Chapter Text
The stone echoes Xavier’s footsteps as he walks around the winding staircase that takes him into the deeper, damper parts of the castle. His leather gloves skirt against the railing, picking up a thin layer of dust that frays his already bad mood further.
The farther he goes, the cooler it gets, as if the stone here uses all of its power to keep the chill of the northern air trapped within it. But it houses no moss, nor chips, not even the scuttle of a roach, so the most it does to defy its King is keeping it cool for its only occupant.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise with his goosebumps as he reaches the last step, so far down into the earth that he can’t even hear the rustle of maids that skirt just along his vision, there, but not.
He grits his teeth, forcing himself forward even though every inch of him screams turn back, turn back, turn back, but something more powerful is at play here. Something that Xavier doesn’t want to name, because if he named it, everything would come crashing down around him.
His cape sweeps behind him, dragging against the stone that draws out each click of his metal heels. It nearly matches his heart beat as the bright red door comes into view, out of place among the dark oaken doors around it.
This door, this crimson red door, is for him and him alone.
The jingle of a large iron key echoes in the silence and he shoves it into the keyhole, goosebumps rising on his arms as it unlocks with ease. The key is hooked back onto his belt, hand curling around the knob and he lingers, as he always does, as the surprising heat seeps through the thick leather of his glove.
It always makes him pause, because despite the chill of the basement, his occupant somehow keeps his little slice of hell warm.
With a gentle push, the door swings open with ease, welcoming him into the cloying embrace.
There’s a small fire crackling in the corner, but the room is dark otherwise. Still, a warm orange hue glints against the column of the four post bed, bathing the black silk that’s draped around and over it, cascading down one side of the massive frame. There’s a dresser, a fluffy rug, a rocking chair by the fire with a plush red cushion on it. But the most striking part is the hordes of priceless items scattered among the room.
Gold and silver necklaces are piled on the dresser, jewels strewn across the floor, noble artifacts stacked in each corner. Some old, some new, but all exceedingly precious.
It's full. Cluttered. Lived in.
Xavier shuts the door behind him, nose wrinkling in distaste at the mess. He keeps his back to it, his eyes roaming the darker parts.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
A purr rumbles from the shadows and sharp blue eyes snap to the noise.
Xavier tenses, face impassive.
Two ruby eyes blink at him from the far right corner, glowing in their oddness as slitted pupils stare at him. They start low, then rise, but the King refuses to tilt his head back to match the height of the person they belong to. No, not a person - a creature.
It steps into a sliver of light that the fire has made and Xavier holds his breath. A large, scorpion-like tail curls over bare, taloned feet, the end of it twitching up and down with emotion Xavier doesn’t want to think about.
“Fiend.”
It sighs dramatically. “Come now, I’ve already told you my name. Can’t you be civil enough to use it?”
Xavier narrows his eyes.
Amusement curls on its lips. “Well,” it quips, unperturbed, “The evening is still young.” It stalks to the front of the bed where it sits on the edge. Silk bunches under it, cascading like an obsidian wave underneath his long, long legs. Its ruby gaze never leaves the King, vaguely smug.
It's funny that the biggest secret in the Philos lives in the basement.
Xavier stays quiet, matching its gaze.
To its credit, it doesn’t move, simply staring and gauging the King.
When it's clear it won’t move an inch, Xavier pushes from the door, stalking over until he’s standing in front of it. He looks down, scowling, at this affront to nature.
“Our agreement is you don’t talk,” Xavier spits, trying to hold the air he always does; resolute and powerful.
It just smirks.
“That was your stipulation, I don’t remember agreeing to it.” Ruby eyes turn to slits, amusement dancing in the firelight. “I’d be more inclined to listen if you called me by my name.”
“You’re not in the position to ask anything of me.”
“On the contrary, dear King, I think I’m in the best position to.”
It rises from the bed, making Xavier tilt his head back instinctively much to his irritation. He doesn’t flinch when the fiend’s claws brush back loose strands of pale blonde hair, tucking them over his shoulder and closer to his ponytail that’s keeping the rest back.
Their chests touch and he feels it breathe. In and out, in and out - but his claws linger in his hair and he doesn’t move. Heat radiates not just from it, but from its palm, the rough scales a strange insulation. Goosebumps rise over Xavier as he holds his breath.
“Why have you come so late in the afternoon?”
The question jolts him.
Claws trace the length of his neck, up to his jaw. Xavier tips his head, teeth grinding, but he’s hyper aware of the gentle outline it makes of his face. Their noses touch - only because it's graciously leaning down a fraction - and Xavier’s nostrils flare. Its breath smells of ash and incense; earthy like a forest after a wildfire. Its claws stroke back and forth, tendrils of red in Xavier’s periphery.
A quiet promise, a tinted memory.
“Stop talking.” Xavier grits, but it lacks bite.
It chuckles, low and heavy. “My words aren’t really the problem, are they, my King?”
Flashes spark behind Xavier’s eyes, images unbidden. Whispered words, strong grip, claws digging into his skin deliciously.
Want, want, want.
“I’m here,” he snaps, “Isn’t that enough?” He squares his shoulders, bares his teeth. “Just take what you want, fiend.”
It quirks an eyebrow, its tail languidly curling around his left calf. The tip rubs against Xavier’s knee, but it feels taunting.
“Why? When I am not the one wanting.”
The words tickle over Xavier’s cheek, buffets against his ear. He shakes, and he tells himself it's out of rage.
“You may be here,” it coos, the heat leaving his face to grasp his hips. The fabric is suddenly too thin, its hands too hot as it pulls them groin to groin. “But I still don’t know why.”
A bold faced lie, because Xavier feels the twitch of its hips against his own. It's teasing him. Infuriatingly, languidly, all the while the intense grip on his hips sends electricity through him.
“So late in the afternoon… there must be something on our dear King’s mind to visit my cave so late. You must be so tired after work, after all.” One slides against his back, resting heavy against his spine. “But. What. Could. It. Be?”
The tremor running through Xavier won’t stop and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. The fiend is so close, yet all it does is hold him as if they were slow dancing. Xavier knows it can feel him fattening against his own thigh - his body betraying him.
“Are you scared?” It teases.
Xavier twitches in his pants.
“You know why,” he growls, “Stop playing with your food.”
It laughs then - but the sound is like bells. Xavier tries to imagine ripping his vocal chords out to stop the sound, but when he blinks, all he sees is the way his own back arches on those silk sheets-
“Ah-“ it sighs, delighted. “Do I? I’m afraid I am no mind reader - in spite of my plethora of other skills.”
Need bursts through Xavier’s chest like lightning, all the way down to the tips of his fingers. The heat is making him sweat, a bead slipping against his eyelashes and his hips twitch - unconscious - but it’s grip tightens in warning.
“Fiend!”
“My King.”
Xavier’s temper hits the ceiling, reddens his ears even though his expression is stony.
“I am ordering you-“
“You know that doesn’t work here.” It crowds him, caging him in further. “You are the King, but I am not a thing you can order around. If I was, you would’ve lost interest moons ago.” Its hands creep upward, under his shirt, scratches against soft skin and the ridges of his spine. “Why are you here? It is a simple question, is it not?”
Xavier inhales sharply, mouth a tight line. Yes, it’s simple. As simple as one word, as simple as saying all the things on his mind. He stares at the gem on the fiend’s chest, the red that spiderwebs outward.
The words clog his throat.
He’s never been asked to say it before.
“What do you need?” It murmurs, purring low in his chest. “You are not a man who is taken. But it would be easier to hate me, wouldn’t it? It would be so much easier than-“
“ENOUGH!” Xavier wrenches himself from the touch, stumbling back, surprised the fiend had the decency to let him go without a fight. There’s only amusement in the fiend’s eyes, its arms still stretched in the way he was holding him.
