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Sweet Is Evil	By : vorrutyer Category: M through R > Miles Vorkosigan Saga Views: 1096 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Miles Vorkosigan series or any of these characters and I made no profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Part 1
- 2-Part 2
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               Quite suddenly, he was inside me. It hurt terribly. I gasped out loud, my eyes watering, and made an inarticulate sound. Bloody Barrayaran boys, I thought. None of them know the first thing about sodomy. It made me miss Cetaganda, unpatriotic as that might have been. The Ghem are no strangers to vice, and they know how to appreciate a pretty young man.
                “Aral,” I choked, “Spit on it.”
                “What’s that?” His voice from behind me was blurred, drunk, and utterly adorable.
                “Spit on it!” I repeated, with some urgency. “It’s much too dry.”
                “Ah.” Silence for a second, then he cleared his throat and I distinctly heard him spit. The wetness hit me a bit above the mark, but it dripped down the crack of my ass, onto the place where our bodies were so painfully joined. I sighed and leaned back onto him slightly, squeezing in another quarter inch of glorious cock, but there still wasn’t nearly enough lubrication.
                “Again,” I whispered hoarsely.
                I was leaning over an antique vanity in a spare bedroom at Vorkosigan house, staring at myself in the mirror. I was looking my best. Something about being buggered always brings out a healthy glow in my cheeks. My dark curls were bewitchingly disheveled, my eyes shining with tears and with desire. The expression of pain on my face did little to spoil the effect, quite the reverse, actually, in my opinion. I bit my lower lip slightly as Aral continued to fuss around back there, easing into me one agonizing centimeter at a time, his hands gripping my buttocks to spread them wide. I tried to relax—no easy thing, but I’ve had practice. Breathing deep, I let myself sink into the pain.
              Something gave way. My sphincter abruptly relented to the pressure, and he slid the rest of the way in, until he was sheathed inside me to the hilt. His comical look of narrow-eyed concentration dissolved into one of bliss. I made another strangled noise and clutched the edge of the vanity, white-knuckled, my hot breath misting on the mirror. It was excruciating—the pleasure and the pain both. It was like being impaled on a red hot blade, around which my body would writhe and tear itself apart, in primitive and exquisite torture.
              “Oh,” I breathed, “Please…”
              His hips shifted against me in a tiny experimental movement, the most tentative of thrusts. I nearly died. Aral’s hand clamped over my mouth, stifling my scream.
              “Quiet!” He hissed, panic lending his voice some temporary clarity. “The Count my father…”
              Yes, quite. If we were caught, the-Count-His-Father would kill us. I couldn’t help but giggle at the image of Piotr walking in on us here. The look on his face would make our subsequent demise almost worth it.
              “Quiet,” Aral repeated sharply, irritated by my hilarity. Yes, after all, buggery was a serious matter, hardly something to take lightly. I stopped laughing immediately. As if to make up for his curtness, Aral wrapped an arm around my waist and drew me closer to him, though his other hand remained firmly covering my mouth. I melted in his arms.
              Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Aral froze. I reached around behind me and hooked my hand around his muscular ass in a gesture of appeal, begging him to stay inside me and place his confidence in the locked door. He pushed my hand roughly away, and after another moment, laboriously pulled his cock out of me. I slumped against the vanity, breathless and weak in the knees. In the mirror I could see him doing up his trousers, and behind him, the glasses and empty bottles littering the floor. I stayed there, listlessly leaning on the vanity, until his large hand descended on me and pulled me up by the collar of my shirt.
              “Get decent,” he growled at me under his breath.
              “Now that would take some doing.” I said it loudly, to annoy him.
              He looked about to hit me, but then brusquely turned away. I sighed, rolled my eyes, and pulled up my pants. Dressed, I took a seat on the floor to try and coax the last few drops of wine from a nearly empty bottle. Aral didn’t look at me. I didn’t take my eyes off him.
              The footsteps drew nearer, and stopped outside the door. An uncertain pause, as if someone was listening, and then a brisk rap. “Aral, boy?” It was Count Piotr’s voice.
              Aral looked absolutely green. I stifled another laugh with the back of my hand. For a moment I thought he would not reply, but finally he seemed to recover his voice.
              “Sir?”
              Piotr tried the door, rattling the handle. “Open up, boy. I want to talk to you.”
              With gritted teeth, Aral went to open the door. The Count entered, looking strained.
              “What the devil were you doing hidden away up here?—oh, your friend Vorrutyer is with you.” His brow creased in irritation. “Hello, Ges.”
              “Count Vorkosigan. Sir.” I raised the bottle to him ironically.
              Piotr managed a smile at me. It looked as though it hurt his face. “Well. How does it feel, boy? You’re soon to have a brother in law.” He laid a proud hand on his son’s shoulder.
              How did it feel? I can’t say it particularly bothered me. Marriage, in my experience, is at worst an easily surmountable obstacle. Aral’s betrothal to my sister merely lent another dimension of taboo to anything that passed between us—such as, oh, fucking in a spare room at his father’s house in the aftermath of his bachelor party. And yet, some little nagging part of me suspected that things might shortly become more complicated.
              “Honored, sir,” I said smoothly, “And delighted that House Vorkosigan and House Vorrutyer shall be strengthening our long-standing alliance.”
              Behind his father’s back, Aral gave me an amused and slightly disgusted look. It always put him off to see me clicking my heels at the Count. Aral had always been pathologically incapable of being civil to people he didn’t like. The concept of glad-handing all but eluded him.
                Piotr, however, warmed slightly at my words. “Very well put, Ges. It will, indeed, be an advantageous union.” He glanced between his son and me. “Ah—will you excuse us for now? I have some things to discuss with Aral about the wedding next week.”
                That was my cue. I clambered to my feet. “Of course, Count. In fact, I was just leaving.” I saluted Piotr, and favored Aral with a little friendly sneer which didn’t remotely express my feelings. “Good night to you both.”
                With that I made my exit. At the door, I allowed myself a single glance back, and caught Aral looking after me with eyes full of frustration and regret.
              I thought about that look all the way home—that look, and the hope that it held for me.
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Sweet Is Evil