The Prince's Pleasure

It's late in the evening when Dern is finally permitted to escape the rigmarole of the day. It's seems he's met one man after another, each of them someone his mother would have him marry, and she isn't even hiding it anymore, isn't even trying to make up subtle excuses, feigned pretenses.

Every time he meets a man within the city it feels as though they are appraising him, his body.

The knight captain's gaze had roved over him, noting the narrowness of his hips and no doubt remembering that Dern has never been much of a swordsman, that he cannot well hold himself in the ring, when Dern had come to supervise the knights' training, and discuss the plans for what was to come; in the early afternoon, at lunch, he had been introduced to Baron Henderstaff, a playwright, who had been quite nice, but twice had commented on the flatness of his chest in a way that had made Dern's skin crawl; the third man today had been a Duke visiting from the Hourglass Continent, from Nez, and he hadn't even learned his name. He'd been nice, hadn't stared, but had asked what Dern wanted in a husband, and Dern had said, "Nothing, I don't much want one," he had gone quiet and not known what to say.

The door closes with a shift of hinges and a metallic click of the key in the lock, and Dern stands in the centre of the room, scarcely even moves a muscle as he stares into the middle distance.

He hears Land's bootsteps on the ground, the metal clanking quietly on the stone floor, and Land's hands come to reach around him to undo the leather vest he wears over his shirt. He feels Land's breath on the back of his neck, and feels his hands through his shirt, bristled as the back of his hands are with dark hair that drags at the skin through the silk.

The vest is slid down his shoulders, pulled down over his arms and thrown aside, and Land's hands come back for his shirt next, unbuttoning each painted enamel fastening with the same neat movements. Land's hands are large for his body, and his nails are like claws, thick and dark brown, the same colour at his hair, but he is careful with them, neat and tender, and he does not tear the fabric as he slides each of the buttons free.

"You want me to fuck you?" Land asks.

"Yes," says Dern.

"You want me to fuck you hard, fuck you soft?"

"Hard."

"You want me to... tie you? Bind you? You want me to hurt you?"

"I want you to show me I'm yours," says Dern in a low voice, hears the quaver in it. "Please."

They don't speak the same mother tongue -- according to Land, he didn't learn any of the common human or elvish tongues 'til he came this far east, and sometimes it takes him a few seconds to know what Dern has said, after he's said it. He's quiet sometimes, because he says he can't express himself the way he wants to, but it seems to Dern he's the most poetic man alive, even in a language that isn't his own.

"If his highness wishes it," says Land, and pulls his undershirt from him, tosses that aside to. "I will endeavour to please."

Dern used to have a serving boy, a young man dedicated to him, but after he fell and broke his arm, Dern insisted he take a break from his duties to heal, and had Land come from the Royal Guard to assist him instead.

He'd refused to let the boy back, after.

Land is his personal guard, after all, and his valet too -- it is more secure this way, and his mother likes it, because with Land always here, always so close by, Dern cannot creep from the palace in the early hours and make his escape about the city at large.

It doesn't occur to her, perhaps, that Dern has no reason to, when Land is with him, or maybe it does, and she doesn't care.

"Undress," says Land, and there's a two-fold emphasis on the sound of the "r", both from the slight growl that colours every word he speaks, coming throaty from his wolfish mouth, and from his accent too.

Dern unbuckles his trousers, then leans to unlace his boots, pulling them off and tossing them aside, and then wriggling out of his clothes.

"That bastard Henderstaff," says Land. "He says from outside you have small tits, as if he knows a damned thing. Even if you had big ones, wouldn't be able to see them through vest."

"He doesn't know what you know," says Dern. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"Is good thing," says Land, and with a length of rope thrown over one of his broad shoulders, he comes forward and grabs Dern by each of his nipples, tugging and pulling on each of them like he's trying to milk him, and Dern cries out, pressing his knees together and Land laughs, a gruff, quiet sound. "I like these tits. Small, neat mouthfuls. Not too heavy on your delicate back."

Dern opens his mouth to say something, but he isn't able to when Land dips and takes one of his nipples into his mouth, sucks it hard in a way that makes a thrill run up Land's spine and makes his clit jump, and then Land drags his sharp teeth over the nub. The pain is a hot threat, and Dern jumps: Land leans back, and puts his lips into an "o", blows cool air over the nipple so that it goes completely hard, and the whole time Dern squirms, because the sensation is too much, too overwhelming.