He shivers from the sudden cold.
The fiend doesn’t move, or speak, and that’s arguably so much worse to Xavier.
This man - this creature - has enough power to level a village, to conquer humans, to raze Philos to the ground, but instead he stands and asks and waits.
Xavier isn’t sure he can tell himself the shaking is rage.
“I can’t fulfill a desire unspoken.”
“You know-“ Xavier growls, “you already know!”
It huffs, dramatically flourishing its hand in the air. “And what do I know? I know the perimeter of the room, I know the sound of the door opening, I know your voice.” Its hand curls into a fist, tilting its head. “I do not know the color of the sky, the phase of the moon, the season the Kingdom is in, or the things on your mind-”
“Stop toying with me!” Xavier surges forward, grabbing the obsidian scales that snake around its chest. “Why? Why now? You’ve never asked before - I’ve never had to ask you before.” The scales slice open the palms of his gloves and he stands on his tiptoes to try to be closer, “You’ve gotten everything you wanted - I’ve given you everything you wanted-!”
A gentle hand grasps his wrist, gingerly removing his shaking hands from its scales. Its tail curls around Xavier’s waist, an embrace that's sickeningly familiar.
“Because I want to hear you say it,” its eyes bore into him, “I am not a thing you can hide, or use on a whim. Every desire you fulfilled I have voiced, have I not?”
Xavier winces internally at the truth of it.
“It's only fair you do the same.” It turns his palm upward, bright red bubbling along the cut.
They both stare, until the fiend’s eyes close and he drags his tongue along the cut. Its eyes flick upward, hooded as sharp teeth glint before it sucks the wound. Xavier’s hand twitches, but he doesn't pull away. He can’t. The fiend’s lips are sensual; soft and plush, the low sucking noise going straight to his groin.
When its fangs unhook, it rumbles a pleased noise, Xavier’s blood smeared against its tongue. Suddenly, it pulls him forward, his arm shooting beyond the fiend’s shoulder as it holds him by the waist again, their lips touching.
“I need you to feel the weight of the words on your tongue, to taste the ridges of your true desires as you say it aloud. I want to taste it as it hangs in the air between us; the thing that you feel every time you enter this room.”
Xavier’s breath catches, a damp spot growing against his hip. The heat is unbearable, the want unsustainable.
Give it to me.
I need it.
I want it.
Please-
“Say it.”
Xavier swallows, lip trembling.
“Say it.”
The words fill the King’s throat, pushing against his skull so hard it gives him a headache - but his mouth won’t open. He is the King. The King doesn’t ask for anything. The King orders and he takes and he stands above the rest, but he doesn’t ask, he doesn’t need, he doesn’t want.
“Say it.”
He wants to, but he feels a noose slip over his neck, the rope growing taut against his skin. Who knew the beast he let into his basement would be the one shackling his prey with something as simple as desire.
Maybe he should’ve known.
Maybe he should’ve seen it coming.
Four months until he had to pay the toll.
The ridge of obsidian pulls him back, the blunt edge of its claw caressing the back of his neck, as if trying to massage the tension away to let the words free.
“Speak. You are the King.”
Xavier recoils, wrenching himself away from the grasp, the delicious heat, once more. His chest heaves with every harsh breath he didn’t realize he hadn’t taken, hunching over. He grips the front of his shirt, pulling it away from his thundering heart, feeling small and boyish and like the prince he no longer was.
The fiends feet blur in his vision and he turns away, scrambling to wrench open the door. The cool air stings his heated face and all that follows him as he runs up the stairs is its laugh.
When Xavier sweeps into the meeting room, his cloak dragging against the floor, he believes he is entirely in control. Nothing about him gives anything away; his shoulders are squared, his chin tilted up, his eyes still as cold as ever.
The room scrambles around him, making way for the King in a way that is normal to him, but the frantic scrambling of mice trying to avoid a storm to everyone else.
Don’t stoke the flames is the unspoken vow as everyone takes their seats.
Xavier sits down roughly, his armor clattering against the gold trimmed chair. He slouches, legs spread, the heel of his boot scratching the floor unceremoniously. Silence drapes over the room, but it's claustrophobic and only further grates on the bad mood Xavier is trying to tell himself he’s not in.
He gestures a dark, clawed hand to the old man directly to his left. “Speak.”
The old man stands, chair squeaking, but for a moment Xavier sees a flash of white hair.
Speak. You are the King.
That voice, that grating voice, rings in his ears.
You are the King.
Xavier is aware, too aware, of his status. And being King is exactly the reason why he can’t do the things that peasants can get away with behind closed doors. One mistake, one wrong prying eye and Xavier’s Kingdom crumbles like fine sand between his fingers.
Which is the irony of being the most powerful man in Philos, he is shackled by the same exact power that gives him everything he needs to be more than comfortable. But comfort is not the same as safety.
And Xavier is not safe to want.
The man is speaking, going over plans, pointing at a map and Xavier knows he should be listening. He should be taking this in, chiming in, but he’s quiet, folded into himself like a hermit. His eyes drift from face to face, analyzing the lips of each one. Old and cracked, dry but plush, rosy and well taken care of - his eyes flick up. It belongs to the youngest man in the room, but the King can’t place the name.
“We’ll have troops move in to search for the fiend there - we have to make sure it's not hiding in plain sight.”
“The fiends are of no concern,” he says flatly, the entire table tensing. “The last one, whether dead or in hiding, has not been heard from. There is no reason to waste resources.”
“But sire-”
The King narrows his eyes.
A blush blooms on his advisor's face and the man stutters so hard he spits on the table.
“Protection of the villages at the base of the mountains is more crucial. Ensure there is more foot traffic and if there is anything out of the ordinary, it's to be reported to me immediately.”
Everyone exchanges a glance, the tension cloying in the air.
“Of course, sire.”
Xavier withdraws, arm resting on his chair, his finger hiding his lips as his gaze drifts back to the youngest man in the room. As the discussion devolves further, becoming low background noise, his mind drifts to traitorous places. The man has nice, curly auburn hair, with freckles splattering across his cheeks and nose. He has round cheeks, and a soft jaw, but it suits him instead of making him look boyish. He just looks nice. Clean.
Something low and warm in Xavier’s belly.
As he stares at the man, he thinks back to last night. After he stumbled back to his room, barking that he not be disturbed, he had been unable to relieve himself. He tried. Both in bed, with fragrant oils that loosened his muscles, and even in the bath, in the warmth of water that should’ve soothed the ache in him.
But it didn’t.
It just strengthened the wall he kept hitting, frustrating him until he gave up and went to bed.
And as he stares at this man - who looks built, but lithe all at the same time - the want worsens.
Xavier frowns behind his gauntlet, eyes on the table as someone stretches out a scroll. Heat creeps through his stomach, up to his ribs, to his neck. He shifts his legs farther apart, trying to ignore the tightening of his pants. He is in a room full of (mostly) old men, with greying hair, missing teeth, and wrinkles in their skin, but he still can’t help but imagine.
He imagines them in their youth - imagines what they would’ve done when he was a prince. Would they have indulged him? Let him use their bodies? He wonders what the youth of the skin would taste like - if it would break under his teeth, if they would cry, if they would call him King even though he had only been a prince.
His cock thickens.
Maybe he just needs relief.
Maybe he can just settle for that.
If his hand won’t work, and the thing in his basement won’t put out, what else can he do? He can have relief without want - desire was simply a means to an end after all. Maybe he’s been thinking too much about pleasure being all encompassing and mind blowing. Maybe he’s been too self-centered in thinking you can only have sex if you wanted.
