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Hilt in Hand	By : BlueBastard Category: +M through R > Prince of Persia Views: 2336 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor make a profit from the Prince of Persia or its' characters

Chapter List
- 1-Hilt in Hand
- 1
Disclaimer: I do not own nor make a profit from the Prince of Persia or any of its characters. This is simply for my amusement and for those that share similar interests.

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"Why do you keep looking over here Dastan? Looking for a fight?" Garsiv demanded, the hand holding his goblet still steady despite the amount of drink the Arabian Prince had consumed.

Snapping out of his daze, Dastan immediately averted his blue gaze. He couldn't believe he had slipped up again. To cover up his nervous embarrassment, the ebony haired Prince replied, "Honestly, Garsiv. We just took down a whole village in two nights. That's not enough fighting for you? I swear, brother, you are never satisfied."

The pony-tailed man stumbled to his feet, making Dastan grimace as he realized he was doing the exact opposite of what he should be doing. He was provoking the beast. And Garsiv was always even more unpredictable when slightly inebriated.

"Hey..." Garsiv swayed unsteadily over to Dastan's seating cushions, standing to glower down at him, "I am always... satisfied."

Dastan forced the apprehension from his eyes as the other warrior approached. He couldn't be near Garsiv, not now. Not with the dream so fresh in his mind.

He knew he hadn't succeeded fast enough, however, as Garsiv's gaze slightly narrowed. Unfortunately, his older brother had a way of reminding him that Garsiv wasn't as dense as he often seemed. Usually at the worst times.

Like now, for instance.

He needed to distract the man. Needed to get away.

To accomplish just that, Dastan forced a feigned nonchalance on his features.

"And I'm sure, at the end of the day, that is always true, brother." He made to stand, his goblet remaining full and forgotten near his abandoned cushions, "Alas, I am going to bed."

But the older Prince remained, unmoved.

"You did not touch your drink, brother." Garsiv stated slowly, perceptive for one who usually took pains to ignore the adopted Prince, "Do you not celebrate victories when you and your street rabble aren't leading the way?"

"Yes, Garsiv." Dastan replied dryly, "That is exactly why I did not drink tonight."

It had nothing to do with the disturbingly hot dreams he kept having about the muscled Prince.

"Think you can pull your face long enough out of your drink to move?" Dastan said tiredly, gesturing towards the door, "You are in my way."

"You-" Garsiv growled, giving a slight shove against Dastan's shoulder, sending the other into an indignant pile back on the cushions, "are going nowhere, until you toast to my victory."

"I'm sorry." Dastan sputtered wryly, "But since when did father's army turn into your own?"

"Are you saying, little brother, that I am incapable of leading our soldiers?" The older Prince grated.

"I did not say that." Dastan stated, hands in the air, elbow propping him up on the cushions. He knew trouble when he saw it, and Garsiv was carrying it in spades tonight. It would be safer to diffuse the situation.

Of course, safe was not really in Dastan's vocabulary.

Which is why he continued to say, "Of course, I'm not disagreeing with you, but I would just like to point out that I did not say it."

Suddenly Dastan found his relaxed lounging against the cushions change drastically within the blink of an eye. His senses were assaulted by the scent and heat of the prideful Garsiv, the man himself bodily trapping Dastan against the cushions.

"Now you insult my intelligence?" Garsiv growled.

Dastan snarled, feeling trapped as he attempted and failed to shove the other off of him, "It's not hard when it's always in question, brother."

"I will punish you for your tongue, Dastan." Garsiv hissed, hand twisted into the collar of Dastan's tunic as he yanked the younger closer.

The armor Garsiv constantly wore pressed uncomfortably against Dastan's robed form. But the younger bit back the grunt of pain, not about to give Garsiv the satisfaction.

"But my tongue is so talented." Dastan grinned, despite the dangerous proximity.

"Your tongue should be removed, and I will be glad to do the honors." The pony-tailed man reached for his hilt with his free hand.

