This is wrong. The little voice in his head says so.
They've just finished a run and they're both drenched in sweat and Tyler really should be heading for his bathroom so he can shower, and Mason has him pinned up against the wall of the foyer, his left hand clamped like a manacle around both of Tyler's wrists, holding his arms up and over his head and they're humping up against each other like a pair of dogs in heat, and the little voice keeps saying that this is wrong, but there's a deeper, throatier voice that wants this, tells him to push back with everything in him because one day it'll be him on top.
It's so wrong that it should feel so right.
It's so wrong that he should know somehow that this isn't really about the fact that Mason's into guys. It's ... there's something else here, but Tyler's not quite sure what.
It's just that he knows that this is how it is, that this is how it's supposed to be, and that it just happens to be incest.
Mason half sucks, half chews a hickey on his neck and the anger of it -- being made to knuckle under, the feel of teeth on his neck -- the knowledge that he's not the Alpha here -- not yet -- surges through him and straight out his dick.
A second later, Mason stiffens and groans against him, and Tyler can feel that heat and wet through the own sticky mess he just made.
Mason lets go, steps, back and --
"Your eyes!" Tyler gasps.
Mason seizes him by the hair, pulls him, spins him, pushes him towards --
"Your eyes, too, boy," he growls.
-- the mirror that hangs on the wall.
Tyler sees those eyes in his face, blinks, and they're gone. Normal again, just like Mason's. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he can say, "W-what?"
Mason lets go of his hair, smirks, and says, "Take a shower," and turns to go to his room.
"What!" Tyler insists.
There's something only half joking in Mason's voice when he says, "Your balls have dropped." He scrubs a hand through his own sweat-matted hair, huffs, and continues, "I can't tell you the rest -- can't show you the rest -- until the time is right. Okay?"
Well, no, not really.
Mason's mouth twitches in something like a smile as he reaches out and grips Tyler's shoulder. "It's ... complicated, but it will be okay. You'll see. Promise."
Tyler's bursting with questions, but there's a finality in the way that Mason just shut the door to his room. He stares daggers at the door for several heartbeats, thinks about pounding on it and demanding an answer to what just happened here, but he's got a sticky, slimy, rapidly cooling mess in his shorts.
"Asshole," he mutters under his breath as climbs the stairs.
Top Dog
They've just finished a run and they're both drenched in sweat and Tyler really should be heading for his bathroom so he can shower, and Mason has him pinned up against the wall of the foyer, his left hand clamped like a manacle around both of Tyler's wrists, holding his arms up and over his head and they're humping up against each other like a pair of dogs in heat, and the little voice keeps saying that this is wrong, but there's a deeper, throatier voice that wants this, tells him to push back with everything in him because one day it'll be him on top.
It's so wrong that it should feel so right.
It's so wrong that he should know somehow that this isn't really about the fact that Mason's into guys. It's ... there's something else here, but Tyler's not quite sure what.
It's just that he knows that this is how it is, that this is how it's supposed to be, and that it just happens to be incest.
Mason half sucks, half chews a hickey on his neck and the anger of it -- being made to knuckle under, the feel of teeth on his neck -- the knowledge that he's not the Alpha here -- not yet -- surges through him and straight out his dick.
A second later, Mason stiffens and groans against him, and Tyler can feel that heat and wet through the own sticky mess he just made.
Mason lets go, steps, back and --
"Your eyes!" Tyler gasps.
Mason seizes him by the hair, pulls him, spins him, pushes him towards --
"Your eyes, too, boy," he growls.
-- the mirror that hangs on the wall.
Tyler sees those eyes in his face, blinks, and they're gone. Normal again, just like Mason's. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he can say, "W-what?"
Mason lets go of his hair, smirks, and says, "Take a shower," and turns to go to his room.
"What!" Tyler insists.
There's something only half joking in Mason's voice when he says, "Your balls have dropped." He scrubs a hand through his own sweat-matted hair, huffs, and continues, "I can't tell you the rest -- can't show you the rest -- until the time is right. Okay?"
Well, no, not really.
Mason's mouth twitches in something like a smile as he reaches out and grips Tyler's shoulder. "It's ... complicated, but it will be okay. You'll see. Promise."
Tyler's bursting with questions, but there's a finality in the way that Mason just shut the door to his room. He stares daggers at the door for several heartbeats, thinks about pounding on it and demanding an answer to what just happened here, but he's got a sticky, slimy, rapidly cooling mess in his shorts.
"Asshole," he mutters under his breath as climbs the stairs.