Maybe settling for relief is best - it would keep the rumors quiet, of the woman untouched in their chambers-
“Sire?”
He blinks, eyes dark, pupils blown. The entire room is staring at him. He sits up straight, his gauntlet clanging against the table so hard it echoes. Everyone flinches, but their gazes remain.
He realizes they’re waiting for him. They need his opinion on something he wasn’t paying attention to.
Instead of patience, of the grace he should be having as King, he snarls with all the venom in the world. “What’s the point of having advisors if I have to waste my breath on every little insignificant thing?” He stands abruptly, chair screeching obscenely.
Eyes go wide, someone coughs.
“B-But sire-” A timid advisor tries to speak up, to relay whatever it was again.
“Do your job,” his cloak billows out as he turns, the inside the faded colors of the sunset. The black of his outfit glitters in the light from the windows, cold and ruthless, the Dark King of Philos. “Or get out of my palace.”
As the day passes, his mood worsens.
By night, after a dinner he doesn’t taste, he barks at his attendants to bring a woman. When they try to ask who he prefers he glares at them until they scuttle from the room like frightened mice. Waste of time, waste of breath, waste of a life-
In the silence he methodically pulls off his armor. The gauntlets, the shoulders, the latch of his cape. He sits to work on his boots, his bare feet pressing into a plush, black rug at the foot of his bed. He stills, staring, memorizing the softness and the way the fibers peek through the spaces of his toes.
For a moment, his mind quiets.
Release without desire. It's as if the answer to the problem had been obvious. What man in this age was happy? What man in this era really loved? Pleasure was in every inch of Philos and most sought bodies that were not the ones they were wed to.
He exhales, closing his eyes.
There can be relief without want. He would prove it, to himself, to his Kingdom. He was coming to the age where an heir would be needed sooner or later, so it was better to force himself to learn now.
The door to his chambers creaks and he lifts his head.
The woman that eases into the room has a cascade of long, white hair that hangs to her waist, with beautiful bronzed skin. She’s short, but with wide hips and large, supple breasts that are barely covered by the sheer white wrapped dress that drapes over her. The picture of a perfect Philosian woman - but Xavier has stopped breathing all together.
For every other part of her, all he can do is stare at her hair. Long, straight, brushing the backs of her thighs. Sorceress? Fiend in disguise? Can the thing in his basement shape shift? Is it taunting him?
Was his court testing him?
Despite her bare feet, her steps are quiet as she makes her way to him, head bowed in respect. His eyes rove over her, sweat beading against his cheek. He needs to see her eyes. He needs to see- She steps in front of him, dropping to a kneel with her palms down. Her fingertips touch as she bows, her forehead pressing between his feet in a sign of submission.
He stares at the top of her head, searching for the peak of obsidian horns.
“My King.” Her voice is soft, melodious, like proper bell chimes singing in the spring.
He feels his insides curdle, forcing himself to lean down and weave his fingers through her hair. It's soft, but not layered. Boring, straight strands wisp over his knuckles and tangle around his wrist. The panic doesn’t ebb, but it swings to not so bad, which is better than nothing.
“Look at me.”
She does, blinking large, doe eyes.
The panic swings back to get me out of here this is a trap-
They’re red.
A striking, brilliant, crimson red.
Xavier’s world tips, the noose tightening around his neck. There’s nothing he can do. Calling for another woman would look suspicious and he’s trying to do the opposite of that (like he has valiantly so far).
“Undress,” he jerks his chin, “And get on the bed.”
She gets up with all the grace of a dancer, long lashes touching her cheeks as she grabs the golden clasps. In a fluid motion it pools around her ankles, not that the sheer cloth hid much of anything. She steps out, swathes of rich brown skin on better display. Her nipples - a cute, darker brown - just make him think of his - the fiend.
He makes himself eye her up and down, taking in the slope of her belly, the glint of gold wrapped around her upper thigh, the spot between her legs that is devoid of hair just like the rest of her. Xavier wants to feel something. He tries to. He digs deep to muster the pull, the instinct to fill her with his seed, to watch her grow with his child and glow with motherhood.
But all the King feels is hollow.
She must take his gaze as something else because she giggles and slowly walks around him, letting his gaze linger on new angles of her though his mind is elsewhere.
The bed dips under her weight, the softest of sighs exhaling.
He turns, left in nothing but a cotton shirt and pants and grabs her calf. His finger sank into the soft muscle, easing their way to her ankle. Soft, unblemished, untouched by war. By scales.
The King yanks her to the edge of the bed and she yips in surprise. The bed sinks lower and he straddles her waist, plants his hands on either side of her head to cage her in. She flushes a rosy red, but it doesn’t quite match the red of her eyes.
Unlike it.
In spite of the rich brown of the fiend’s skin, its flush is as pretty as his eyes.
Deep, rosy, breathtaking.
He only knows because he saw it during the only time the fiend let him suck him off. Xavier remembers the fiend’s mouth ajar, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, how hot he became, how pretty he blushed- his dick twitches against his thigh and the dip of her eyes means she noticed.
“My King may I-?” She asks breathlessly, hands hovering in the air before him like he’s too precious to touch.
Right, fuck, focus.
“You may.”
Immediately her hands are on him, but her warm touch makes him feel cold. It sparks no fire in his belly, no desire to ravage her. His abs flutter as she tucks her hands under his shirt, eager to feel him, to map him. He tries to remember if he’s fucked her before, but can’t recall.
He forces his breath to hitch when she slides under his waistband, curling around his thick cock that is only half hard. She inhales sharply, as if his size is something new. He knows even half-hard he’s longer than average, with just the right amount of thickness, but the way her eyes widen subtly-
“Have you done this before?” He asks with an edge of panic.
She purses her lips, stroking him with a surprisingly good grip.
“I was trained, if that’s what you mean-”
He exhales, closing his eyes.
“You do prefer-”
Experience.
A subtle nod and the conversation turns to a hush.
Skin-to-skin noises fill the room, but images of the fiends hand wrapped around his cock flutters into his mind. He swells in her grip. No, no, don’t think about that- She makes a soft, delighted noise, twisting her grip against the sensitive head. His hips jerk, chasing the motion with none of the pleasure.
She continues steadily, thumb tracing the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
He pinches his eyebrows, a ragged breath rattling his lungs. The King rolls his hips because that’s what he’s supposed to do. He chokes on a fake moan when she’s wiggled his pants down enough to fondle his balls.
But his skin doesn’t prickle, his heart doesn’t race.
So he wanders to a forked tongue wrapped around his dick, claws digging into his thighs, a low rumbling purr -
“Does it feel good, My King?”
He grits his teeth, swallowing the urge to tell her to shut up. The lilt of her voice ruins the fantasy, the sugary sweetness leaving bile in his throat. He fists the sheets, fighting the thoughts, the urge to do something stupid.
No, it does not feel good.
He bites the junction of her shoulder, tearing into the skin as his mind torments him. He remembers the broad shouldered gardener, the scroll handler with slim fingers, the armorer with thick biceps that choked him -
Don’t think about this, don’t think about this, don’t think about this -
Her moan is distant as she tips her head to give him more room. His lips drag, mapping the pulse that jumps underneath soft skin. He sucks a bruise into the pliant skin just above the bite, but it feels like a graveyard, like dirt between his teeth.
She exhales a pleased sigh, but it twists with the rough chuckle of the fiend; taunting him as his dick fattens in her grip.
Her hand speeds up, but it feels like nothing. He responds, but isn’t leaking anymore, his belly clenches, empty and devoid of the heated curl.