When a warm, gloved hand found it's way down south, Dastan's eyes widened, nearly choking as he sputtered, "Garsiv, your hand is on-"

"My sword again?" Garsiv finished for him, exasperated, "As I've said a hundred times before, I know, it's where it belongs."

Dastan could barely speak, his body rigid as he nearly squeaked, "No, Garsiv, it's on-"

"What Dastan? It's on what?" The older Prince growled, his grip shifting to the top of his sword hilt.

The short-haired man bit back a moan, but couldn't help arching up against the armor-clad Garsiv.

"Brother..." Dastan strained, trying everything to keep his breathing and his lust under control.

Garsiv frowned, black eyes examining the trembling mess underneath him. Experimentally, he shifted his grip again, giving a slight twist.

Dastan couldn't hold back the moan this time, feeling every groove and angle of the royal Persian armor through his thin garments. Of the heat that was purely Garsiv. The hand that had handled many a weapon, was now handling Dastan's with thankful restraint.

It was like his sinful dream. Too much like his dream.

"Garsiv, please..." Dastan implored, body taut as he fought relentlessly for control. He didn't know what he asked for, only that Garsiv stop this needless torment.

The sound of pure need in his younger brother's voice, the clear conflict within his entire being, sent a surge of heat straight through Garsiv's core. He felt his body start to respond to Dastan's lithe, yet musculature, form trapped beneath his.

Could it possible?

Did his little brother...?

"Dastan...?" Garsiv's voice rumbled, for once not tainted with it's usual competitive or angered loudness. It carried something far more dangerous.

It burned with a strong desire for answers.

Dastan's eyes snapped open, the tone sparking fear in his heart. And just as he had prayed against, he could see cognition slowly clearing through Garsiv's steel, drink-hazed eyes. Had the liquor done it's job, perhaps Dastan could have survived this chance encounter, with the hopes that Garsiv's drink-addled brain would forget about it in the morning.

But now the game was getting far too dangerous. The risks too great.

He couldn't lose his brother to this... inexcusable thing. Granted, they weren't brothers by blood, but the social stigmas remained.

"Garsiv I... I'm sorry." Dastan said shakily, his bangs drifting across his shame-filled eyes.

Garsiv had just enough time to frown, confused.

Dastan knew he never could have pulled it off had his older brother been expecting it, but he had no complaints. Other than wishing Garsiv would quit sticking his nose in other people's business.

Dastan's fist made thumping impact with Garsiv's solid temple, and the latter dropped with a groan. The younger Prince gave a groan of his own as his brother's slightly larger frame crushed him, having nowhere else to fall. He relished in the feeling of Garsiv's hard lines, before rolling the unconscious man from him.

He needed to get away.

For once, he was glad for the drunken sleep that had whisked all the other occupants in the room away, their snores filtering into Dastan's returning senses.

He glanced back at the prone form of his older brother, the tied back hair curling around the solid face, framed by the solid lines of his trimmed beard. The warrior looked so peaceful. As though he wouldn't wake in disgust, should he even remember tonight.

Dastan shook his head.

He should've stopped Garsiv the moment his hand wrapped around his member, whether he was still fully dressed of not. Whether Garsiv had been drunk or not.

Expelling a large breath, Dastan turned and left through the flap of the tent.

-o-o-o-

"Where is he Tus? I know you know, so don't even bother lying to me." Garsiv demanded, muscles rippling underneath his armor, head pounding as though it had been more than just last night since Dastan's fist greeted his temple.

He strode across the eldest's tent, legs eating up the distance quick in his wrath.

"Where is who, Garsiv?" Tus sighed wearily, not at all intimidated by the warrior's rash display.

"Our dearest brother." Garsiv snarled.

He had tracked the boy to the corral, where he found all the horses released, one missing.

It was Garsiv's horse.

The strongest and fastest.

By the time they had caught the other horses, half the day had gone and the desert storm was already upon them.

It was as though Dastan planned these things to deliberately drive Garsiv mad. And he told Tus exactly that.

