ain’t it a gentle sound

by cloudings

Summary:

A lowly member of Patran royalty seeks reparations after learning of the marriage between Laurent of Vere and Damianos of Akielos, announcing that a betrothal contract between himself and Laurent had been drawn up by the traitor Regent when he was King.

It is not gold that he wants to be repaid. He seems to underestimate just how much Damen is still aching for revenge on the Regent — and anyone else who dares attempt to come between them.

 

“It is simple,” he says. “By way of reparations for this betrayal, I ask for one night with the Prince of Vere.”

Notes:

i have reread capri twice in the last two weeks. may reread it again. it is taking over my every moment of living atm , i forgot how obsessed with it i can get !!! best books ever written

title taken from NFWMB by hozier <3

also please taken into consideration that this is the old Council and not laurent’s newly selected one at the end of the books… for plot purposes. lol

The table is overturned. As is the stool holding the tankards of wine and water. As is the cupboard that holds their clothes. Splinters of wood decorate the floor, mingling with the pale red puddles that may or may not stain. 

 

At his side, Laurent is sleeping soundly, curled into him with a faraway peace that Damen wishes he could bottle for him. It is early, the remnants of their exhausting night still yet to be fixed and tidied by any servants. The memory of it lingers in Damen’s awakening mind; the sounds, as always so sweet and persistent; the sensation, which Damen is certain will never get old; the position — or, more accurately, positions — so numerous had they been, and so lucratively creative, that this mess around them was born.

 

Really, it should have been a sign for the day to be pristine. He woke smiling, and stayed smiling for a while, until the frustrating jabs and corners of the real world outside of their bedroom forced their way in.

 

Sometimes, Damen thinks that all of his good luck in the world was used up on getting Laurent to look at him twice. 

 

They are regretfully pulled from the warmth of their bed and each other’s bodies, told that there is an important guest who has requested an audience with the Prince of Vere and that he must appear before them, as well as the Council. At once, Damen feels the day around him grey. He does not mention to Laurent the way that his hair rises on the back of his neck, or the shiver that spreads its way down his spine despite the sun. 

 

Perhaps he should have. 

 

“Your Highness,” Mathes says, the first of the Councillors to speak. He puts a bad taste in Damen’s mouth, a constant memory ringing in his head of his interrogation of Laurent, not so long ago. But he had simply been asking questions, not taking sides, and so no charges could be brought. He had, in the end, defected to Laurent. Damen still doesn’t like him. Mathes says, “And His Majesty of Akielos. Good morning.”

 

He says it as though he hadn’t expected Damen to be attending alongside his husband, as though he had not known — or forgotten, perhaps — about his presence in Arles. Or else, wished him away. He does not call him Exalted, as many of the Veretians have begun adopting, mostly to differentiate the two of them in speech. 

 

Damen nods to him, and then to the rest of the Councillors politely. Laurent sits first, relaxed, poised as always, and Damen takes his place next to him. Damen does not speak — though their kingdoms have officially joined together, this is Laurent’s domain, and he respects that. 

 

“So,” Laurent says. “What is it that we have been summoned for?”

 

Laurent says we, and Damen sees a bristle on the faces of one or two of the Councillors, on some of the courtiers surrounding them, and yet it makes his own heart sing. 

 

“Lord Tynan of Patras, nephew of King Torgeir, is here with an urgent matter,” a herald says from below. “He has requested to speak with His Highness, as well as the Council, as soon as can be possible.”

 

Laurent flicks a hand. “That is now. Bring him, if he is ready.”

 

The herald bows, and it is done. The room stands for this man as he enters, as he is royalty, no matter how far down in his line of succession. 

 

As with most people when meeting Laurent for the first time, as the proper Veretian welcomes are performed, the man cannot take his eyes off of him. His golden hair, his piercing eyes, his supple skin — it is all too much for any one man to handle at one time, and Damen acknowledges this, understands it. He has been there, after all. It does not mean that he has to like it. 

 

This matter is not helped by the fact that this man — Tynan, Damen recalls faintly — does not meet his gaze once. Perhaps it is out of fear, perhaps it is out of rudeness, but it is done. Meanwhile, his eyes rake over Laurent without sparing an inch, too obviously wondering with the rest of the world what on earth could be kept underneath the thick fabric and too many laces.

 

“You must have travelled for many days to reach us here,” Laurent says, sitting himself down again in his throne. “We appreciate your effort. Tell us, what urgent issue do you have to raise?”

 

Tynan bows his head in thanks to Laurent, but when he speaks, it is to the Councillors. He says, “I understand that you recently suffered under the rule of the traitor Regent.”

 

Damen’s fists clench on impulse, as they always do when he thinks of that man. He bites down on his tongue and digs his fingernails into his palm, resists the ridiculous urge to reach over and hold Laurent’s hand. 

 

It is Laurent, and not any of the Councillors, who answers him. “That is correct,” he says, his voice practiced with cold steadiness. “My uncle, the pretender King who murdered my father and attempted to murder me,” he says, and then, woefully nonchalant, “Multiple times.”

 

Damen hears the Councillors all grumble in disbelief and discontent yet again, as if they had forgotten about these events of not so many months ago. As if they had forgotten that they had been the ones serving with him, allowing him to do freely whatever he wished. 

 

“Yes,” Tynan says, looking back at Laurent, eyes immediately hungry again. He doesn’t have to wonder if Laurent can sense it, too. Of course he can, he has a great too many years behind him of getting used to the ravenous nature of men and their whims. Tynan continues, looking now between the Councillors and Laurent. Still, his eyes avoid Damen, as he continues to speak. “I come because your traitor Regent made me a deal before he was, of course, rightfully executed.”

 

“If it is within reason, I am sure we can cooperate and help you to our highest ability,” Laurent tells him diplomatically. “If it is another of my uncle’s scheming promises, I shall have no choice but to sorrowfully reject your wish.”

 

The Councillors murmur in agreement, wishing to pay no more heed or thought to the Regent than necessary. Damen agrees with the sentiment, but his eyes are narrow, his hands still fists on his thighs. There is something about this man and his words, this build up. 

 

“I understand,” Tynan says. “But you must understand my position first.”

 

“We implore you,” Herode says to him, patience dwindling, “Tell us.”

 

He does. “Before the traitor Regent was exposed and killed for his crimes, he and I came to the agreement that I was to be granted his nephew, the Crown Prince’s, hand in marriage.”

 

Immediate outrage falls over the hall. There are courtiers borderline shouting, the Councillors looking toward each other and whispering. Jord, close at Laurent’s side, visibly flinches away from the claim. The anger creates a thrumming hum in Damen’s head that he can’t block out, and it’s a miracle that he possesses the self-discipline that he does. Though, as he observes now and has observed over his time with the man, Laurent’s self-discipline is unmatched. He barely even reacts, except to raise one eyebrow and drum his fingers on his outstretched leg. 

 

Chelaut speaks, his voice carrying over the crowd. “His Highness is already wed.”

 

“I am aware,” Tynan says, ignoring Damen still. “It was a legal document, signed by all those involved. It was a betrothal, and because he is wed, it has been betrayed.”

 

Audin asks, “Do you have proof of this?”

 

“Yes,” Tynan answers promptly. He clicks his fingers and one of his company steps forward, bowing to Laurent before handing it to Jord, who hands it to him. 

 

Damen tries not to crane his neck. Laurent is reading every last word with scrutinising intensity, delicate fingers creasing the parchment, and Damen, from this angle, cannot see a thing besides a signature beginning with L and ending with R. Damen has seen that signature before, and larks at seeing it now, on this document. 

 

Laurent offers the document to Damen, who shakes his head, and so he hands it off to the Councillors to observe. One by one, they pass it around, some pausing to adjust their glasses in order to properly examine it. 

 

“This appears to be legitimate,” Mathes announces. “These are the known signatures of the traitor Regent, and of the Prince.”

 

Herode clears his throat. “It is, however, dated for seven years ago.”

 

Damen’s head whips up. It is the first time he speaks to the room when he says, “Seven years? That is ridiculous.”

 

“The document states that I am promised to marry Lord Tynan on my twenty-first summer,” Laurent explains to him. 

 

“You could not have signed that. It is not valid,” Damen protests. “Prince Laurent was not yet, if not barely fourteen when this was signed.”

 

“It does not matter,” Audin tells him. “If it is not forged, it is valid. Your Highness, is it forged?”

 

Laurent’s jaw is stern, stiffness having taken over his complexion in a way that has not been achieved since his uncle was alive. Damen hates the way that his influence lingers, hurting Laurent still from the grave. He doesn’t deserve this — Laurent, not deserving the turmoil, and the Regent, not deserving the satisfaction that Damen is sure he would be feeling if the afterlife permits it. 

 

“It is not forged,” Laurent tells them. Then, with some hesitation, he offers a slight explanation: “My uncle spent my thirteenth winter teaching me how to write my signature. If this was one of the papers that he used to help me practice, I do not remember it. But that is indeed my signature.”

 

For once, Damen wishes that Laurent would have lied. His Vererian tactics may have been infuriating throughout his time of knowing him, but Damen wishes that he would have lied through his teeth. If not for not having to hear the aching details of Laurent’s post-Auguste childhood, then for the sake of throwing this man out of their home and moving on with their time. 

 

“Please, do not fret too much,” Tynan says, far too late for Damen’s liking. “I do not presume to do as much as question or belittle your marriage to Akielos.” 

 

Damen wishes to ask him to look him in his eye, by the Gods, and shake him until he speaks his name aloud. Acknowledgement is the least he can do, after waltzing in and — what? Trying to steal his husband?

 

“Then what, pray tell, is your aim?” Laurent asks him. The man’s demeanour does not falter even after the combined fire and ice coming from the gazes of these two rulers. 

 

Turning to the Councillors once again, the presumptuous man tells them, “I seek not to break the marriage. I seek only reparations for my legal right to wed the Prince of Vere being obstructed and removed.”