He grabs her wrist and she stills, eyes wide, face flushed and lips parted. Slowly she pulls her hand from his pants. The King breathes heavily (is it too forced? Too loud?), eyes hooded as he brings her fingers to his lips and makes a show of licking them from base to tip.
Xavier’s stomach lurches.
The King smirks; cocky, self assured.
“Don’t look away.”
She presses her thighs together, making a gaspy, pitchy noise as he slowly sucks the mess off her fingers. Tasting himself burns fire in his veins; it's familiar, salty, and he thickens against her belly.
The courtesan’s chest heaves, panting, as his lips leave with a soft pop. He leans forward, lips against her ear, gingerly using his shoulder to press her into the bed. “I haven’t even touched you yet,” he whispers, trying to mimic a promise (Xavier remembers when the armorer said it to him).
She’s quiet–save for her breathing–as he shimmies down her body, hoisting her leg over his shoulder to open her more clearly. Arousal slides down her pussy, stringing between her lips as he opens her with two fingers.
“W-wait-” A hand passes through his hair.
“Let me taste you,” he interrupts, the words out of place in his mouth.
She blushes darker, “N-no no I couldn’t– that wouldn’t be-” Her hand flutters, passing through his hair, as if to maybe push him away.
“Hands on the bed.” He says sharply and she obeys.
He nuzzles the crux of her thigh then leans so his breath buffet against her core. “I won’t have you saying I’m a selfish man.”
It’ll get easier, you have to do this.
She squawks. “I would never!”
The King chuckles, vaguely aware her clit twitches against his breath. He hopes, at least, he looks hot as he looks at her through his bangs, lingering here at what she wants. Even if he has to ignore the way her softness reminds him of a wet rag that never got wrung out properly.
(Xavier fights back the grimace the King can’t show).
She covers her face, head hitting the sheets. “I-If that’s what you desire-”
When he closes his eyes, all he sees is wider shoulders, a flat chest, thicker thighs spread. He imagines shorter white hair, a purr rumbling from the chest with a giant red gem in the middle of it.
As he laps at her core, he remembers licking at the fiend’s hole; the way it fluttered and twitched, the way the fiend’s thighs closed around his head and nearly suffocated him. He ignores her noises, thumb playing with her cunt before sinking his index and forefinger into her. Her warmth sucks him in, greedy, and he finds her g-spot with the same ease he finds a prostate inside of a man.
Thankfully the female body is easy to manipulate; even if he slobbers a little too much and most of what he’s doing is from what he overheard from guards over the years.
It doesn’t take long until she arches, cries, cums against his mouth and over his fingers.
He forces himself to lick his lips when he rises from between her thighs, his fingers still making schlk, schlk, schlk noises inside of her.
She whines, “Sensitive!” And clamps her thighs around his arm.
The King gently places his hand on her knee, slowly prying them open. “I know, but I need you to be able to take me.”
He tries to go slower, to be gentler, but the idea this’ll last even longer makes him want to scream. Xavier focuses, watches her mess run down his fingers as he scissors his fingers to stretch her.
She groans, hips twitching, but lets him.
A quiet hush falls over his thoughts, caging them. He gets the rhythm of it, how he has to curl his fingers, how that odd spongey spot makes her tighten around him. The heat is nice, so is the wetness.
Maybe it's not so bad, if he stops thinking about it.
Slowly she starts to relax, but something scratches the back of his head. She’s wet enough her arousal stains the blankets and she’s squirming for an entirely different reason. Still, he hears himself say, “Here, this will help-” On auto pilot he strokes her folds with a messy thumb, inching up to stroke her clit as he leans to fumble with the drawer in reach.
Her breathing hitches, the loudest thing in the room (doing something right, it seems) as he quietly flips off the lid to a jar. It’s small and wide, hidden in the drawer behind a velvet cloth. Inside, a white, viscous liquid that looks just like cum sits.
“Close your eyes,” he commands, scooping a good amount of the goop.
Her walls clench as he slowly pulls his fingers out, as if desperate to keep him in, but he needs it.
When he looks, her eyes are closed.
“It’ll be cold,” he mutters, suddenly exhausted, “But this’ll help you take me.” Half truth, half lie.
She nods and it's enough for him to press his messy fingers into her. Even though he’s gentle, she inhales sharply. “Bear it,” he murmurs, pressing against her lower belly with his left hand. He thrusts his fingers in, pushing it just deep enough, letting it settle thickly inside of her.
He curls his fingers, strokes her from the inside. “You can open them.” The evidence is gone, tucked inside of her.
Her eyes flutter open and she regards him with a half-lidded stare. Xavier stares uselessly for a moment, eyes drifting down until they rest on her tits. Right. He should do something with those. They jiggle with each breath she takes and he stares longer than necessary, pooling spit in his mouth; aware of what should be done vs what he wants to do. He licks the underside and up to her nipple before sucking on it greedily.
Her head hits the pillow and he grabs his dick with spit-soaked fingers, stroking himself to hide his weakness.
“Please-” She whimpers, but the rest he swallows with a kiss.
Her fingers twist in his shirt and belatedly he realizes he never took anything off. Whatever. The King shuffles forward, guiding himself to her wet core.
When he pushes in, the tight head blinding, she moans wantonly against his mouth. Her arms curl around his neck, pressing his chest to hers as he inches deeper and deeper.
He did that too. He wound his fingers in your hair, he purred.
The King closes his eyes and Xavier imagines nights spent in secrecy.
The King doesn’t wait as he pulls back and snaps his hips forward, finding a good speed, a good rhythm as he fucks her into the mattress. Her moans sound like rattling chains, the slick heat of her body nothing more than a nightmare. He speeds up, hiking her leg high on his hips, pushing forward, through it, higher and higher -
Her noises get louder, her nails in his back, the pain from being scratched searing.
It helps think of the men who have marked him too.
He angles his hips and she shouts, keening my King! And babbling nonsense he can’t catch.
She sounds close.
God he should be close.
Why isn’t he close?
Her body seizes, hips jerking. He doesn’t hear her cry over the rush of his own blood, holding her close as he ruts into her like an animal in heat. Wetness soaks his hips, his bed and he forces himself to shudder. He controls his breathing, makes it hitch, bites her shoulder like he just can’t control himself.
His cock pulses, twitching inside of her and he prays it’s enough.
Gingerly the King lays her against the sheets, peeling himself from her gingerly. Her eyes are fluttering and the whimper she gives when he pulls out sounds exhausted.
Xavier tries to dull the panic, the thudding of his heart not receding as he watches her core flex. It pushes the faux cum out, oozing between her legs. The consistency is perfect after being warmed by her body.
He should go again.
He has to go again.
Trembling slightly he uses two fingers to scoop the mess from the sheets and push it back into her.
She whines.
“It would be rude to waste.” He levels a half-lidded, hopefully heated, gaze.
She blushes, firelight dancing over her features that makes it look sharper than it is. “Of course, my King.”
It takes her twenty minutes to leave.
He throws his arm over his eyes, the fire crackling at his bed side. The sweat that stains his clothes is uncomfortable against his skin and slowly, like a walk of shame, he takes them off until he’s naked. He settles against messy sheets, the fake cum sticks to the underside of his thigh.
He hopes she’s satisfied.
He hopes she doesn’t care they only went once.
Xavier groans as he rolls onto his belly, grabbing a clean pillow to stuff underneath him.
Woman’s bodies are so soft he thinks belatedly, staring at the wall. Maybe he should request more muscular courtesans - or would that be too telling? When did softness become so unappealing? He tucks his head against his arms, his hair falling loosely around his shoulders, pulled from his ponytail. In the quiet of the room everything finally starts to dim and he doesn’t think about the obvious answers to his questions.