"I don't know why you two are constantly at each other's throats and before you start threatening me, no, I honestly do not know where our little brother has gone. What has he done this time?"

"He..." Garsiv started angrily, but then paused as he really thought of it, "Well he..."

The armor-clad man frowned.

Moments from the night before flashed through his mind. Dastan. His voice, his jokes.

That look in his eye before Garsiv approached him.

The way the leaner youth writhed beneath him.

Moaning.

His name.

Begging.

Garsiv felt his cock twitch with arousal.

He was mad. Oh he was definitely mad. But it wasn't because of what happened.

It was because Dastan had run away.

Their little brother never ran away. From a fight, a friend, or an angry woman. Never from Garsiv either, even knowing the losing outcome every time.

Garsiv growled as he turned and left the tent. An uncomfortable heat between his legs just made him that much more frustrated.

Tus could only look after his brother's retreating form in confusion. Then he just shook his head. He would never understand those two.

-o-o-o-

It had been a couple fortnights, and Dastan was getting tired of hiding. Surely Garsiv must have forgotten by now. Considering the other had even been looking for him.

Or that he even remembered.

Dastan walked into the nearest tavern in Arapesh, and sat in the furthest, darkest corner there was.

All right, so he was still a little nervous.

But he had good reason.

One time when they were young, a boy had given Dastan a black eye and stolen Garsiv's wooden sword the younger had been borrowing. Without permission.

Even as a child, the steel-eyed Prince took very great care of his possessions.

So when Garsiv, ever the skilled tracker, found the boy a few weeks later in a nearby town, he didn't hesitate to deal out harsh punishment. Garsiv never did get his sword back. And Dastan always wondered why the elder never smacked him for his carelessness.

The short haired man pulled down his face wrap, taking a long swill of his drink when he felt the hairs on the back of neck tingle. Wondering, he shifted his head towards the entrance to the tavern.

His breath caught.

There, standing in all his armored glory, was his older brother. Steel eyes sifting through the inhabitants of the crowded room. Hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword.

The memories made a flush creep through the younger Prince.

The man looked absolutely regal, his jaw set in determination, his dark hair braided tightly down his back. He still remembered making fun, before, of Garsiv's constant need to wear his armor. It didn't end well, and Dastan ended up with an earful about assassins and vigilance. But right now the younger couldn't help but admire how the black, blue trimmed silver armament complimented the Persian's herculean features.

Forcing breath back into his lungs, Dastan slowly pulled the face wrap back up to his nose, blue eyes carefully observing the other. He still stood there for now, but Dastan knew in moments he would be on the move.

The adopted Prince must've gotten sloppy. But then, so must've Garsiv. Why else would he show himself so obviously?

Attempting to seem as nonchalant as possible, Dastan rose from his seat, hood still lowered. Those feral gray eyes flashed over to him.

Dastan froze.

Garsiv grinned.

Dastan cursed his luck.

Then they were both on the move. Dastan snaking through the crowd, making his way to the back where he had mapped out a few high windows, while Garsiv practically plowed through anyone in his way. Looking back, the younger Prince caught the fierce gaze watching him like a hawk, their owner getting ever closer. Dastan shivered. He hadn't thought he angered Garsiv this much.

Dropping all pretense of nonchalance, Dastan started sprinting towards his salvation.

He heard a sharp growl behind him, quickly followed by indignant shouts. This only fueled the younger Persian.

The window finally came into view, up the high wall with it's ledge dangling at least twice a man height.

Piece of cake.

The short haired man used his momentum to spring off the side wall with one foot, bounding cat-like onto the ledge into a crouch.

"Dastan!" The furious voice behind him growled.

The voice sent a shudder through him before he slightly turned, unable to disobey the pull of command in the tone.

Those grey eyes ensnared him once more, and he couldn't help as he was rendered speechless. There was something within those icy depths. Something-

Then Garsiv took a step forward and the spell broke.