 

Both Damen and Laurent remain decidedly silent and still. The Councillors, however, nod in understanding. Even Herode says, “That is reasonable.”

 

Jeurre says, “Announce your intended reparations from us and ours.”

 

Tynan’s eyes slip back to Laurent. Then, for just a moment, Damen swears that their eyes finally lock gaze — and there’s a glint in them, cock-sure and arrogant. It is momentary, perhaps imaginary, and in an instant his eyes are back to the Councillors, because the coward can’t even look either of them in the eye as he declares it.

 

“It is simple,” he says. “By way of reparations for this betrayal, I ask for one night with the Prince of Vere.”

 

*

 

It becomes a little hazy for Damen, then, as he does not recall jumping from his throne but appears to be on his feet. Laurent’s hand is gentle but firm on Damen’s forearm, holding him steady so that he may not do something stupid, such as curse out — or otherwise physically attack, and perhaps maim or seriously injure — Patran royalty. 

 

Laurent is repeating his name to him, a soft thumb cruising over his skin. It almost helps to calm him down, but then he hears Audin say, “It is not unreasonable,” which does absolutely nothing at all to help calm his temper. 

 

“Not unreasonable?” Damen says, voice booming through the hall. He can feel again what he felt when first coming here: the fear in these Veretian aristocrats at the barbarian horrors of Akielos, strongest almost certainly with its King. 

 

“Excuse us, Lord Tynan,” Jeurre declares. “The Council intends to first discuss this matter with privacy. Court is adjourned for the time being.”

 

Laurent continues to stare upwards, but Damen sees the way that Tynan bows and saunters out of the hall, smirk plastered on his smug face. Damen once again wants to lurch himself over the low wall in front of him, wants to run him down and demand he face him, man to man.

 

When his head feels like it has somewhat cleared, the hall is empty, save for the two of them. 

 

“How dare he?” Damen says, his chest heaving with his fury. “To walk in here — To walk into your palace—”

 

“I know,” Laurent says. He places a hand to Damen’s face, cupping it softly, forcing him to look at him instead of the doorway that the Patran had fled through. “I was — taken aback.”

 

“I cannot fathom that they are having a debate about this.” Damen lifts a hand, places it over Laurent’s own. “This would never even be thought of happening in a court of our fathers.”

 

Laurent tells him, dryly, “I did not get my looks from my father.”

 

A moment passes. Damen is still breathing heavily. His selfishness only occurs to him then, as he sits back down, body angled towards him, so that he now is looking up at Laurent, instead of the regular reverse. He asks him, “And you? Are you alright?”

 

Laurent opens his mouth, as if to lie on instinct. Damen watches it close again, watches the thoughts sort through his brilliant brain. He lands on not a concrete answer, of course, but a simple: “I will not lay with him.”

 

“Of course not,” Damen says at once. “May the Gods help any who try to force you. That includes the Council.” Damen slides his hands to Laurent’s waist, holds him close to him, head still tilted up. He tells him, “They will know the dirt before they know what it will be to do this to you.”

 

Laurent leans forward and kisses him. The Court does not reconvene that day. 

 

*

 

In fact, it takes three whole days for the Council to come to any sort of conclusion on what steps to take going forward with this issue.

 

It does not matter what they say, Damen repeats day in and day out, both in his head and to Laurent’s face. For these days, they are somehow impossibly closer than ever. They are allowed, fortunately, longer mornings in bed to hold each other and whisper reassurances in each other’s ears. They do not have sex, because Laurent does not initiate it and Damen is, at least for now, afraid to push him. He knows that the man despises being treated like that, like he is fragile, but for these days it is prompt. The reminder of his uncle, mixed with the possibility — however low it may be — of him pulling the strings to force Laurent into bed — again… Damen is not in a particularly amorous mood, anyway. 

 

But they do hold one another, gently and quietly, Laurent’s back flush against Damen’s torso as they fall asleep. When they wake, his forehead is to Damen’s chest. Like clockwork. Damen holds him, wraps his arms around him like that in itself could somehow protect Laurent from the outside world. He wishes it could, day in and day out. 

 

Damen speaks to Jord and Lazar as he exits their bedroom on the third morning, Laurent still bathing behind the doors. 

 

“Exalted,” they greet. Damen raises a hand, signalling they be at ease.

 

Jord does not relax, a line between his thick brows. “How is he?”

 

With a sigh, he answers, “He is not in pieces. He is certain that he will not do what this man is asking, but I can see that he is… Not worried, but perhaps the word is distressed. His uncle…”

 

Jord nods, understanding. Lazar speaks next, telling Damen, “We have heard whispers from servants, Exalted.”

 

“Lazar,” Jord huffs.

 

“We have!” Lazar defends. “They have been in and out of the Councillors’ room. There are arguments, apparently.”

 

Damen feels his pulse speed up. “You mean there is even a debate?”

 

“It may be — unrelated,” Jord offers weakly. “I hope it is.”

 

“And Lord Tynan?” Damen asks. “Have there been any whispers about what he has been doing with his days in Laurent’s palace?”

 

“No,” Lazar replies. “Though apparently, the Councillors seem to be coming to a conclusion. Word is that Court will be reconvened tomorrow.”

 

Damen nods to him, releasing a small sigh. “Thank you,” he says, and begins to retreat back into the room when he adds, “When it is, ensure there are no courtiers there. The hall is to be empty except for the Councillors, myself and Laurent, Tynan and the guards.”

 

“Yes, Exalted,” Jord says. When the doors shut again behind Damen, he can faintly hear Lazar say, “We couldn’t not warn him!”

 

*

 

When Damen returns to him, he only debates for a moment whether or not to tell him. In the end it is no question at all — they are in this together, and this is more Laurent’s battle than it is his own.

 

It is a testament to Laurent’s youth the fact that any of this is even a debate. He could see it in Councillor Herode’s eyes as the subject was first breached; this would never have happened with King Aleron. This would never have happened with Auguste, and certainly not with the Regent himself. 

 

Still, even after everything, even after proving himself through the freeing of his uncle’s clutches, the narrow escape of each and every murder attempt on his life — his victories in every battle, in winning every fort… Laurent’s youth causes him doubt, causes him to not have the respect that he deserves. 

 

Laurent’s youth has never done anything but harm him, it seems. Even with every attempt to grow out of it. 

 

“They will see us in the morning, and it will be put to an end,” Damen tells him, brushing a strand of light blond hair out of his eyes. His gaze falls over him in the candlelight of the late evening, Laurent’s face half-covered by the plushness of the pillow beneath him. Damen says, “I will kill Tynan and wage war on Patras if that is what it takes.”

 

A crease appears at the corners of Laurent’s mouth, and his eyes. He says in turn, pushing himself up, and leaning in to press a soft kiss to Damen’s furrowing lips, “As you have said before. And I do not doubt you, my love.”

 

Damen kisses him back until at some point, they fall asleep, all lips and arms. 

 

*

 

Morning comes, and Laurent’s temper is not dampened by the softness of their evening. He poignantly slams each step into the hall and the Councillors, though used to this for many a year, bristle in their seats. Tynan sits before them now, instead of standing, afforded for whatever reason the luxury of comfort despite the animosity and uncomfort that he has brought into this palace. At the sight of Laurent, he bristles also, the second time in his life seeing this beautiful man and now, not so taken unawares.  

 

“The Councillors of Vere have been deliberating this meagre matter for several days. Let us hear what they have to say,” Laurent announces. Damen’s order had been thoroughly followed, and so the announcement is made, not to rows upon rows of courtiers, but simply to the Council itself and Tynan, the guards an impassive presence.

 

“Indeed,” Mathes says, standing up to speak. “We shall share our thoughts each and own, and give Lord Tynan his chance to argue his case.”

 

“And then I shall speak,” Laurent tells him. “And I will argue my case, and pass my judgment as the future King of this country.” 

 

The Councillors stand one by one, sharing their thoughts on the matter. Herode is first, leading the rest. Their combined thoughts are everywhere — that it is abhorrent to suggest forcing the Crown Prince into such a thing; that it is a justified request; that they could give a sum of gold in the stead of the Prince’s virtue; that this could harm the relationship Vere has with Akielos; that not doing this could harm the relationship that Vere has with Patras; that Laurent, though destined for it in only another month, is not actually the King yet. 

 

Mathes ends the deliverance with this: “His Highness might take a moment to consider the mercy that Lord Tynan is offering. Whilst promised a life filled with these nights, he is offering to be sated with just one.”

 

Laurent’s gaze is a blade, sharp as those he has used to cut down more men than Damen can now count. It appears almost as dangerous as his mouth can be — and Damen believes that the company of this room are wholly unprepared for the wrath that is to come when Laurent is given his time. 

 

Now, first, it is Tynan’s turn to speak. Laurent does not address him, or tell him to stand. He does anyway, vulgar confidence oozing from him after hearing the leeway given from the Councillors. 

 

“I thank the Councillors for their understanding, and can only hope that it extends to the kindness of the rulers of Vere and Akielos,” is how he starts, and Damen genuinely almost snorts. As if they both have not been fantasising day in and day out about shunning this man from the palace and, occasionally, killing him. Tynan’s drawl continues, “It must be understood that I have been relying on this betrothal, believing a legal contract to be held true. To think otherwise would be ridiculous, of course, as I would believe Vere to be men of their words—” Damen does let out a huff of laughter at that, “—But of course, the traitor Regent must have betrayed me too. I have refused many propositions for my hand from beautiful and high-born suitors, simply because I believed I was already owed the pick of the bunch. So to speak.”

 

Damen peers over at the Council. They appear genuinely moved for this man and his snake-words, the devastating effect that this has had on his prospects on marriage. How dare royalty be tricked out of a husband or wife? How dare he be duped into turning away countless matches? Damen can read their poor, small minds. Even Herode looks sympathetic. 