Instead, he thinks of firm chests, smaller nipples he’s bit with more vigor than the pitiful attempt today. He misses heady moans, misses the heavy scent of sweat. He thinks about the feeling of a cock against his tongue, of the way skin tastes when he sucks and licks it.
His hips rut against the bed instinctively, hard in seconds.
There’s pleasure, heat, that licks up his spine.
Lifting his head Xavier grabs another pillow and stuffs it under his hips. His dick is cradled in the softness, starting to leak as he humps against it with a bit more vigor.
He thinks about the thing in his basement.
He thinks about how it’s the only thing to ever get him on his knees.
He thinks about how it feels to be spread open, to feel something thick and heavy slide into him. Xavier’s breath hitches, eyebrows furrowing. Sweat starts to bead on his brow and his hips ruck against his pillow frantically. He remembers bites to his shoulders, how they sting so sweetly, how filthy, whispered words push him to orgasm. He thinks about how many times he actually cums when he’s enjoying himself.
And it's that, the ringing of real pleasure, real enjoyment that has him humping his pillow wildly. He smushes his face into the edge of it, trying to keep himself quiet, but it's so so hard. The fiend’s hands grip his waist, squeezing, its gravelly voice chuckling over how cute and tiny the King is in his grasp.
Xavier keens, the coil of heat tight and anticipatory. He feels like fire, like the heat from the beast in its lair.
Please, please, please-
He sees ruby red eyes, a mouth full of sharp teeth, a forked tongue.
“Go ahead, cum, since you’re so greedy for it.”
His voice pitches obscenely high as he cums into the pillow, twitching and rolling his hips needily. He cums and cums and cums and it feels like an entire lifetime is squeezed out of him. Xavier’s ears are ringing and he’s still pathetically rutting even though he’s beyond sensitive, milking himself for all he’s worth.
“Now, wasn’t that worth it, My King?” A familiar voice purrs in his ears, the ghost of a presence that is nowhere near him.
With a final, aborted twitch he sags against the pillow, vision blurry from the intensity.
“Just one? You can do better than that-”
He feels the trace of claws over the ridges of his spine, the allure of more hanging in the air as the ghost touch lingers at the base of his tailbone.
Even though it hurts, even though he’s probably stained through the pillow, his dick starts to harden. He groans, shuffling a little, hugging the pillow that smells like his sweat. He ruts his hips against the mess, but it feels good and within minutes, he’s hard.
He huffs, grinding his hips down.
“Good boy, show me how much you want it.”
The noose tightens further around his neck.
It's one in the morning when Xavier finds himself sneaking down the winding staircase as if he’s a child planning to steal desserts from the kitchen. His footsteps echo, soft and unobtrusive, but his heart still races in his chest.
He tried to stay away.
He managed a good week before the exhaustion hit him, the cramps in his gut getting harder and harder to ignore the more he tried to tell himself this is just a phase. His mind is sludge, face hot with a flush that seems to never go away.
He should turn back. He should go back upstairs, crawl into bed and call for another woman or hope to crash out in a fitful sleep. His hand skirts the wall and he stumbles over his feet just enough to pause halfway down.
Six times, he reminds himself wearily.
Six times that day he had women sent to him.
One for every meal he should’ve eaten, one for every inch of work he blew off to have himself be buried in the tight, wet heat. He even tried anal - something he isn’t sure what the women will say about in their rooms - but nothing worked. No position, no kink, nothing could push him over the edge the way he’s supposed to.
The lube is getting low, he thinks weakly, forcing himself to move.
He blinks and finds himself standing in front of the bright red door with another kind of hunger pooling inside of him. His vision swims with the fever that’s not a fever and he grabs the door knob. The King doesn’t knock as he walks in, the lock flimsy in light of what lives behind it.
The fiend floats in midair, bobbing lightly as he’s sprawled out on his side. He lounges on air effortlessly, held up by swirls of black magic and sheer willpower. The long length of its back is sinuous and sensual makes Xavier swallow.
Sweat beads underneath his collar as his gaze trails down the hard ridge of scales that run the length of its spine, tendrils wrapping around its ribs like claws. There’s just a peak of its firm ass and Xavier is struck with the desire to see if the base of its tail is sensitive.
“Staring is impolite.”
The deep voice startles him after being around high-pitched voices for so, so long.
Xavier watches - half awe, half annoyance - as the creature unfurls itself. It languidly turns to face him, its smirk broadening as it slowly glides to the floor by the same dark magic that Xavier knows intimately in another way.
“Back so soon?” It purrs.
Xavier’s eye twitches.
It leans over him mockingly, its gaze searching Xavier’s face.
It’s lecherous, Xavier thinks, holding his breath as its arm sneaks between his. Even the brush through clothing is electric and Xavier nearly goes cross eyed, his chest stuttering with a breath he’s internally choking on.
The lock clicks.
Heat bursts through Xavier so unexpectedly his knees buckle, his gasp pathetic even to his own ears. He feels pressure at his side, a large hand holding him up at the same time its thigh is wedged between his legs.
“Oh?” The fiend whispers, its hair tickling Xavier’s cheek as it sniffs down the length of his neck to where the collar of his shirt behinds. “Left unsatisfied, hm?”
The King thinks about killing him.
He thinks about tearing its hard from its chest and selling that ruby red gem to the highest bidder for all of Philos to see -
“That’s none of your business.” Xavier grits out, grabbing the fiend’s forearm. For purchase. Not because he’s memorizing the lethal muscle underneath -
It chuckles and Xavier’s head hits the door as it nuzzles his cheek. Blonde and white twine together like a milky way, perfect and pretty in its own right. “Everything you do, my dear king,” it soothes, warmth brushing Xavier’s reddened ear, “Is my business.” It presses the meat of his thigh against his crotch, not a grind, but a reminder.
The tension aches.
It aches more than Xavier can explain and it takes him everything not to grind down into the thigh to find the release he’s been unable to have for two days. His balls ache, his mind aches, his fever reaching a pitch that feels like it’ll kill him.
The fiend is blurry as he watches it slowly bring his hand up to his face. It goes cross-eyed (cute), turning his hand this way and that like it's looking for something. Xavier tries to control his breath (in one, out one, in one, out one), tries to tell himself this isn’t real, but he can’t stop staring.
He feels its eyes, its desire, as it watches him as it drags its forked tongue from the base of his finger up to the tip.
It’s one fifteen in the morning and Xavier has never wanted so bad.
He grinds against the fiend’s thigh, choking out another breath as the heat of its mouth seals around two of his fingers. It sucks obscenely, the sound so, so loud it makes Xavier’s ears ring. He’s fully hard so fast it leaves him light heated, molten desire heating him from the inside out.
When will it stop torturing me?
Xavier is somewhere between heaven and hell, death and rebirth, but somehow he gets his hips to stop fucking moving even though the wet patch in his trousers is doing him no favors.
It pops off lewdly, licking over the plush lower lip Xavier has distinct memories of biting until it bleeds. “Powdered ocra… gelatine… fructose,” it ponders, snapping Xavier from his thoughts. “What an interesting ruse.”
Xavier goes ridged against the door.
The fiend, unphased, still stares at his hand like it's interesting.
“To go so far, how dedicated you are to your Kingdom.”
“What would you know-” Xavier hisses, heart pounding in his chest. “This is none of your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” It purrs, its nose brushing his.
Xavier’s eyes go bright with fury that misses its mark with how blown his pupils are. The fiend is so close he could kiss him, breath hot, body hot, so close, right there - Xavier’s belly aches. His dick aches. His head aches.
The fiend shifts his leg - subtle, grinding - and Xavier chokes.