Land reaches down and takes his clit between thumb and forefinger, squeezing it between them, and he squeaks out a breathless sound as Land leans and sucks the other nipple into his mouth. His other nipple, peaked and oversensitive, aches to be touched as Land swirls his thick tongue around the other, and then takes it very delicately between his teeth, and tugs on it with those.

Dern is breathing heavily, but his chest is small enough that his it barely even wobbles -- he used to worry about their growing too big, used to worry about having a chest like his mother's for reasons he couldn't describe, but they never came in like that.

They will, he thinks, when they finally marry him off and make him get pregnant.

There's no escaping it forever.

Land blows on this nipple too, and Dern shudders, stumbling a little as he pushes into Land's tongue, his teeth, and grinds his hips into Land's grip, the squeeze he has on Dern's clit.

"No," Land says, and draws his hand away, and Dern whines, but Land grabs him by the jaw and squeezes. "No disobedience, princeling. You asked me, and now I give. Yes?"

"Yes," Dern says, and before Land ties him up he falls against his chest, presses his face to the furred hair between his pecs, because he's set his chest plate aside, and only the leather braces harnessing his shoulders remain.

"You tell me if it is too much," says Land. "You always tell me."

"I will."

"I do this because you need it, but because I like it, also. Why do I like?"

"Because I'm yours," says Dern. Wishing very much that it was true, and Land laughs quietly, cupping his cheeks in hairy palms.

"Yes, correct answer," says Land. "Full marks for princeling." He doesn't pull back straight away, but keeps Dern's head against his chest, stroking his cheeks with the backs of his knuckles now. His voice is quieter, more gentle, but regretful, when he says, "I wish this was true also. But it is true for as long as it lasts. Yes?"

"Yes," says Dern.

"So no worrying," says Land. "No engagement hovering overhead in this room. Only thing hovering over is my hand over your backside. Yes?"

Dern laughs, and nods his head, because this moment isn't just about obedience, but comfort -- comfort for him, and for Land too, that the rest of the world is locked out of Dern's bedchambers with the key in the door and the thick curtains over the windows, and that means here together, there is a safety of sorts.

"Good," says Land, and takes up the rope. "The prince will put out his hands, please, and let himself be bound."

Dern obeys, his hands in loose fists with his wrists pressed together, and Land begins the process of tying him up.

Land's father was a sailor, he had told Dern before, and taught him how to tie knots, but he didn't learn how to tie up men until he was a guard for transporting prisoners. He became obsessed with rope then, he always says: the way rope feels, the weight of it, the many knots that can be done, all the ways it can harness a man, control him, hold him, suspend him.

The ropes coil around and around his wrists, so that they are bound together, and land hooks one finger under the ropes to ensure there is enough give -- enough that Dern's wrists do not rub uncomfortably together, enough that his blood still flows, and will still flow even when Land drops his wrists over the hook on the wall, to keep him hung up there.

He watches Land's face, the expression of concentration in his yellow-grey eyes, the shift of his mouth, facial hair moving with his scowl, and his whiskers twitching as he concentrates.

When he is satisfied with this binding, he gives a neat nod of his head, as if approving of his own work, and then puts a loop of rope around Dern's neck.

Dern likes to close his eyes for this part.

The rope is a pleasant, comfortably tight cord that presses against the back of his neck and crosses over at the hollow of his collar bone, and then he feels it pass underneath his armpits, but not at such an angle that it digs into his armpits. Land begins to loop the rope around his belly, crossing between his legs on each side as well as his thighs, and up around his shoulders again, too.

This is one of Land's harnesses, and Dern knows from experience that when Land chooses to hang him from them, it almost feels as if he is hanging from nothing at all -- he has a way of spreading the rope around, of balancing it where it coils around his body, so that when Dern is made to hang from more ropes or hooks, it is as though he is laid in a basket, with no uncomfortable drag or pull on his chest or his stomach or his thighs particularly.

Land won't suspend him like that tonight -- when he does that, he always ties Dern's arms in as well, so that they won't get in the way, so that Land is powerless to do anything but let Land move him one way or the other, one rope-wrapped gift in a singular parcel, easy to fuck, to control, to play with.