 

Tynan continues, “Hefty dowries, turned away and out of my pocket because I remained loyal to the Crown Prince. I waited for my time to come, for when he was King and happy, and I would introduce myself formally for us to be wed. I was not under the impression that the Prince did not know of this arrangement. As you recall, it was signed by he.”

 

His words are absorbed by all but himself and Laurent, who continue to stare at this man with the capacity and want for a public hanging. Damen tries not to get himself so worked up about it — the man will be facing Laurent’s words soon enough, and that is, with no doubt, worse. 

 

“I request simply one night in the place of the many that I was promised, as the good Councillor said.” Tynan smiles at Mathes. Mathes sits up straight. “With respect to His Highness, I cannot humanly think of another thing in the world that would amount to the same measure of reward. Certainly no amount of gold, and no amount of virgin slaves,” he says, and there is an unsaid insult there, made to make himself look all the more humble and polite yet again — Look! I do not even care that the King will not be a virgin anymore. 

 

With bile in his throat, Damen thinks that the pervert would have been disappointed anyway.

 

“Is that it?” Laurent asks, when silence falls for a second too long. 

 

“Your Highness,” Audin says, as if by way of warning. Or maybe Damen is paranoid.

 

“I am asking if Lord Tynan is finished with pleading his case,” Laurent says. His eyes remain on the man in front of them all. “Is that it?”

 

“That is it.”

 

“Well,” Laurent says. “In colluding with my uncle, I must say I expected more.”

 

Tynan feigns a shrug, a small pout forming over his lips. “More, Your Highness?”

 

“Something a bit more failsafe. But then again, my uncle never expected to lose, and certainly did not expect to die before my twenty-first summer, so I suppose he believed that he would be doing most of the heavy-lifting and thinking if I did unfortunately end up living that long.” Laurent drums his long fingers on the arm of his throne, an air of nonchalant rage about him. “My uncle would have been impressed by your performance and your attempt at my humiliation, but he would have been far more effective in it than yourself. Do not worry, it is not your fault, he did have years of experience doing so.”

 

“It is not at all my intention to embarrass or humiliate you, Your Highness.”

 

“No?” Laurent asks, tilting his head. Damen feels his insides thrum with this, the same feeling that is achieved when walking onto a battlefield where you know you are in favour to win. Laurent continues, “What was your intention then, I ask? To demand that I, future King of Vere, bend over for you — and think that myself and my husband would allow it? To think that I would do as you ask because you come before this Council and say please?” 

 

“To offend you was not—” Tynan begins. Already, he is beginning to look pale. With an inward smirk, Damen knows that Laurent has barely even begun.

 

“Your intention? So your intention, we know, so far, was not to humiliate or offend, and yet, you have done little else since you have set foot into my palace. All you have shown us is that you are one in a long line of people who have been duped by my uncle, and a weak attempt at taking advantage of this does not do anything for your favour — It just makes you more like him.”

 

Tynan sterns his jaw, waits a moment to see whether Laurent is done talking, and actually has the gall about him to continue to try and defend himself. Laurent is, indeed, not done talking, but appears to give a pause in order to hear what the man might have to say. 

 

He says, his voice still holding strong, “If you wish to offend my uncle, the King, then by all means refuse. You will make an enemy of Patras.”

 

“An enemy of Patras,” Laurent repeats. “Your uncle, the King. Lord Tynan, your uncle, the King, is a friend of Vere. He would not place such a heavy importance on the bedding habits of an insignificant nephew so as to threaten this good relationship.”

 

“Oh, and you are certain about that?” Tynan argues. He argues. By now, Jord and the rest of the Prince’s Guard are ready to draw their swords, and even the Council appear bewildered at the outright refusal of respect towards their King. Tynan says, very clearly, “If the last King of Vere kept a closer eye on his nephew’s bedding habits, it may well have kept him on the throne. Perhaps, Your Highness, you have proven yourself an example.”

 

Multiple of the Councillors protest this. Herode’s voice rings the highest, as he proclaims, “The absurdity of that is an insult to the throne.”

 

“I meant it not so,” Tynan says, pleading again to the Council, the act brought back over his eyes like an assassin’s hood. “I simply meant it as a warning. A legal contract being forsaken is in and of itself a crime, is it not? King Torgeir will be sated if I am given compensation, but if not, it is an insult upon me, upon my family, and upon Patras itself.”

 

Mathes says, “He has a point…”

 

“I was not finished,” Laurent announces, and he stands now, placing himself at an advantage above the rest of them. Silence falls at his voice. He leans forward on his hands, glaring down at the man over the bannister. “Lord Tynan, I have met your uncle, the King. He is a strong man. A good man, with good morals. I assume everyone here would agree.”

 

The silence goes on, nobody presuming to break it to speak. The answer does not need to be spoken. It is a resounding agreement. 

 

“If you had come here demanding gold and we had turned you away, I would agree that he would be offended on behalf of your family and country. But the difference between yourself and myself, Lord Tynan, is exactly in our uncles. And it is my belief that your uncle would take issue with forcing somebody into your bed.”

 

 Tynan gulps before he speaks, now. “It would not be…”

 

“What?” Laurent asks when he does not finish this sentence. “It would not be force? It would not be willing, so what else could it be? Or do you not believe manipulation to be a form of force, is that it? I cannot help but wonder how many poor souls you have raped under the guise of your own self-importance.”

 

Another uncomfortable silence. 

 

“You did not consider it rape? You thought I would argue my case against you in court, be ordered by my Council to be bedded by you, and that I would suddenly be elated with the situation? I suppose it must only now be dawning on you what you have done: entered into a foreign country and demanded to rape their Prince. Speak sweetness to the men beside me, and rape their Prince. Ignore my husband, and rape me?” Laurent says, and is eerily, perfectly still, from fingertip to breath. “Say it,” he demands. “You want to rape me.”

 

“I,” Tynan says, and is looking now towards Jord and the rest of the guard, hands poised, ready to act as soon as they hear the direct threat. “I cannot say that. I do not wish to—”

 

Laurent raises an impatient eyebrow. “And we are back, once again, to you not knowing that what you wish to accomplish here is exactly that. If you are worried that you are the first to want to rape me, you shouldn’t be; I am sure it is my dazzling personality. My sensibilities are not damaged. But I must say, it is a new experience to have this want waltz into my palace and announced in front of the Council, myself and my husband. Normally, those who wish to rape me carry this with them in private, or in drunken conversation around a campfire. It seems that even alcoholic mercenaries are smarter than you are; at least they make sure that I cannot hear them voice their crooked fantasies.”

 

“I am not saying that,” Tynan pleads to the Court. “I simply want to bed you.”

 

Said so bluntly, Damen must bite his cheek to keep from getting himself involved. The Councillors tutter between themselves, some shaking their heads. Laurent expresses no outward reaction. 

 

“Well, I do not want to bed you. Now, what?” he asks. “If we are at this impasse… If you did indeed get me in your bed, Lord Tynan, how would this not be rape?”

 

Tynan does not have him an answer. He stands silent, frustration across his brow.

 

“Would you like to know what I think, Lord Tynan?” Laurent asks. He does not wait for an answer. “I think that you live a pathetic life. I think that you cling to any semblance of royalty that you can, because if I am honest, as the third son of King Torgeir’s… Fifth youngest brother, was it? I doubt you even take up a morsel of the good King’s mind. I think that you are a mere smudge in his large family, and after he learns of your lowly attempts at abusing his royal advantage, you will be a disgrace.”

 

Anger now befalls over the man’s frustration and the Prince’s Guard steps forward, as he does. Tynan snarls, “You would do well to watch your words.”

 

“Would I? And here I was, thinking that nobody would dare say that to me again after the clearing of my name and the death of my uncle. You do know my coronation is approaching?”

 

Tynan spits, “You are still twenty for a month yet. I do not recognise your status as higher than a Prince and that is my right as foreign royalty.” 

 

“That is your right,” Laurent agrees. “It does not change the fact that you stand in the country that does acknowledge it.”

 

“Irrelevant,” Tynan says. “You do not realise that I have my own resources, and I do not rely wholly upon my uncle. You do not realise that I have done my research. Perhaps you and your husband are unaware of Patran laws surrounding betrothals.”

 

Damen sterns his jaw, sits forward. Laurent narrows his eyes.

 

“Patran laws do not apply to the Crown Prince of another country. Especially since you have brought this to issue in said country.” 

 

“You have forgotten that international contracts must abide by the laws of both countries,” Tynan tells him, taking another step forward. Damen’s head is loud, and he sees Jord’s grip tighten on the hilt of his sword. “Patran law states that a betrothal is as good as marriage. You have betrayed this and therefore betrayed our laws. You are still only a Prince yet, and already an insult to your foreign allies, and you should count yourself lucky that I have given you the opportunity to save your marriage instead of breaking it apart, which I could attempt if I so wished. You will allow me to bed you and you will not complain, or else this will not be easy for you. I did not wish it to come to this, but you have insulted me too deeply.”

 

Tynan turns to the Councillors and bows, tells them, “I bid that you all have a pleasant day,” and leaves the hall before any of them have the opportunity to process what has been said.

 

A moment of shocked silence falls over them all, and is only broken by Laurent’s speech, cold and bitter and painful. He asks, “Would it wage war if I had him strung up?”

 

After another shaking second of just breath, Jeurre answers, “Yes, Your Highness.”

 

Damen watches Laurent’s fingernails dig into the wood beneath his hand. He is struggling to control his own temper, attempting to stay silent for Laurent’s sake. 

 

“And,” Laurent continues, “Would it wage war if I refuse to let him bed me?”

 

Quiet again. Then, with great hesitation, Herode says, “It appears that is a potential, Your Highness.”

 

Laurent drops his head an infinitesimal amount, his shoulders heavy. He responds simply, “Court is adjourned,” and then he is leaving too, flanked by a shaking Damen and Prince’s Guard.

 

*

 

When back at their bedroom, Laurent all but collapses into a cushioned seat. Damen is kneeling at his side at once, thick hand on Laurent’s thigh, thumb moving in comforting circles. He takes Laurent’s weight as it moves onto him, his yellow head falling to Damen’s shoulder. 