“All you had to do… was say three little words…” Claws dance over his waist, pulling their bodies flush. “And there would be no reason for your apothecary ruse because your women can’t make you cum.” It hisses the word like its vile, as if the thought of anyone else touching him makes it angry. “There would no longer be any reason to slip into the basement in the dead of night, hiding what you think isn’t obvious.”
Xavier’s mind is pulled in too many directions, but the fiend sounds… upset?
“You are the King,” it hisses, low and poignant. The dig of its claws hurts so good. “You could choose to make them bow but instead you hide with your tail between your legs, hoping no one sees you for what you are.”
It pulls the fog back, just a little, the lust giving away to coherence.
Xavier has seen it a hundred ways, in a hundred different forms. He has fantasized about it, yearned for it, craved it, stayed up late thinking about living safely as himself. There was always joy there, in those moments; free from the shackles of his own self hatred. But happiness never lives long in the face of fear. The fear of his subjects reacting poorly. His council stripping him of his title, putting him in chains and parading him in front of Philos for all to see, an example of what must never be done. In his dreams turned nightmares, he’s always lashed to near death before his head is severed.
A fallen King. A disgraced King.
He can want, but he can’t have.
He can hide, but he can’t speak.
“You fear nothing more than the idea of rejection,” It’s voice rings so loud in his head, tearing him from his thoughts. “You are the King, there is no greater power than of that which you hold.”
A gentle hand on his stomach brings him back, the touch soothing in the face of his nightmares. Xavier tilts his head, watching the fiend slowly sink to his knees in front of him. It simply watches him in return, clawed hands on his thighs, its long tail swaying against the floor.
“There is nothing to fear but your own mind,” it whispers, the truth of it echoing in the room. “You know what you want. Say it.”
Xavier feels as if his head’ll cave in.
He didn’t come for stuffy reminders spoken in the dark, to be strangled by the claustrophobic feeling of his own fears. He came down for what he can’t name, for the want he shouldn’t have. His cock throbs against his hip and, dimly, Xavier wonders what it must say about him that he’s still hard - harder than he was before, even, at the promise of hope in the fiend’s words.
“How long will you let your concubines struggle? How long will you hide behind the illusion of heirs?”
Xavier grunts, planting a hand on the fiend’s shoulder, shifting to try to get comfortable even though he’s trapped. “You-” he pants, wet patch worsening.
The fiend’s eyes gleam, as if he too, is getting off on this.
It’s a gaze that is pulling Xavier apart piece by piece, reading all of his deepest, deepest desires to be known, to be seen, to be loved, for himself. Xavier opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, just a pathetic choked noise as the fiend squeezes right beside his groin.
Xavier’s hand flits to the top of its head, the fiend bowing a little as he allows it.
“Say my name,” the creature murmurs, pressing his cheek right against his erection. “And you will get everything you desire.”
Xavier groans, half-lidded gaze finding the ceiling as he struggles to breathe. His grip tightens in his fiend’s hair, desperate to pull, but he stops himself.
The promise is there.
That damned promise is there.
Say the word and I will stand next to you and there is nothing that will ever touch you that isn’t what you allow.
The fiend would do it, for him, as long as he asked. He would be given the world, the moon, the stars, all the pleasure his pathetic, needy body could take - everything that Xavier feels is so out of reach the fiend would put squarely in his palm.
It's hot.
It's overwhelming.
It’s everything he ever wanted.
He twists his fingers in the fiends' hair, closing his eyes as it noses gingerly at his erection. Not pushing, not forcing, just existing. The weight of thereness that Xavier misses even when he’s tangled in the bodies of his courtesans.
In the silence he pants, cock leaking against his hip, words pushing eagerly against his tongue, but he still can't say anything.
Days turn to weeks, but the only thing consistent is the women that come in and out of the King’s room at all hours.
“Do you think we’ll have an heir soon?”
“There must be - perhaps he wants a selection. You never know what products the broods will make-“
“And he is getting older-“
“The advisors must-“
Xavier ignores the whisperings, but they get under his skin. He’s used to gossip, to the things that people say about him behind his back; it varies from his unfitness as a King, to wondering what caused his mood swings, to criticism for not choosing a wife to rule Philos over with. But the titterings about heirs is somehow worse than the blows that go straight for his insecurities.
Which is why he storms his way out to the stables.
“Sire! Wait - Sire!”
The four foot three inch something advisor trips over his fancy slippers as he follows the King outside. It's too brisk for a silk wrap and pjs that make Xavier wonder why he even listens to the man in the first place.
“No, deal with it yourself,” Xavier snaps. “I’ll be back.”
“But sire you can’t just-” The man trips, falling face first into the gravel unceremoniously.
Xavier no longer cares if the rumors start that he’s an evil man, but truly, he could be a lot worse than people give him credit for. He half jogs his way into the stables, the horses quietly ninnying at his arrival. Most of them remain asleep; the shire, the mustang, the Friesian all huff and tilt their heads, but eventually settle when they realize it's just him.
He makes a beeline to the last stable, where his dappled beauty trots to the gate to nuzzle him.
For a moment the ice around his heart melts. He smiles, touching her muzzle and stroking the bridge of her nose. She huffs a sigh, nuzzling him affectionately.
“Let’s go,” he says, only for her. He grasps the edge of the saddle, thankful for the saddle boy that is at his beck and calls with no complaints, and swings himself onto her back. She whinnies, but stays still, trusting of the only person she’d ever consider an equal.
The disheveled, muddy advisor appears in the doorway, trembling from what Xavier assumes is cold and regret.
“Sire,” he says, mustering his weakest version of a glare, “I must insist that you do not depart. You have dignitaries from the neighboring country arriving in under a few hours. You need to get ready, the servants-”
He turns the horse, whose gaze is as steeling as his own. She snorts, pawing the ground, lowering her head like she’ll charge at any moment.
“Move.” Xavier commands coldly.
The advisor hesitates too long.
One moment Xavier is sheltered in the warmth of the barn that smells like hay and in an instant cold wind is numbing his face. His cheeks redden, breath puffing in the air, and Hesperos lands gracefully before running down the path towards the edge of the palace’s grounds. He breathes a sigh of relief, even as tears gather in the corners of his eyes.
The trip into town is an hour's ride away. The golden scenery of Philo never ceases to be breathtaking, even in the winter time. Golden leaves shiver in the wind, no storm able to tear them from their branches. The ground is dirt bare, but never icy, yet the bushes haven’t lost their deep green luster.
It always strikes Xavier as frozen in time - as if Philos itself is unable to move past its glory years. Even in winter, everlasting spring can be some sort of curse.
“You are the King, there is no greater power than of that which you hold.”
He frowns, pushing his horse faster.
By the time the dirt turns to cobblestone, Xavier’s head is clear and Hesperos is slowing to a walk. He’s thankful no one recognizes him in his dark cloak with the hood pulled up, peasant slacks, boots, and a simple button down. It's the only clothes he has with true wear and tear, and the only ones that fit him in his adulthood.
He gets appraising, respecting nods and the tension bleeds from him.
He likes this town - fortunately for him he rarely has to make appearances since it's so small and so close to his own castle. The proximity gives its own kind of protection, and it's the best place for him to relax. Not that he does, though.
Hesperos is pulled into a modest, free stable for visitors. The stable boy immediately pops out from where he’s hiding, soot faced and smiling. Xavier can’t help but smile back, placing a hefty coin bag in the boy’s hands. “Keep an eye on her. She’s special to me.”
The boy swears up and down, gushing his praises.
For once, Xavier lets himself roam. He takes his time wandering through the town, eyeing the flower shop, trailing into the bakery to get buns and sweets. He pays for tiny glass figurines and a handful of gems that he thinks the fiend will like (which is a thought he cuts off, telling himself he’s getting them because he likes them). The longer he walks, the more his sweets dwindle and by the time he steps in front of the apothecary, all he has is his mild good mood and gifts for the owners.
