he could hit him.
A sigh slips free and he shakes his head.
“Yes dear,” he says without thought and hangs up, pocketing the phone and instead turning in his seat to regard the intruder. The gaze is fleeting, appraising. Well it took all types.
“Did you need something?”