On nights like that, Dern is a toy -- Dern isn't a toy tonight.

He has yet to find out what he will be.

Land pulls on the rope in one place: it pulls just slightly on Dern's chest, squeezing around each of his tits and making him sigh. He pulls in another place: it tightens the loop around the neck, but not enough to choke him, just enough to squeeze in a way Dern doesn't dislike. When he pulls in the third place, the ropes in the crease of his thighs pull tighter, squeezing either side of his outer lips and making them push slightly together.

The pleasure is mild and indirect, but he aches for more.

"Good," says Land. "Responsive. Is good sign."

"Good sign," Dern repeats. He means to lilt the intonation up at the end, to turn it into a question, but it doesn't turn out that like: he just repeats it dully, and Land pats his cheek.

"Other good things," says Land, in the tone of a man making an appraisal. He takes Dern's nipples in both his hands again, pulls and squeezes each of them, and Dern whines, arching up and into his hands. "Good teats. Small. But will bear good milk. Could start now -- if I suck them enough, you think you will bear milk for me now?"

Dern's cheeks are blushing very hard, and he's opens his eyes, looks at the rope tight around his body, feels the way the dark red coil is harnessed around his shoulders, his torso, cradling his cunt.

He rests his bound hands on Land's chest.

"Good body," Land goes on, stroking his hands down Land's sides, pressing where the fat gathers at the sides of his hips, the curve of his belly, down to his thighs. "Strong flanks."

"The knight captain thinks my hips are too narrow," says Dern.

"He said this?" asks Land.

"No," says Dern. "Only with his eyes, when he looked at them."

"They are wide enough," decides Land, and pushes both hands between his legs to move his thighs apart, stroking down the inside of his thighs with the backs of his hands. He is frowning deeply, his expression completely concentrated, as though he is going to need to take notes. "The clit is good," he says. "Big enough to hold, to play with, I like this. And watch!"

He flicks it with one of his fingers, so that the flat of his claw hits against it instead of the claw itself, and Dern cries out, feels his thighs jump farther apart, his clit jumping.

Land crouches to examine his cunt with more focus now, and he slides one finger delicately through the slick gathered between his lips, slides into him where he's open and watches his finger disappear.

"Very wet," he says approvingly. "Open. Eager. This is good sign, too -- this cunt wants to be bred, yes?"

Dern's cheeks are even hotter now.

"No need to answer," says Land. "This speaks for you."

He slides a second finger inside, and Dern used to be surprised that he could touch him so delicately when he has claws like he does, with his fingers as big and thick and strong as they are, but all he can focus on now is the way that Land rotates his fingers inside him, stroking the insides of his walls.

"Is hard to decide," he says. "Do I want to open this cunt, very slow, very gentle, hm? This is one way to do things, a sweet way, a nice way, but I do not need to be nice -- you are my thing, I am not yours. And I will have you for a long time, forever -- I can be nice to you later. You know what would bring me much pleasure?"

Dern shakes his head, and shivers because when Land pulls his fingers free, slick clings to them and slides down his thighs, and he can see the wetness of Land's mouth as he sucks the fingers into his mouth, his haired lips wrapping around them. When he pulls them out again, they pop free of his lips.

Dern wants Land to do that to his clit, wants to see it pop free, but something tells him that isn't on the cards this evening.

"If I sit back here, on floor, and play with my cock until it is hard, and until my knot is very nearly at biggest size, and then I force whole thing inside you, make this cunt go from small and tight to forced very wide in one pop. Would force your belly big, like tight little balloon, and your pretty cunt would gape after. Would be nice."

Dern gulps loudly, and he sees his clit twitch as much as he feels the jerk of it, feels himself clench early on empty air.

Land laughs.

"Is nice thought," he muses. "But no, not tonight -- I do not want my prince gaping tonight. We shall save this for another time. Eyes closed."

Dern's eyes close before he even considers asking why, and he hears Land walk away from him, although he's taken off his boots now, and only has footwraps around his feet, which are not made for shoes.

He hears Land pull something from the closet, hears the sound of wood and hinges.