The door chimes noisily and the inside smells like it always does; rich herbs, the fragrant kick of spices, and the warm scent of firewood that burns in the corner, tucked against the wall.
Xavier pulls off his hood, running his fingers through his hair as he strides to the front counter. As always, he gets distracted by the fireplace, crouching to warm his hands and face and to stare at the flames that lick upwards.
“Our star finally returns!”
His shoulders hunch as he sighs.
“It’s been what? Nearly six months? I thought you forgot about us!”
“Now why would I-” The words die, breath catching in his throat as he meets another’s gaze.
They’re so close he can see the dark blue that rests in the teal, pulling him under as if he were being dragged to the bottom of the ocean against his will. The eyes scrunch, turning into crescents and how could he forget what it's like to come home?
Their noses touch and it runs a thrill all the way down to Xavier’s toes. The man’s head tips, lips parting and Xavier’s heart stutters, lurching, torn between wanting to run and wanting to stay because he knows how this ends. But he can’t tear his eyes away from the pink that shifts in hues, swirling and iridescent and the sharp teeth that poke just beyond the plush lip—
Xavier yelps, hip slamming into the ground as he scrambles away. “Rafayel!” He snaps, flushing to his ears. “What did I say about personal space?”
Rafayel laughs, cheeky, annoying, and rests his cheek against his palm. “Maybe I was hoping to finally get that kiss you owe me.”
Xavier’s arm goes over his mouth defensively. “I am not kissing you.” He mutters indignantly, glaring at his friend.
Predictably he hangs his head in mock-defeat, sighing dramatically. “C’mon you don’t have to be like that…”
It's almost enough to get Xavier to laugh.
Almost.
It’s a miracle he keeps a straight face as Rafayel’s demeanor shifts from joking to professional. He stands, holding out his hand and Xavier takes it without a second thought, accepting the I’m sorry pats to his shoulder that brushes away non-existent dust.
He grumbles, tries to pull away but a firm grip stops him.
When he looks up, Rafayel’s gaze has sharpened. He squirms, yanking backwards, but the offending hand curls around his neck in a half-scruff that makes him still.
His breath is so close when he says, “It’s been six months. Why now?”
Suddenly the air is heavy. Suddenly, Xavier wants to leave.
He refuses to look at him, refuses to have his words carved out of him again when he’s already dealing with this – his neck is squeezed, just a little, and the heat that rips through him nearly makes him buckle. His body gasps like a traitor.
“Ah.” Rafayel titters.
The King wonders if he can kill him.
When Xavier says nothing, sharp claws dig in to the point of discomfort; half buried in the base of his neck and the rest into the meat of his shoulder. His eyes flutter shut, the half of him that wants to protest not strong enough. He misses being man handled, misses the way he can go lax in someone else’s grip.
I won’t say it.
The claws scratch a little deeper.
He isn’t sure what happens, whether it's the look on his face, or Rafayel taking pity on him, but he laughs and pats his back so hard he stumbles forward.
“You’re so lucky he was expecting you, you know?”
He grunts, rubbing his neck as he slinks after him into the adjoining room. Away from the polished front room, the scent of herbs gets so strong his eyes sting. He eyes the drying herbs hung from the ceiling, the suspicious jars that hold various liquids or creature insides. All things he can’t name, doesn’t know the purpose for and even after so long is too afraid to ask.
He slows when he notices a jar tucked into the corner. He leans in for a look, only to have the entire contents swivel to peer at him in a rainbow of blue, brown, black, grey irises.
“It's been six months though,” Rafayel drones on, “What made your libido magically reappear?"
He scrambles to follow. “My advisors started pressuring me about heirs. I couldn’t hold it off anymore-”
“Bzzt. Try again.”
Xavier tells himself not to kick him in the shin. “You know the power of the crown will be threatened without-”
He runs smack dab against Rafayel’s shoulder and stumbles back. He wrinkles his nose, about to complain, when the shorter man whirls around and presses his palm against Xavier’s broad chest. The hand is so dainty - artist hands - but the flex that makes the veins show makes Xavier shiver.
He gives his best wet-cat impression; all round, watery deep blue eyes and a pout.
But the look on Rafayel’s face says plainly if you lie, you won’t get what you came here for.
He huffs, hardening his gaze to something sharp and intimidating. But here, with no robes and fanfare, Rafayel does the same. It feels like losing, like the palm against his is sinking into his chest and tearing him open to leave him bare.
He grabs Rafayel’s wrist, but doesn’t break contact.
The smooth skin grounds him and Xavier grip tenses and un-tenses, sifting through all the things he could, should, would say.
He looks away when he says, “I have to say it.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watches pity ease Rafayel’s features.
Xavier’s breath turns shallow, his heart a dull ache in his ears. The pat to his chest doesn’t help. There’s no comfort in admitting this, it stings his throat, makes his tongue feel swollen. It hurts to say, hurts to know, hurts that a King can’t do something as simple as this.
“It took it this long to demand that?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm.” Rafayel hums noncommittally.
It forces Xavier to look at him. Rafayel looks so young like this - although he’s always looked young. Xavier has known him since he was a teenager and while he ages he also simultaneously doesn’t; like man and boy are interchangeable. Big eyes, soft face, sharp teeth under heart lips. He smells like the sea, even now and the wisdom that seeps from his pores makes Xavier nauseous as it always does.
“So? What will you do?”
Another ache pulses through him and he grabs Rafayel’s wrist with both hands like a knight grabbing the hilt of a sword that’s been stabbed through his chest. “I can’t-”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
His jaw ticks. His breathing sharpens. The thrumming in his nerves is back and he suddenly wants Rafayel to punch through his rib cage, wants to flay him open and see how he feels when he’s being laid bare– warmth spreads suddenly through his shirt, climbing under his skin and clashing with the ache inside of him. It soothes, somehow, and Xavier’s shoulders droop.
“Its not that simple.”
Rafayel raises an eyebrow.
“You know what I could lose,” he snaps, “Especially if it goes wrong.”
Rafayel laughs, but it isn’t mean. “You’re the King, what does that even mean?”
Another spear of pain snaps through him.
What does that mean?
He looks away, worrying his lip between his teeth. Power is intrinsic to his position. He’s above everything for he is everything. The law, justice, hope, fear. A god without divine power. What could go wrong?
The gallows, crucifixion, death death death.
The noose gets so tight he can almost feel the burn of the rope and he has to control his breathing before his panics.
Am I just weak?
A searing heat pulses through his palms and he lets go of Rafayel with a small yelp. The man just smiles, turning on his heel and disappearing into the door-that’s-not-a-door they were standing near the whole time. Xavier scowls, shaking out his hands as he follows him deeper into the shop. They pass cubbies of dried things and jars filled with other things in liquid that looks rancid and yellow.
There’s a magic here that’s both ancient and herbal; two sides of a very different coin that somehow coexists. Fish bones and ancient trinkets scattered among smooth rocks, frog secretions and dried flowers that haven’t been around for decades.
The pantry opens into another room with a long table and more supplies. Jars are scattered everywhere, as well as grinder pots and antidotes and things he doesn’t know the name of. He’s less than polite with his sleeve over his nose, the rosemarythymecinnamon still in his eyes.
It doesn’t matter as he watches Rafayel bounce to the potion maker’s side while he hovers in the doorway. The other man is tall, dark bangs brushing over circular frames. He doesn’t look up, his sleeves rolled to his biceps and his shirt tucked into dark pants.
Rafayel sing-songs his arrival, standing on his tiptoes to kiss the maker’s cheek wetly.
