[Tristan smells like soap and coffee and a little bit of sweat. It's pleasant and masculine and familiar. And he flinches, skin shivering at each touch in revulsion and tension, scared to move, wanting badly to shove Ariel off. He doesn't want to know how his brother's lips feel on his skin or what it's like to be bitten--if this weren't his brother, if this were different circumstances, a different person, he'd be really turned on. It's horrifying.]

Ariel please.

[He's going to beg anyway. There's near faded hickies on his chest, where clothes would have kept them hidden, a few still a little dark.]

I'll do anything, I'm yours right? So please don't do this.

[His voice is choked, desperate and humiliated and urgent.]