 

He is not crying, but he is perhaps the most exhausted that Damen has seen him. Eyes closed, body limp. Only the antics of Laurent’s uncle could have him like this, fallen when he had believed himself free. 

 

Damen wants to weep for him.

 

“It shall not happen,” Damen tells him quietly. “I shall raise Akielos against Patras before that happens.”

 

“Patras will have the support of Vask,” Laurent murmurs into Damen’s skin, his tone seemingly emotionless. “Vere and Akielos cannot battle that, not when we are still so fresh from battling one another.”

 

He has thought about this already, Damen realises, and lifts a hand to gently cup the man’s head. He cradles him, attempting still to hold in his temper. This risks more for Laurent than it does for himself, he tells himself repeatedly. This is not the time for his possessive whims of rage, forcing his husband to have to calm him down. This is the time for comfort.

 

Laurent is speaking again before Damen has a chance to respond: “I will not bring turmoil and war to my country before I have even been crowned as King, just for my own selfishness.”

 

“It is not selfish,” Damen tells him. “Your body is your own. You are the only one to dictate who has the privilege of having it. To suggest otherwise, to use your body as a repayment mechanism — It is unspeakable, it is—”

 

“It is the way of my uncle,” Laurent interrupts. “As it has been for a long time.”

 

Damen aches to dig up those bones, to grind them down and snap each one in two. The Regent had gotten off too easily, too quickly. Now, Damen fantasises for the millionth time about doing it himself, driving his sword through him and making it last, drawn out and painful. 

 

“There must be some way to stop this,” Damen says. “I cannot believe that it is just cut and dry.”

 

Laurent tells him, “It is my signature,” and Damen feels a wetness on his skin, eyelashes fluttering.

 

*

 

Two days of bed go by before they are summoned back to Court. These days are quiet and as peaceful as they can be, Jord and Lazar disallowing any attempt at interrupting them. They hold each other for these days, and when they do not, Laurent is distracting himself, reading received letters or laying alone, thinking, caught up in his own beautiful, worried mind. 

 

When they are summoned, they walk side-by-side, as if to the gallows. They hold hands as they tread their path so that the gold on their wrists knock against one another. When they arrive, it is to a nearly empty hall, with soldiers, courtiers, and even Tynan is seemingly vacant. 

 

The hall holds the two of them, and the Councillors, and no one else. 

 

“Your Highness,” Herode says, welcoming them in. “And Exalted of Akielos.”

 

“Councillors,” Damen greets respectfully. Laurent does not speak.

 

Chelaut speaks next: “We wished to speak to you both before meeting once again with Lord Tynan. He is growing restless. We understand that this situation is… Delicate.”

 

“Delicate,” Laurent says.

 

“Yes,” Audin sighs. “Whilst we cannot force your hand, as our Crown Prince, we wished to offer our guidance.”

 

“What guidance,” Damen asks, and cannot fight the way that he steps in front of Laurent, a wall between these men and him, “Do you offer?”

 

“It is our belief,” Mathes says, “That for the good of Vere, His Highness should… Consider Lord Tynan’s proposed form of retribution.”

 

Damen’s fingernails bite into his palm. “This entire thing is an overstep. A minor royal from Patras cannot demand this of a future King, and you know it.”

 

“There may be a war—” Audin begins. Damen does not let him finish.

 

“I will tell you now, there will be a war if Laurent is forced to do this. Trust me when I say that Akielos will not be resting easy if it is discovered that their King’s husband has been forced into this. There will be riots in the streets.”

 

“In your streets,” Mathes says. “Respectfully.”

 

Damen’s lips curl. “You mean to say that the reaction of the Veretian public would not be the same? They care for their Prince a great deal, I have seen it.”

 

Audin nods. “They do. But they do not hold the same manner of loyalty as your Akielons. If anything, Veretian civilians will see the sacrifice that their Prince has made for them in order to prevent war, and they will appreciate him all the more for it. It will strengthen our country.”

 

“In the opposition, if His Highness does not do this, and war is waged, the country may turn against him. To have another war break out in such a short period of time, before even becoming the head of the country…” Chelaut hums. “It will not do.”

 

Mathes taps his fingers against one another in succession. With consideration, he says to Damen, not to Laurent, “It is not as if Lord Tynan is the only man in the world who wishes to bed your husband. It is simply that he has the means to ensure that it may happen.” He actually lets out a small laugh, and says, “Can you really blame him?”

 

Damen stalks towards the Council, slams his hands down on the dark wood, carved with a million intricacies that Damen does not care about. The old men jump back in their cowardly seats, lurching away from the barbarian Akielon. 

 

“Can I blame him?” Damen repeats. “I can tear him apart piece by piece. I can cut and choke him and hold him down until he is begging for death. I believe that you esteemed members of the Veretian Council fail to remember that I did not get to do so to your treacherous bitch of a Regent, but that I will welcome the chance to act out my rage on this man in his stead.”

 

“King Damianos,” Herode says, heart in his throat. “Please attempt to understand the difficulty that is —”

 

“I shall not attempt to understand anything. This man is a threat to our countries, to their royalty, and yet is being treated like a guest well above his station. In Akielos, he would have been cut down the moment he dared to even think of this plot.”

 

Damen is seething, shoulders heaving up and down with his heavy breath. He is not about to budge on his stance, ready to argue at each and every moment against the Council on this matter. 

 

He tells them, “I promise you, I will kill him.” His words are low and deliberate, filled with venom. “I would kill him in the Kingsmeet. I would kill him unarmed. I would kill him as he begged for his life, with all the honour in me, if this is allowed to happen.”

 

In their eyes, he sees that they have no doubt that he will hold true to his words. 

 

And then from behind him, Laurent says, “I will do it.”

 

Damen’s turn is quicker than a strike of lightning. His eyes are wide, almost bursting out of his head as he places them upon his husband, takes in his cold reserve. His movement is so fast that he is unable to see the reaction of the Councillors, but is unsure if he would even like to.

 

“What?” he asks, his voice appearing as no more than a whisper over the pounding in his head. 

 

“I will not be the cause for more Veretian soldiers’ deaths. I will not wage more war,” he says. “I have done enough of that.”

 

“You have done nothing,” Damen tells him. “That was your uncle, all your uncle. You are innocent here, too. This is the same situation.”

 

“It is not,” Laurent declares. “Now, I have a choice.”

 

“Your Highness,” Jeurre says shakily. “This is a smart decision. A selfless decision. Your country will thank you a great deal.”

 

“My country will know nothing of this,” Laurent corrects him. “If it is mentioned again then it shall be treason, punishable by death, even for Councillors.”

 

“And me?” Damen asks, chest still heaving. 

 

“You will respect my decision.”

 

Damen is almost shouting when he asks, “And simply stand by as this man rapes you?”

 

“I will give my consent,” Laurent says, like a sheet of ice falling straight on Damen’s bare back. “I decide the time, the place and the date. It shall be no more than a few days, to get it over with. Afterward, he is not to be welcomed in my Court again. I will not see him even if he is dying.”

 

His jaw is hanging, disbelief running through his veins. “You cannot be serious.”

 

Laurent meets his gaze. “I am.”

 

*

 

It makes no sense. Damen turns it in his mind over and over, the silence of their rooms as Laurent had done nothing but think and anxiously flick through letters. Had he been spinning a plan, then, or simply deciding the best and least bloody course of action, the choice with the least casualties? Laurent, it seemed, did not understand that his body and feelings were worth a whole country. Two.

 

Damen is forced into silence as he hears Laurent demand Tynan be brought to them, so that they may discuss the terms and conditions of the tryst before the Council. And before Damen himself. Laurent tells them, as they head to their thrones, “I do not wish to anger my husband more than necessary,” and Damen feels the need to punch the marble wall. 

 

Tynan appears with such a smug expression on his face that Damen almost does punch a hole in the marble wall. 

 

“So you’ve seen sense,” he says, and Damen managed to be calmed only a slight amount by Laurent at his side, placing a hand on his thigh.

 

“I have seen the least violent way out of this,” Laurent replies. “You have forced my hand out of my love for my people. That does not mean that you have won. It means that you are a vapid man with an inflated sense of self-worth and no care for his own country.” 

 

“Alright,” Tynan says dismissively. “Tell me how you wish for this to happen. Tonight?”

 

“No,” Laurent says at once. “Three days time, in a room of no import. I shall not give you the pleasure of having me in my own bed. There shall be no witnesses and you will not speak of it at any point after the fact.”

 

“Is that so?” he says, his tone taunting and rude. “I counter you. Three days is fine, it gives me time to dream about it first. It will make it all the more better. But it will take place in the room I have been residing in, so I feel more comfortable.”

 

Damen bristles. “So you feel comfortable?”

 

“Yes,” he deadpans. “Furthermore, I consent to no witnesses, and I consent to not speaking about it after. Just having it will be enough.”

 

“Good,” Laurent says. “I am glad that we are—”

 

“I am not finished with my terms,” Tynan interrupts. 

 

Laurent’s eyes turn somehow even icier, mouth shutting with a snap. “Continue, then.”

 

He does. “I want to unclothe you, so come clothed. In fact, do not come prepared at all. I will do it. As normal as a wedding night.”

 

One of the blue eyes beside Damen twitches. “Fine.”

 

“That is not all. It is not considered a done deed unless the both of us come. If the both of us do not, then the night is irrelevant.”

 

Before Laurent or Damen can say anything, Herode speaks. “On the contrary, Lord Tynan, there must be a witness if this is the case. Otherwise, and I would not accuse you, but one may take advantage and ask for another opportunity.”

 

“Quite.” Tynan nods. 

 

“You have already agreed to no witnesses,” Laurent tells him. “I will not hear you go back on this.”

 

“Fine,” Tynan says. “If I do not get to make you come, I get to come inside you. And I choose the positions.”