"Had this made special," says Land. "Carpenter thought I was funny, foreign man with funny customs. Ironic, for it was him who was funny -- he builds these very often, for stables, for farms, but did not recognise similar specifications with very few changes. I think perhaps palace carpenter is stupid."

Land hooks two fingers under a loop and pulls Dern forwards, and he stumbles slightly as he obeys, is pulled forward. His arms and shoulders land against a cushioned surface, and there's something else under his hips, a cushioned corner that lets his thighs rest in place. It's a sort of frame he's left in, his stomach and his chest not resting on anything, but just left free between the two parts of the frame.

"Eyes still closed," says Land approvingly. "Very good, very obedient. Good sign."

Hooks, or clips, or something, are put through several parts of the harness at once: they lock him into the frame, and at the same time pull tight the bits that had been tight before: his tits are squeezed, his neck is gripped, and his cunt is cradled tightly. Dern struggles as a reflex, and he finds he cannot move at all, cannot get free of whatever Land has fastened him into, and Land pats his flank.

"Calm, calm," he orders vaguely, and turns a crank that tilts Dern forward. Dern cries out as he fells himself move, frightened he'll fall at the new angle, but he remains firmly fastened into whatever device the carpenter hadn't recognised, his arse high in the air, his cunt lips exposed to the room at large, and his head and shoulders tipped forward. It's a vulnerable position, and he is unfathomably grateful for it, the way that it forces the world to narrow down to just this moment, just his body, and Land's voice, Land's hands, Land's control. "Good," says Land. "Good princeling I have."

Dern's eyes remain closed as Land takes a warm, wet cloth and begins to drag it back and forth over his body. He must snap his fingers as he works, because the fire flares to life beside them, and although his skin is damp he can feel the heat radiating from the hearth, feel it lick over his skin to get him dry again.

Land is good at that sort of magic -- he can't do the complex work that Dern can do, can't do in-depth enchantment or weave spells through one another, can't even do individual spells, but when it comes to the small, casual things, he's extremely smooth and speedy.

Land is good at a lot of things.

He says he used to play violin, when he was a little boy, before the lycanthropy, but that after he had to learn how to play again -- the first time he picked up his instrument again, he broke its neck in his palm, and wept as though he had broken the neck of a living thing.

When he had begun to play again, he had learned to do so very delicately -- it is why his hands are capable of such delicacy, and yet such strength, even now.

The cloth slides between his buttocks, making sure his arse is clean, and Dern sighs softly.

"Yes," says Land, as if to himself. "Very good."

There is no warning before Land's cock slides in one smooth movement into Dern's cunt, bent as Dern is at apparently the perfect angle to allow it, and Dern shouts. He is wet and open but Land's cock is big, and he feels it stretch him open, force him open wider as it he moves his hips forward. It's an inexorable, unyielding movement, the length of it piercing him inch by inch until Land's thickly-furred hips touch against Dern's arse, and he feels Land's fur-encased bollocks tap against his clit.

"Hm," says Land, shifting his hips experimentally in a way that makes Dern whine. "Tight, yes, but could be tighter. You think I need to train you?"

Dern inhales, eyes still closed, and all he can think of is how Land's cock feels like it's almost coring him, the way it always does, and he aches for Land's knot. Land won't knot him, most of the time, just fucks him, but he'll knot him tonight, Dern thinks, and Dern aches for it.

"I will train you tonight," says Land. "I have prepared. Took potion."

His hands slide over Dern's buttocks, claws dragging over the very surface of the skin.

"You think I am joking, when I say I shall round out your belly like balloon of spend? This is no joke. If I do not impregnate the princeling tonight, as is my intention, I shall certainly make him look as if he is with child."

The howl that Dern lets out comes unbidden from his throat, his cunt clenching desperately around Land's cock, his clit jerking: the orgasm takes him entirely by surprise, rushing through him in a heavy wave, and Land sighs in pleasure.

"This is nice," he says. "Still too loose, I think." He thumbs over Dern's arsehole, sliding the dry tip into the rim and then pulling hard on the muscle, making him cry out because he's still coming, and it shifts the angle of Land's cock in him, leaves him still twitching around him. "I was going to plug this cunt with nice breeding plug, warm touch-iron, but perhaps I should not do this. Perhaps I should call down to kitchen, ask for ginger, carve it nice. This would make the prince very tight, I think."