Smirking, Dastan saluted the other in farewell and vaulted outside. An enraged growl followed him.

Garsiv had always made fun of Dastan's acrobatics and 'useless jumping around'. The short-haired Prince dared say his elder would regret those words now.

Dastan, himself, wished he hadn't released Garsiv's black beauty, knowing the horse could find it's way back home on its own. It would've made him easier to track. But right now it's speed would have been invaluable.

He made a beeline for the next closest stable, bypassing the closest one in an attempt to avoid further confrontation with his elder.

He was skipping along the rooftops, listening for sounds of pursuit, before slipping into the stable. The soft whinnying of horses greeted him, and he started his quick inspection for the one he would borrow this time. A familiar nicker drew his gaze towards a far stall.

The black beauty.

Dastan's eyes widened.

He was just turning to hightail it out of there, when he was tackled bodily from the side. A pile of hay cushioned their fall, but it didn't ease the young Persian's mind any as his senses were overwhelmed with all that was Garsiv.

He struggled.

But Garsiv was one step ahead of him, "Oh no you don't."

A flash of iron and a jarring thud later, Dastan found his wrist trapped between the prongs of a pitchfork. A hearty tug let him know just how screwed he was as the farming tool didn't even budge from its solid, earthy confines.

"Are you crazy?!" Dastan demanded, on the verge of panic, "You could've taken off my hand!"

"Then you shouldn't have run, little brother." Garsiv said, managing to sound dark and smug all at once.

Satisfied, the elder pulled back on his knees, legs resting on either side of the fallen Prince.

Ever stubborn, Dastan still struggled and squirmed, tugging his trapped wrist repeatedly. Until a dark chuckle drew his attention back up to his older brother.

Dastan glared up at Garsiv, defiant as he snarled, "What? What now? You going to beat me up? Tell me how wrong and disgusting I am? Just get it over with already Garsiv!"

Dastan's eyes flashed angrily.

He didn't care anymore. Now that he was caught, he could finally stop worrying. Stop running.

And if Garsiv beat him to an inch of his life... well, then he'd understand to keep out of the other's way. Perhaps renounce his royal title and just disappear into the sands of the wastes.

He barely stopped the flinch as Garsiv moved, drawing closer. He didn't even look angry. In fact, he had a gaze that resembled closely to the cat that had swallowed the canary. This made the pit in the bottom of Dastan's stomach sink even further.

He couldn't even keep the troubled look out of his eyes. Dastan moved in the only direction he could, pressing back further into the hay pile.

"G-Garsiv...?" He questioned hesitantly, when the other still hadn't said anything. The younger Prince blinked nervously when Garsiv only stopped with his face inches from Dastan's own.

"Actually, Dastan..." Garsiv murmured, breath ghosting heatedly against the tip of Dastan's ear, "I was thinking the same about myself. Because all I can think about is how... satisfied... I could have been had we... finished what we started."

Dastan's breath hitched as a gloved hand pushed open his robe, trailing leisurely down his bare skin, before coming to a stop at the hem of his pants.

Dastan shivered, wondering if perhaps he should have worn a shirt that day, rather than the loose flowing robes he favored.

Those steel gray eyes were slowly branding his skin, devouring the sight of his lithe, tan and sculpted figure.

Dastan felt himself stirring as the hand lingered on his hip.

Everything was moving so fast that he didn't know how to respond.

"Garsiv, you're a little overdressed..." Dastan joked, still waiting for a punch to connect with his face. He just didn't believe any of this was possible.

Garsiv's eyes flashed dangerously as they made contact with Dastan's.

"What have I said about swords and tongues?" Garsiv's tone dropped in pitch, gloved hand cupping Dastan roughly through his pants.

Dastan nearly choked on his breath, every nerve on edge as he froze all movement.

This was it, Garsiv was going to hit him where it hurts.

He took one last glimpse of those steely eyes, before squeezing his own shut. He grit his teeth, holding his breath. Then a shock of pleasure shot through him.

Garsiv's hand was moving.