 

Damen’s fist yet again slams, this time onto the armrest of the throne. Laurent raises a hand and Damen respects him enough — too much, perhaps — that he does not speak. 

 

“Done,” Laurent says, and Damen wants to throw up the contents of his breakfast. He feels dizzy and violent. Laurent continues, “You are distinctly unlike a Patran. Your other uncle would faint, if he heard how you were speaking.”

 

Tynan pauses at that. “My uncle? Which —”

 

“I will not suck your cock,” Laurent interrupts. “This is non-negotiable.”

 

The man seems to consider this. Then, “Can I suck yours?”

 

In answer, Laurent shrugs. 

 

Tynan again, “Can I lick your arse?”

 

Laurent sighs. “Do you want this choreographed? You are boring me now, as well as insulting me.”

 

Tynan laughs from his belly and rubs his hands together, creases deepening in his cheeks and forehead. He sits back then, rubs his chin, and after a moment asks, “And do I have word that the King of Akielos will not come after me for this?”

 

Laurent shifts awkwardly on his throne. Damen says nothing. He cannot. He is following Laurent’s lead and refusing to speak about this any longer, because he may explode if he does. 

 

“Within reason,” Laurent answers for him. “We cannot promise that he will not act if you enter into his country, or if he sees you again under any circumstances. But for this visit in Vere, he will leave you be.”

 

Damen feels the thunder within himself. He wants to rip the man apart right this instant. 

 

“I can deal with that,” Tynan says. “Anything else?”

 

Laurent is silent for a moment, thinking. “No,” he says.

 

Tynan nods and rises once the Council gives their blessing over the negotiations, bows and leaves the hall. Laurent and Damen are next to leave, taking with them a silence filled with tension that is thick enough for Damen to slice with his blade.

 

*

 

In their rooms, they argue. 

 

They both say some things that they are not proud of, but it ends with Laurent pleading, eyelashes glistening yet again. Damen cannot fault him then, the rage sizzling away at once, like water over a dying fire. 

 

He rushes to Laurent’s side with apologies that are returned at once. Laurent shakes his head, his arms awkwardly by his sides as he cannot bring himself to return the soft hold that Damen has around him. 

 

Laurent says, “You would do anything for your country. You already have. You have endured months on end as a slave to prevent a war.” His voice shakes. “Now I must do the same, only for one night.”

 

Damen hears him. He wants to tell him that it is different, but he doesn’t know, truly, if it is. 

 

They fall asleep and wake up again, holding one another still.

 

*

 

The next morning, Damen asks him, “Why three days?”

 

Laurent looks up from his table of letters. “Pardon?”

 

“Why three days?” he asks. 

 

Laurent blinks at him. “It gives me sufficient time to prepare. And you, also.”

 

“Then why not five days?”

 

“He was becoming impatient, and I want it done with,” Laurent tells him.

 

Damen thrums his fingers against his leg. “Does it matter if he is impatient?”

 

“Yes,” Laurent replies dryly. “If he is harassing my household and my Council.” 

 

Damen hums. He lays back on the bed. The countdown has already begun. 

 

Two days and an afternoon to go.

 

*

 

It comes quickly. 

 

Too quickly. 

 

Damen has not eaten in over a day, and Laurent the same. They pretend, they pick at fruits and cheeses, but no food passes either of their lips because they both know they won’t be able to keep it down. 

 

Damen is leading Laurent to Tynan’s bedroom, the Council traipsing along behind them. They will be the only witnesses here, to see that the tryst begins. His heart is hammering in his chest and he considers asking a standing-by servant for a bucket, bile rising in his throat. 

 

Laurent is peering around nervously, as if looking for something. Damen reaches out as they walk, fingers brushing nimble fingers. These fingers, which may soon be put to work. Damen doesn’t want to think about it, but he cannot help it. 

 

The gentleness in which Laurent has sex is not one to be exploited. The reluctant touches when he isn’t sure if what he is doing is correct, as he has been told before is wrong. The way that he looks up when given praise, surprised, and surprised more so when pleasure is offered to be given to him instead of taken.  

 

Tynan had said Can I suck yours? 

 

He shakes that thought out of his head like a dog out of water, flinging it from his consciousness. He does not want to think about the way Laurent may react to this man’s touch, the slow breathing and small moans that he may manage to coax out of his stoney exterior. It is worse somehow, to know that he would try to resist the pleasure and potentially accidentally succumb to it. 

 

He is losing his grip on the little restraint that he has left.

 

“Are you alright?” Laurent asks, which is ridiculous. Damen should be asking him this instead, the man who is walking straight into a nightmare. 

 

“I am,” Damen says, keeping his voice down so that the Councillors behind them do not overhear, “Worried. How are you?”

 

“I am,” Laurent repeats, his wording slow. “I do not know how I am.”

 

Damen squeezes his hand. 

 

They reach the door and the Patran soldier posted outside of it bows his head to them both in turn. Tynan seems to realise their presence from the inside, somehow, and appears in the doorway, clad in loose and accessible clothes. 

 

He bows to the Councillors, and then to the two of them, and Damen tries not to bite at the irony in that. He is smiling again. Damen stares him down, and he purposefully does not meet his gaze.

 

“Good evening,” he greets. His eyes are on Laurent and Laurent alone. 

 

“Let us not prolong this with pleasantries,” Laurent chokes out, his voice barely above a whisper now. 

 

Tynan snorts and holds out his hand for Laurent to take and all Damen can do is watch. He is going to drag Laurent inside and ravish him as so many men have dreamt of before, will be accomplishing the impossible and taking that which is not his. 

 

Laurent does not take the man’s hand. He turns to Damen and raises his arms, cups his cheeks as he has done so many times before, and pulls him down to kiss him. Laurent’s soft lips take his own and Damen is overcome with emotion. His limbs move by themselves and he pulls Laurent closer to him, grasping him tenderly, unwilling to let him go. 

 

They separate not from an intervention from Tynan, but from an awkward cough from one of the Councillors. He watches — they all watch — as Laurent lowers himself down from the tips of his toes and stares into Damen’s eyes, wordlessly pleading an apology. Their hot breath mingles together in the short space between them. Damen is unintentionally leaving red fingerprints on Laurent’s pale arms through his tightly-woven clothing. 

 

Tynan holds the door open as Laurent leaves him to go inside, to this sentence brought upon him once again by his uncle. Laurent keeps his eyes down, his jaw tensed. Damen feels, for the first time since seeing Laurent in chains in front of this same Council and the Regent, utterly helpless. 

 

Laurent is standing alone inside, a shadow now in the dark room, Tynan still in the doorway. He is looking at Damen now, and speaks to him properly for the first time since arriving in Vere: “My thanks to you, for warming him up for me.”

 

Before Damen can attack him, the door is closed, the soldier standing in front. 

 

“The Council is satisfied,” Herode says, his eyes a little sad. “We will adjourn.”

 

They leave Damen standing there, shaking and alone, powerless. 

 

Damen stares at the soldier. “You abide this.”

 

The soldier gulps. “I know not the situation, Exalted,” he tells him. “I am following orders.”

 

Damen understands. Damen has been there. But logic now has escaped him, and all he can think of is the fact that Laurent is behind this door against his will. 

 

He wonders if Tynan has started unlacing his clothes yet. It will take him a while, but it was what he demanded. He has heard that before, from lowly soldiers in his time — the tight-laced clothing he wears is a part of the fantasy, as is ripping it off of him. Undoing him, physically and mentally. 

 

Perhaps Tynan is attempting to kiss him. Laurent would not allow it, but there was nothing in the agreement disallowing it. Another flurry of worry comes over him — there was nothing in the agreement about Tynan not harming him, not physically forcing him into this or that. Surely, he would be smart enough not to do so. 

 

Hopefully.

 

Damen is beginning to pace up and down the hallway, wishing, perhaps masochistically, for something other than silence to come from behind the door. He wants an excuse to act, something to think of other than the unknown. His own mind is killing him. 

 

“I cannot do this,” Damen says, mostly to himself. “This is torture.”

 

The soldier does not respond, but pity is plastered on his dutiful face. Damen can see the attempt that he makes at avoiding watching his desperation manifest. 

 

Would Laurent be panicking? Would he be shutting his eyes, sending his mind away to another world where this was not the place he had to end up? Damen is on the verge of losing himself. Would Laurent be slicing at him with his harsh words, or refusing to engage with him at all? 

 

That is when a breathy voice comes from down the hallway, gasping, “Exalted,” as the man it comes from bends double, panting. “There is— You have—”

 

“What is it?” Damen asks the man, who appears to be a servant. He begins to think that he does not have time for this, but he has nothing but time to fill. 

 

“A visitor,” the servant gasps, sweat running down his head. “You have an urgent visitor.”

 

Damen steps closer. “Who?”

 

“Prince Torveld of Patras,” the servant tells him.

 

Damen says, “Take me to him. Now.”

 

Torveld, it turns out, had already been looking for him. They meet in the centre of the palace, their breathing both heavy from exerting themselves to a run. Any chance of formal introduction of royalty is out of the window. Torveld stares at him, says, “King Damianos,” and they wordlessly begin walking back towards the room.

 

“Your nephew,” Damen says as they pace hastily. 

 

“My nephew has overstepped massively,” Torveld says. “There will be no aggravation from Patras. There never would have been. You are right in your anger.”

 

Damen does not comment on how helpful that would have been to know several days prior. 

 

“Move,” Damen demands the soldier. He hesitates, and in a clear mind, Damen might not have blamed him, might have asked him more kindly. He is not in a clear mind. “Move, or you will be moved.”

 

The soldier has a sword and Damen is unarmed. Even still, he does not hesitate now. He moves. 

 

The door is broken off of the hinges. May the Gods have  helped them if they were standing behind it, because it is slammed against the wall so hard that it probably dents the stone. Torveld walks in behind him but Damen does not think of him, Damen is intent on one thing and one thing only. 