Open, affectionate, loud.
The glance to Xavier doesn’t escape him and the numbness in his hand returns with a vengeance. If he could, he would wring his neck. If he could, he would push him against the door frame and hold his cheeks in a firm hand as he kissed him until he whined–
Rafayel’s doe-eyes turn to slits and he smirks, sliding his arms possessively around Zayne’s pinched waist. The man just grunts, unphased, more than Xavier whose whole body is shaking.
“Only you could keep a monster in the basement and still be more afraid of your people than it.”
Zayne stares at him with the same tear-you-apart-piece-by-piece look in his eyes as Rafayel. It's less smug, more calculating, but it's made worse by Rafayel peppering soft kisses against the maker’s scar-mottled neck.
Xavier thinks, not for the first time, that he hates his friends.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
Zayne goes back to mashing the concoction that's beginning to turn white and sticky.
“Star, be nice.”
Xavier just glares at him.
Awkwardness fills the air, but Zayne doesn’t work any faster. He huffs, shifts, makes as much noise as he can as the air gets heavier, but all he gets in return is Rafayel staring at him with a beady-eyed look that makes him debate throwing a bundle of wet leaves that’s been left on the table.
The only reason he doesn’t is that Zayne froze him last time.
“What will you do when none of them become pregnant?” Zayne produces a large jar, popping it open. “Not to deter business, but I’m curious what the long term plan is.”
Maybe sinking through the floor is an option.
“Ooh wait, that’s a good question.” Rafayel gasps like it's scandalous, his hands roaming upwards Zayne’s chest.
Zayne, finally, grabs his wrists and settles them on his waist.
Rafayel snickers.
Xavier’s lip curls over his teeth in a silent snarl. “Hurry up, I don’t have all day.”
But Zayne doesn’t rush - he mashes and mixes and adds the goo into a jar that’s exactly like the one in his satchel. He fumbles to get the old one out, crossing the room to pointedly smack it on the table. Neither of them flinch and he hates them more.
“Have you thought about it at all?” He asks, shaking the bubbles out of the concoction.
It’s white and perfect and mocking; his failure in a jar.
Xavier’s jaw tightens. “I’ll handle it.”
Both of them hum and Rafayel presses his cheek against Zayne’s shoulder blades. It’d be sweet if he didn’t feel like he was going to vibrate out of his skin, if it also didn’t remind him of the times he laid on the fiend’s chest and listened to his heartbeat.
The minute Zayne’s hand retreats he snatches the jar. It gets tucked into the messenger bag across his body, shoved between cloths that’ll keep it safe.
“You know,” Rafayel has somehow sat on the table, with Zayne between his legs, because he’s never had shame. “I’ve always thought it was quite romantic that stars shine brightest in the darkness.” There’s a twinkle in his eyes, “I’ve heard their glow has helped lost souls find their own way for centuries.”
Xavier squints, trying not to watch the way Raf’s hands are tucked in Zayne’s shirt and how Zayne does nothing but stare at him.
“I believe he means,” Zayne cuts in and Xavier tracks his hand that settles on Raf’s hip, “That in the darkest times, there’s always a light to show the way.”
“Freedom is a beautiful thing.”
Xavier turns away from the kiss planted to the corner of Zayne’s mouth, something deep burning in him. But it's not the fire of anger, or throat-choking jealousy.
He drops two bags of coins on the table, still looking at the floor. “Thank you for your service.”
When he steps outside, his breath turns to clouds.
“Only you could keep a monster in the basement and still be more afraid of your people than it.”
He breathes out slowly.
“Freedom is a beautiful thing.”
The jar knocks against his waist safe, but heavy.
Hesperos probably misses him. Maybe he should get her some carrots for the long ride home. Tucking his chin into his collar, he turns to head for the markets.
“Wait!”
Rafayel is stumbling out of the door looking frazzled. A gust of wind hits and Xavier feels vindicated when he dramatically shivers. He hears his little mutter - “Ugh - ridiculous - too cold -” - breathing into his hands as he forgets he’s heat-touched.
Xavier waits, puffing bigger clouds as he shuffles closer.
For a moment he looks small; shoulders hunched, warming cold hands, his bangs brushing against long eyelashes. His cheeks are turning red, his thin clothes not good for this.
Xavier bares his teeth, snapping. “Haven’t you said enough?”
He thinks it’ll be enough, that he’ll huff, turn around and call him names over his shoulder. Instead, Rafayel’s expression goes chillingly blank, something deeply cold in his vibrant eyes and his own anger falters.
They’re in public, people milling about, ignoring a business conversation, but Xavier knows it doesn’t mean anything. He could be taken down right here, right now, and Rafayel would walk away unscathed while all he would have to look at in his last moments was the sky -
But lightning doesn’t strike and Rafayel just sighs. “Don’t be cranky, Star, we love you.”
He turns and walks away.
“Wait - wait!”
Two hands on his bicep yank him back and he lets out the angriest, hissiest noise he can. Still, he’s man-handled to face Rafayel and he lets him even when he shouldn’t. There’s nothing apologetic on his face. Nothing that says he’s genuinely sorry for speaking out of turn to his goddamn King.
But even in the fuel of anger and anxiety, he’s aware of the grip changing, of Rafayel pushing his cheek against his bicep the way he used to when they were kids when he was afraid.
“Don’t leave mad,” he whispers.
It fractures something small and sensitive, something that hasn’t been around for many moons.
Xavier squeezes his eyes closed, sighing through his teeth.
For all that he is, he isn’t cruel.
Gingerly he pulls Rafayel against him, letting him bury himself in his chest as he rests his cheek against the side of his head. He lets him take his heat until he feels Rafayel’s palms warm, feeding it back into him. It's so much nicer than holding a woman.
“I’m not angry,” he whispers.
Rafayel’s muffled yes you are gets his back rubbed slowly.
“I’m just tired,” he says softly. “You both know I can’t take this lightly. You both know this and you insist on testing my patience, but I’m not angry.”
“So you’ll come back?” Rafayel sniffles, his chin digging into Xavier’s chest.
With careful fingers he pushes purple bangs back, his thumb pressing against his forehead tenderly. “I’ll always come back.”
He feels him relax, as if he was really that worried Xavier would never see them again. He’s a blip in their lives, but somehow important. But Xavier remembers picnics when he was a prince, and watching Rafayel and Zayne kiss each other in dappled sunlight, a heated thing budding between them.
“Will you take care of yourself?”
Xavier laughs, the jar hitting his side.
Has he ever?
“I have servants for that.”
Rafayel cuffs his shoulder and he lets himself grin. They part, Xavier’s arms suspended in midair a tad too long before they finally drop.
The twinkle is at least back in Rafayel’s eyes.
“Ride safe.”
With a hint of a sad smile, Rafayel begins to shuffle back towards the door. The back of him looks small and he sees the boy from all those moons ago. The one who kissed him before he ever knew Zayne.
“Wait- Come here.” Xavier grabs the back of Rafayel’s neck in a scruff before he gets too far.
He spins him with ease, the hand on his collar shifting to cup the back of his neck, and he doesn’t let himself second guess this. Rafayel, for all his faults and irritations, looks like the most beautiful man in the world half cradled in his arms. Eyes wide, cheeks red, breath puffing against his lips. He touches his cheek, tucks against the jawline he used to know so well, and kisses the corner of his mouth.
“Love you too.” He mumbles, lingering too long.
Then he lets him go and stalks off towards the market, a blush burning its way to his ears.
He doesn’t get to see Rafayel’s expression, but his shout echoes, “He kissed me! Our star finally kissed me!”
Xavier can’t hide his very small smile.