Twisting.

Stroking.

All through Dastan's thin garment.

The younger Persian couldn't stop the jerk of his hips, or the whimpering moans torn from his throat. His eyes shot open in surprise. This was the last thing he had ever expected from Garsiv.

"Garsiv!" Dastan cried out at a particularly deep stroke, hand fisting the hay beneath him, "Your... your hand is-is-"

"Where Dastan?" Garsiv demanded heatedly, giving a slight squeeze, "Tell me, where is my hand? Exactly?"

"It's on- it's- Garsiv, please!" Dastan grunted, throwing his head back as he arched into another deft pump.

"It's where it belongs." Garsiv growled possessively, breath hot against the side of Dastan's neck, "Do you deny it?"

"Ngh..." The younger Persian found his voice failing him as he jerked his hip into another delicious stroke. He tugged at his pinned arm, the action drawing another growl from the stronger man on top of him.

"Do you?" Garsiv demanded, drawing a sharp breath from Dastan as he grazed his teeth over the young Prince's pulse.

Unable to speak, unable to even think, Dastan just gasped, arching once more as he shook his head.

"Good." Garsiv grunted, voice almost feral.

Dastan had just enough time to shiver, before the pumping increased. He cried out, hips jerking on their own, the heat coiling in his loins. His balls drew closer to his body, about ready to burst.

Trapped as he was, Dastan was driven slowly, heatedly, to his desperate release.

"Garsiv..." Dastan shook his head in denial, trying one last time to avert the inevitable.

But the darker haired man liked the sound of his name off the younger's tongue.

He quickened his pace.

And Dastan was lost to the world.

He cried out in pleasure, body taught. Toes curled. His vision white.

Dastan came harder than he ever had in his life.

Pleasure like no other consumed him. Devoured whole as he was by Garsiv's eyes. He rode it out in waves, trembling by the end of it, that skilled hand milking every last drop.

Breathless, Dastan looked up at Garsiv, his elder smirking as though he had been satiated himself.

The darker haired Prince could see the confusion and conflict in the younger's eyes.

But Garsiv was everything but indecisive. He was also headstrong, though Dastan often mislabeled it as stubbornness.

Dastan opened his mouth to speak, but Garsiv beat him to it, already reading the guilt on Dastan's eyes from deriving pleasure from their actions together. Or rather, the actions Garsiv forced on his more than receptive adopted sibling.

"Shut up. Do not speak, Dastan. There is no more running for you. Not from me." Garsiv growled, "You are mine, and mine alone. To hell with any guilt or insecurities you have. I will chase you to the ends of the earth if I have to, and prove once again how much you belong to me. But I won't be so gentle this time."

"This was gentle?" Dastan chuckled.

"Shut up." Garsiv snarled, playfully nipping Dastan's lip, "Now go to sleep. And no, I am not releasing you from the pitchfork. You will wait 'til morning. Can't have you running again, so soon."

Dastan looked as though he would argue, but Garsiv just silenced him with deep and thorough kiss.

The running, and their recent... activity... had the younger more tired than he would normally be. It was a losing battle. Both with his traitorous drooping eye lids as well as his strangely sated brother. Despite his argumentative nature, Dastan conceded.

For now.

"You are as stubborn as a camel." Dastan managed to muster after he was allowed to breathe, his usual fire doused slightly with his boneless state. He had to admit, there was a slight warmth glowing inside that wasn't there before.

What was it?

Garsiv's acceptance? His love?

"Do as I say and shut up, will you?" Garsiv growled.

Nope. That couldn't be it.

Before Dastan was lost to the curling warmth of sleep, he heard Garsiv speaking softly.

"And stop worrying, Dastan. I..." There was a slight pause. Hesitation before a slight cough, "I... love you."

Never before had he ever breached the hard exterior of the older warrior above him.

And never before had he drifted to slumber as peacefully as he did now, a smile tilting his lips as he murmured, "Love you too..."

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The end
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Hilt in Hand