 

Laurent’s shirt is unlaced and on the floor at Damen’s feet. His undershirt is a little further on the floor. Across the room, Laurent is laying across the mattress of the man’s bed, on his back with his arms stiff at either side of his body. Damen takes in the scene in front of him, the glisten in Laurent’s distant eyes — now shocked at the intrusion. 

 

Laurent’s trousers are unlaced, but are not off. Tynan is standing above him, in between his open legs. Damen stands in the opening of the door like a bull, huffing breath to and from his nose, sweat-damp hair falling over his forehead. Tynan is frozen in his spot, eyes wide and afraid, half-bent over Laurent’s apprehension-riddled body.

 

Laurent is the one who speaks first into the suddenly full room, and when he does, it is not to Damen. He is looking behind Damen when he says, his voice barely even shaking, “You are woefully late.”

 

Damen’s neck cranes back towards Torveld. He is heftily breathing still, his gaze filled with nothing but melancholy at the sight of the scene before them. Damen’s head whips between the both of them.

 

Damen will inquire later. For now…

 

He moves without realising it, arm outstretched and legs walking forward until Tynan is against the wall, Damen’s hand around his throat, all of the breath knocked out of him in a rush. The man is grasping at his hand, half-naked and humiliated, and Damen wants to kill him. 

 

The rush of it spurs him on, the struggle beneath his grip, the result of a hundred hours of fantasies coming to life. Damen watches the blood vessels in his eyes slowly burst, watches his tongue wag as he gasps for breath. It is satisfying, and it is all too gratifying, until there is a hand at his shoulder pulling him back. 

 

“Damianos,” Torveld is saying, with only a slight urgency in his voice. “Patras will deal with him.”

 

“You told me that I am right in my anger,” Damen growls. 

 

“You are,” Torveld agrees, and Damen is already loosening his grip as the man says, “But my brother will have a slight gripe if I bring our nephew back dead.”

 

Damen drops him, leaving him to Torveld. He turns to the bed, to where Laurent has already begun to lace up his trousers again, his hair disheveled and face sharp. Damen collects his undershirt before rushing to him, handing it to him and falling to one knee at his side.

 

“Are you alright?” Damen asks, holding his hands back from him despite his urge to reach out and check physically, just in case. 

 

“You almost murdered Patran royalty,” Laurent says, pulling his undershirt over his head. “He is worse off.”

 

Damen stares at him, eyes examining his every inch. There is fire in his veins, anxiety in his eyes. The same is for both of them. 

 

“But you…” Damen says. He cannot finish his sentence.

 

Laurent reaches up with both of his nimble hands, and they’re warm when they cup his face. He gazes into Damen’s eyes, and he promises him, “Later.”

 

Damen wants to kiss him, but it is not the time nor the place. He places his hands over his lover’s and holds them tenderly, and when Laurent stands up, he does too. They both stare now at the man on the ground, his face bright red and his neck turning purple. He’s coughing and spluttering, and Torveld is shaking his head at him, murmuring in close Patran.

 

“You should consider yourself lucky that your uncle stopped him,” Laurent tells Tynan. “I would not have been so merciful. You should see what happened to the last presumptuous men who attempted to touch me.” 

 

Damen feels a twinge in his back. 

 

“I have many things that I wish to say to you both,” Torveld says. “And in front of your Council, for witness. But alone, I must say this: He is a disgrace. I cannot overstate the apology that Patras owes you both. Especially yourself, Your Highness.”

 

Laurent nods at him. There is a softness in his eyes when he does so towards Torveld. “You are a good friend, Prince Torveld. You have done us the highest favour. It is us who owes you.”

 

Damen is still attempting to control his breathing, his eyes heavy, unable to stop them from falling on the half-unconscious man on the ground. Damen wants to stomp on him. He wants to pull him up and wrestle him back to the floor again. 

 

In the commotion, a servant or two must have run to the Council, because they are here. They are crowding the doorway, peering upon the chaos, from Laurent’s over-shirt on the ground to the choking royal on the ground, to Damen’s heaving chest and Torveld’s unexplained presence. 

 

“What?” Audin says.

 

Damen glares at them all and suddenly wants to remove himself and Laurent from the room. He wants to avoid this fallout until tomorrow, wants to take Laurent and check him over, every inch of his body in private bowers. 

 

Torveld addresses them. “Tynan’s actions are unforgivable, but I plead on behalf of my brother, the King, for you to excuse Patras. I came as soon as I received Prince Laurent’s message about this matter. We are disgusted by our nephew. No action will be taken against Vere for the voidance of this phony contract.”

 

The Council stands still, speechless. 

 

Torveld sneers at his nephew. “Believe me when I say that if a sanctioned betrothal between Prince Laurent and Patras was made, it would have been an insult to Vere to offer up Tynan.” 

 

Laurent steps forward. His legs, whilst not visibly unsteady, Damen can feel shaking through their brief touch.

 

“Did you really think,” he hisses at Tynan, “That I would not send to check your putrid claims? I was correct the whole time; you are a pitiful relative of the King, clinging on to your stringed lineage. I can see why my uncle would promise me to you: your lowly status would make a laughable marriage for me. He would enjoy that.”

 

Tynan coughs once again, looks up at Laurent through his red eyes. “I don’t care,” he chokes, and spits out a laugh. “Those long minutes were worth it. Don’t you think so?”

 

Laurent’s boot is in the air before Damen can process that it is moving. It connects with Tynan’s forehead, smacking the back of his head hard into the stone behind him. When Laurent’s foot is back on the ground, Tynan’s eyes are closed, his breathing slow. 

 

Torveld simply shakes his head down at his nephew. “Terrible, really,” he says, looking back up at Laurent and Damen. “How he walked into that wall all by himself.”

 

Laurent nods, too tired for a smile. “Quite,” he says, and turns back to the Council. He tells them, “I want you all to personally ensure that Prince Torveld is kept comfortable in his stay here, before he returns with his nephew to Patras.”

 

The Councillors scramble to nod to him, bewildered still at the turn of events. 

 

Laurent picks up his shirt. Torveld tells them, “Do not worry, for we are not staying long. My brother is desperate to get him home.”

 

Laurent nods at him before turning his gaze to Damen wordlessly, and then proceeds to walk out of the rooms, not bothering to see if Damen follows. Of course, he does. 

 

If only the palace weren’t so big, they could be back far quicker. As it is, they make their way in silence, a million questions rising between them. Damen is mostly torn on which to ask first. 

 

The doors to their rooms shut after they pass a visibly distressed and confused Jord and Lazar, the two of them not knowing whether to greet the men or even look at them, Laurent still clad in only his undershirt. 

 

Damen lands, instantly, on, “Are you alright?”

 

Laurent does not fall into a chair and lose his breath. In fact, he does not answer Damen either, but directly addresses the other burning question on his husband’s mind: “I could not tell you that Torveld was coming.” 

 

With a prolonged blink and a shake of his head, Damen raises a hand as if to stop what he is saying. He says, “First, tell me. Are you alright?”

 

“I am fine,” Laurent bites out. “He barely touched me.”

 

Dizziness and tunnel vision take over Damen’s senses. “But he did,” he says, his voice almost a growl, “Touch you.”

 

A moment passes by, and then another. Damen does not ask him again but simply waits until Laurent takes a deep, steadying breath, and says, “Yes, he touched me.”

 

The choking was not enough. He should not have allowed Torveld to pull him away from the ripe throat of the man. He should have kept his fingers wrapped around it, pressed into his windpipe until, in one way or another, he would not speak again. 

 

“It was insignificant,” Laurent tells him, taking a step forward towards him. “He was foolish enough to believe that he could take his time with it.”

 

“And you knew he could not? That is the only reason that you agreed to any of this in the first place?”

 

“I,” Laurent begins, hesitating. “I believed Torveld would come.”

 

Damen says, “You believed.”

 

“The letter that I wrote him found him later than I would have liked. By the time the messenger returned, he said that he was forced to leave the letter with someone who would get it to him as soon as possible, as he had been a few days on a trip and they were not sure of his exact location.” Laurent sighs. “I knew that he would come, I just did not know if he would make it in time. It is why I had to bide myself time, but not so long as to rouse suspicion.”

 

It is Damen who has to sit himself down now. He rests his forehead on his fist, his elbow perched on the armrest, before moving his fingers to his chin instead. “And you could not tell me.”

 

“It is not that I wanted to keep a secret from you,” Laurent says, moving closer to him once again, standing in front of his chair and staring him right in the eye. “It is just that I… I did not want you to get your hopes up.”

 

Damen frowns. “What?”

 

“There was no explicit guarantee that Torveld would make it on time. I did expect him before this evening, but that meant that you would have been, as well. Your anxieties about his ongoing absence would have made this wait worse for you, I know it. The dwindling daylight would be a curse, and it —” Laurent pauses, closes his eyes, and opens them once he has regained his breath. “Expecting the worst and receiving it is better than expecting the best and not.”

 

“That is—” Damen wants to run his hands through his hair, pull some out. This man. “I appreciate that, my love, but that is not for you to decide alone.”

 

Laurent blinks. He does not speak.

 

Damen continues, “We are partners. You must tell me of your schemes.”

 

Looking down now, Laurent shudders out a small laugh. “You forget how much I like my schemes.”

 

The corners of his mouth upturn at that, unable to stop it. “And you forget how much I have enjoyed some of your schemes, as well,” he says. “My favourite was—”

 

“I know which one your favourite was,” Laurent tells him. “I will not be putting in another earring to recreate it.”

 

Damen allows the smile to take over his face, stretching his cheeks, before releasing a long sigh and standing yet again. He takes a step closer to Laurent, reaching out to place a hand on his arm, slowly in case the man wants to step away. He doesn’t. Damen says, “I see now why you were obsessively checking your letters every day.”

 

“Well,” Laurent says. “I did not want to accidentally miss it in case it ended up with the rest of them. It was a lot to look through. I have a lot of—” He places his hand atop of Damen’s, smaller and still shaking slightly. “—Admirers.”

 

Trying not to explicitly show the annoyance on his face as he remembers the insult that is of Tynan’s existence, Damen pushes out the words, “I am all too aware of that fact.”

 

With his other hand, with his gold-covered wrist, Laurent reaches upward to cup Damen’s cheek, thumbing over his jaw, gently silently. 

 

Damen says, “It is I who should be comforting you.”

 

The blond head before him shakes at once, side to side. “I have told you I am fine.”

 

“And I do not believe you for a moment,” he counters, and takes Laurent’s hand to lead him to their bed, sitting them down side by side, fingers intertwined.

 

Laurent settles with his signature pose, one leg bent up in front of him. His posture and expression are practicing a decent attempt at nonchalance, but Damen can see through it like glass. He is blinking too often, his bottom lip occasionally finding itself between his own teeth. Damen knows what to look for; not to pry, but to care. 

 

“You do not have to tell me.”

 

“There is not that much to tell.”

 

Damen feels a splash of relief over him. A deep breath. “Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

“You do not want to tell me, and I trust you when you say that nothing happened.” A squeeze of his hand. “I have told you before, you do not have to talk about—”

 

“No,” Laurent interrupts. “Do not treat it like — It was nothing like that,” he says. “And this has not affected me as that — No.”

 

Damen shuts his mouth. Nods. 

 

Laurent’s palms have grown sweaty. With a shaking breath, he says, “He touched me.”

 

His mouth remains shut. He tries not to betray himself with the bubbling anger rising again, the way that his blood pressure rises to a million. He lets Laurent speak without his needless interruption.

 

“He unlaced my shirts, like he had stated he wanted. He tried to kiss me, and I told him that he would find himself waking up without lips if he dared it. He laughed, and I didn’t, so he conceded.” His face is plain as he speaks, as if listing off something mundane and far away. He continues, “He asked me to take his clothes off and I refused that too, so he pushed me onto the bed and asked me to watch him strip himself.”

 

A lump rises in Damen’s throat and he cannot say definitively if it is for tears or vomit. Still, he sits and listens, suppressing each and every reaction in the same way that he had done when Laurent had first told him the extent of his uncle’s abuse.

 

“He touched himself before he even bothered touching me. When he unlaced my trousers, it seemed more as a means to an end than as a want to actually see my cock. It was odd, I have become so used to you—” He pauses then, stumbles over his words, a redness creeping up into his cheeks that cuts through Damen’s suppressed fury and softens him. Laurent says, “He would not have been a giving lover. He took several handfuls of my behind and that was it. You burst in like an animal just as he began to feverishly palm himself through his breeches. It did not make me distinctly amorous.”

 

Damen waits for a moment to see if that is it, to see if there’s anything else for him to say. When nothing else comes, the breath is knocked out of him, visibly deflating and squeezing his hand with an iron grip. 

 

He whispers, “I am sorry. I am so sorry that I was not there sooner.”

 

Laurent’s head shakes at once. “Torveld was the one who was late, not you.”

 

“I should have done something,” he breathes. “I should have burst in after the Council had announced their satisfaction —”

 

“What, and murdered the guard? He would have supported Tynan in his announcement that the agreement did not come to term.”

 

“The guard,” he says. “I could have.”

 

Laurent squeezes his hand back. “You would not have. We both know that. He did nothing but his job.”

 

It is conflicting for Damen to agree with that. He does not want to accept it, but does, silently. 

 

Laurent tells him, “The weight of the world is not always upon your shoulders.” 

 

Damen releases a huff of a laugh, disagreeing and low. “Coming from you?”

 

Laurent’s face softens and Damen is weak to it, mirroring the expression without even realising it. They gaze at each other. Their fingertips graze over the other’s, the palms and wrists and knuckles. Damen feels each brush of Laurent’s shaved nails, wonders if Laurent can feel each callous on his palm from too many years of holding sword hilts, wonders if he counts them and appreciates them as Damen does for him. Just this touch is enough to fuel Damen for a thousand lifetimes. 

 

“I am still sorry,” Damen murmurs, because he is close enough now to Laurent’s downturned head that he does not need to use the full volume of his voice. “No matter how you planned to get around it or out of it, it should not have happened in the first place. You are so resilient to this reality that you should not have to face.”

 

“It will not last my whole life,” Laurent says with a shrug. “I will age out of their fantasies eventually. And besides this, they do it with you, too.”

 

Brow furrowing, he says, “They do not.”

 

“Spend a day disguised on the streets and see if you do not hear at least ten people mentioning how they wish to be bedded by you.”

 

Damen says nothing for a moment. Then, “You really must stop going out in these disguises. Jord has begged me to speak with you on this matter at least twenty times already.”

 

Laurent laughs then, his hair falling over his forehead, his blue eyes creasing at their corners. He presses himself closer to Damen, pushing down on his hand to allow himself to shuffle over on the bed. The reaction is there at once, Damen turning his body to allow their knees to knock together. His breath catches in his throat. 

 

“For some reason, I am always caught off-guard by your concern,” Laurent says. “Since Auguste… I have conditioned myself to not expect protection.”

 

“I know.” Damen lifts his hand, places a finger beneath Laurent’s chin and tilts his head up. In their shared gaze there is another semblance of understanding and recognition, acceptance of an unmoving but reframed past. There will be this forever, so long as the two of them will live. 

 

And perhaps, along with Damen’s natural aptitude for possessiveness and care, there is something about his brief and tragic meeting with Auguste that has ingrained itself within him. He took from Laurent the last of his protection. It is the least that he can do to ensure that the little brother that has been left behind is safe. 

 

Damen is not sure how Auguste would react to this scene specifically, no matter how Laurent has painted the idyllic scene that could have been if they had been courting properly. They are so close now on the bed, silk sheets folding and creasing under the pressure of their bodies, fingers intertwined and foreheads almost touching. Damen thinks that Auguste would quite like to leave them alone, if he was here.

 

“I appreciate your — I appreciate how strongly you feel about…” Laurent says, his breath coming in too quickly, making him fall over his words. His blue eyes are flicking between Damen’s own and Damen’s lips. “Thank you for this evening.”

 

Damen shakes his head. He is unable to tear his gaze away from the decadence of the face in front of him. “When I was thinking about what he may be doing to you…”

 

Laurent swallows. “Yes?”

 

“It was —” He closes his eyes, just for a moment, unwilling to think again about the man’s lips and hands all over his husband. “— Painful. I could not keep myself under control. I kept thinking about him touching you, about him touching —”

 

“What is yours?” Laurent finishes.

 

“That is not what I was going to say.”

 

“What were you going to say?”

 

Damen swallows. “I don’t know.”

 

Laurent leans in then, presses a light kiss to his lips before pulling away and peering at him, those blue eyes flickering back and forth. Damen can feel the breath from Laurent’s nose on his face, tickling him, his pointed knuckles curling against Damen’s cheeks. In another moment of Damen staying motionless, waiting for Laurent’s movements instead of presuming the direction that this may be headed. 

 

Laurent kisses him again, extending and threading his fingers into the curls of Damen’s hair. Damen feels his eyes flutter shut on instinct, his hands slipping to Laurent’s waist, pressing the pads of his fingers into the barely-covered skin. Laurent, like this, is such a rare sight for when they are not already intimate or sleeping. Little has it occurred when Laurent has been under-dressed and it has not been done by Damen’s hand. He kisses him back, thinking of the clumsy way that Tynan must have unlaced his clothing, unpracticed and uncouth. 

 

Jealousy comes over him in waves even though Laurent is here and in his arms, his lips on his own instead of on Tynan’s. He thinks of Laurent saying that Tynan had helped himself to two handfuls of Laurent’s behind, and he burns even hotter, his head hurting with disbelief. He resists the urge to extend his reach further and stake his own claim, caressing that same place and inadvertently proving Laurent right — What is yours?

 

“You have —” Laurent pulls away, mumbling his words against Damen’s lips. “You have no reason for territorialism. You know that I am yours, and yours alone.”

 

A shuddering breath, and he responds, “Unfortunately, not everybody seems to respect this fact.”

 

Laurent captures his mouth once again, his body seemingly subconsciously gravitating towards Damen and into his lap. His calf nudges against Damen’s knee, teasing the possibility of climbing right on top. The physicality feels like a promise to him, a curse to those of whom Damen speaks. 

 

“I thought,” Damen hums, “That you were not feeling distinctly amorous.”

 

A shudder visibly runs through Laurent’s body as a reply, the inclination towards him heating up. He doesn’t allow Damen’s face to move more than an inch away from his own, their lips in a constant state of brushing, wet and soft. 

 

“I was not,” he tells him firmly. “And then you almost killed him and showed me again how much you care.”

 

Damen laughs against him. “You are the one who booted him into the wall.”

 

At that, Laurent mirrors his smile, “And you liked that?”

 

He nods. “Very much.”

 

Laurent’s fingers curl against Damen’s cheek again, his thumb resting over his lips. He says, “You know, then, how it affects me when you — fight.”

 

“Fight?” Damen repeats, Laurent’s thumb muffling the word.

 

“Or tear metal from walls.”

 

“You are never going to let me live that down.”

 

“Never,” Laurent hums. “I was so ashamed of my reaction to that at the time. It made me—”

 

Damen quirks a brow. “It made you?”

 

“React,” he says, breathy and quiet. Damen grins at this, slipping Laurent’s thumb between his lips. Laurent stares at the way that he envelopes the tip of his thumb, blue eyes widening still as he flicks his tongue over the skin. Laurent’s blue eyes blink at the sight several times, his mouth hanging open with awe. “As I am — Reacting now.”

 

One of his hands slips to Laurent’s hip, and then to the crease between bone and thigh. His eyes don’t avert from Laurent’s gaze as he purses his lips and sucks, nor as he inches his fingers closer to the man’s slowly denting crotch.

 

If Damen’s mouth were not full, he would tell him that he greatly enjoys Laurent’s reactions. As it is, he attempts to portray his pleasure through the look in his eyes in their shared gaze and the movement of his fingers and tongue. At an indistinct point, Laurent moves so that he is finally in Damen’s lap, sitting on one leg. His own are spreading apart under Damen’s approaching touch. 

 

Laurent’s breathing is hard, deep. Damen tongues and tongues until Laurent pulls his thumb out of his mouth and rubs it over his lips, gaze incredibly firm. Damen’s hand falls to Laurent’s inner thigh, the edge of his hand and his little finger rubbing against the slowly growing bulge, pressing up against the hastily re-tied laces covering his crotch. 

 

“He wanted to take you in his mouth,” Damen says, voice hoarse. 

 

Laurent looks drunk. All he does is nod. 

 

Damen begins to unlace the trousers. Laurent lets him, mouth still ajar, hands moving open-palmer over Damen’s neck and head. When Damen is successful in his unlacing, Laurent lifts himself up to assist in shuffling the trousers down his legs, before either of them remember that Laurent is still wearing boots. 

 

“Laces and laces and laces,” Damen mutters, reaching down to undo them. “We should be in Akielos, with plain and simple sandals, and chitons that are taken off at a whim.”

 

Laurent hums, arching his body again, lifting his legs and starting on the other boot. His fingers move better than Damen’s, practiced for more years despite having servants to do it for him. When the boots hit the floor, the trousers are not far behind, leaving Laurent exposed in just his undergarments.

 

“He should be so lucky to get his mouth on you,” Damen says, lifting Laurent off of his knee and spinning them around, dropping Laurent back on the mattress. 

 

“This lucky?” Laurent asks, spreading his legs over Damen’s shoulders as he sets himself between them. 

 

Damen licks his lips, hands pressing into his milky white thighs before sliding them up to his torso, pushing his undershirt up until it bunches at his armpits and shows off his nipples. Damen rests his face against the man’s inner thigh now, peppering small kisses to it and biting small marks as he reaches forwards, slowly fingering the pink buds at his chest. He circles the areolas with his middle fingers, getting them hard, watching with sweet, hot breath each and every reaction falling from his mouth. 

 

He has never quite gotten over the fact that Laurent’s nipples are so sensitive, the fact that rubbing them elicits these light moans, makes his hips thrust up for contact and his head thrown back. Damen wants to get them in his mouth, wants to lick over them and keep them hard, but he is blocked at this angle, Laurent’s legs still over his shoulders. 

 

His head falls then, as his fingers keep at their job, and he begins to mouth at the erection that is still trapped beneath thin fabric. Laurent arches into the sensation, overwhelmed already by the multiple points of pleasure. His breathing is coming in quick, short gasps. Beneath Damen’s mouth, a darkness is forming on the otherwise light fabric. 

 

“Damen,” Laurent pants. “Please.” 

 

He looks up at him through hooded eyes, the scene in front of him rivalling the beauty of even his mother’s gardens in Lentos. But he withdraws his hands from the chest and pushes himself up onto his knees, so that the two of their bodies form the shape of an L. Laurent’s legs are still up and against his body, his ankles on his shoulders instead of the crease of his knees. 

 

He does not need to ask what it is that Laurent is pleading for. He slips his fingers underneath the band of Laurent’s undergarments, wasting not a moment before pulling them down and off, with Laurent having to bend his knees to grant Damen better mobility in taking them off. 

 

“My mouth, was it?” he teases, unable to look at his face as he speaks, his gaze entirely too focused upon the erection that is now exposed. It is strong, laying against the dusting of blond hair at his pelvis. 

 

“Your mouth,” Laurent repeats, breathless. Then, “Unless you are afraid that Tynan would have outdone you.”

 

Damen frowns at that, knowing that it is just to aggravate him, to goad him into doing his best. It works. 

 

He remains up on his knees but slides his hands beneath Laurent’s back, pushing up then until Damen has a face-full of cock, and Laurent is balanced on nothing but the back of his neck and his shoulders. 

 

He listens to the shocked gasp that Laurent makes but does not make a comment on it, because his mouth is suddenly far too preoccupied with pulling the head of Laurent’s cock into his mouth. He swirls around it with his tongue, suckling on just the tip, briefly aware of Laurent beginning to writhe beneath him. He curls his legs around Damen’s head, pulling him in closer and pushing more of himself into Damen’s throat. 

 

Laurent is reaching above himself with both arms, giving himself leverage to keep himself up comfortably. His stomach is contracting with each moan, flexing his abs. Damen does not practice his favourite method of jerking Laurent off as he takes the tip into his mouth, as his hands are too preoccupied in also maintaining this position.

 

He sucks him good and slow, taking his time in the manner that he knows Laurent likes. Already, he can taste the result of his hard work, tonguing the slit and humming in appreciation at the pre-cum beginning to bead out of him. Laurent is gasping and turning, his elation only growing as Damen moves his head up and down, until his nose is against that soft blond hair. He rises up with little haste, then down again, savouring every sensation and reaction in turn. 

 

“Oh,” Laurent says — though his speech is fumbled and breathless. “Oh.”

 

Damen knows these sounds all too well. He knows this build up, the stammers and convulsions falling over him. The legs around his neck are new, and for a moment they choke him, but Damen deals with it because he figures that if it does happen, it would be a truly fantastic way to go. Laurent loses his grip beneath — or above him — or both — and ends up relying on leaning on his shoulders again, his hand flying to Damen’s hair. 

 

He feels the instinct to talk him through the orgasm, but his mouth is beautifully busy, and then Laurent is gasping like a madman and coming hard into Damen’s mouth and down his throat. Damen swallows dutifully, as easily as he would if it had been freshly squeezed juice from a mango. This is his ambrosia now — If it is from Laurent, it is an honour. 

 

Tynan would need a pilgrimage to be worthy of earning this gift. 

 

He pulls off of him with a pop and gently lays his limp body down again, allowing him to comfortably spread out and relax in the aftermath. He is shaking slightly, still reaching out for Damen’s touch, caressing his head. Damen lets him, preens for it, leaning into his hand and coming up over his body. He holds him through his comedown, through the last moans of aftershock. 

 

Laurent kisses him once his pulse has sufficiently slowed. He arches his body up again and Damen is no one to refuse this — he grinds down his own aching erection against the bodily contact, licking into his mouth, Laurent uncaring of where it has just been. 

 

“Mm,” Laurent hums against his lips. “Get your clothes off.”

 

Damen does as he says to the best of his ability whilst continuing to kiss him, unwilling to separate himself from his mouth. His clothing and shoes are a lot less tricky, and so he kicks them off with an impressive ease compared to Laurent’s finicky fashion. 

 

Laurent is somehow equally as breathless when he sees Damen’s cock, standing up proud and thick. Laurent sits up and reaches down to get it in the palm of his hand, wrapping his nimble fingers around him. Damen hisses from the contact and presses his mouth to Laurent’s neck, kissing and sucking his ownership to the light skin there, just in case they come across Tynan again in the next few days. 

 

They had better not.

 

“Laurent,” Damen breathes, capturing his mouth again with haste. Laurent’s hand is driving him out of his mind, and he begins to thrust into it, hips bucking forward.

 

“Do you,” Laurent begins, “Remember what else Tynan asked to do to me?”

 

Damen’s brain takes a moment to catch up with reality. He catches his breath, remembers who he is and where he is, and borderline growls once what Laurent is saying occurs to him. 

 

He moves himself aside and takes hold of Laurent’s hips, flipping him onto his front. Laurent is still partially spent for the moment, not back to full arousal yet but the beginnings are there, visible between his open legs and below Damen’s point of interest. He can’t help but stare, stars in his eyes, saliva in his mouth. His hands naturally drift to his cheeks, his hands seemingly darker now against this skin that has basically never seen the sun. He grabs at them, squeezing just because he can. 

 

He doesn’t wait for Laurent’s go ahead, perhaps a misstep, but the reaction from the man tells him everything he needs to know about proceeding. Damen unintentionally digs his fingernails into the flesh as he spreads it apart, placing his mouth to the opening there. It lewdly feels like coming home, mouthing and licking over it, an act that he hadn’t appreciated in its entirety with any sexual partner before Laurent. 

 

Once again, it’s always Laurent.

 

He’s hard again in almost no time at all, Damen’s mouth bringing him back and making use of his young man’s libido. He’s pushing back against his tongue, his legs spreading apart like a taunt, and Damen has to rush to come to a decision. 

 

“Oil,” Laurent pleads, and the decision is made for him. Clearly, he is too slow. Laurent says again, with some bite, “Oil.”

 

Damen acts as quickly as he can, shaking his head as he retrieves it. “You are the most impatient man I have ever met.”

 

“If you know that for certain, you would do well to get on with — Oh!”

 

Damen pushes in two fingers, down to his knuckles, the other hand steadying Laurent as the shock knocks him forward and off of his hands. He lands on elbows instead, the arch in his back now more pronounced, behind basically presented to Damen. 

 

“Happy?” Damen asks, giving him a moment to adjust to the stretch, wider than his tongue. Not wider than other parts of Damen he has had. 

 

“No,” Laurent gasps. “You know that I’m not. Not yet.”

 

Damen considers this and then begins to pump his fingers in and out of him, watching intently. His cock throbs with anticipation, and his mind rings with the thought: This could’ve been Tynan. 

 

Sweat drips down his forehead and splashes onto Laurent’s lower back. Before Laurent says it — because he knows that it’s coming — Damen slips in a third thick finger, oiled to the nines, ready to stretch and prepare him with care. 

 

Tynan would not have been such a giving lover, Damen thinks. He would have hurt Laurent, would not have given him the care or attention that he deserves. He would have been fast and thoughtless, causing pain even if his cock amounted to no more than a finger’s breadth anyway. A flash of memory, of being in that room, and Damen recalls the imprint in his underclothes: it was certainly nothing impressive. But maybe he’s biased.

 

“He wanted to do this, too,” Damen says, his voice low. “He didn’t want you prepared beforehand. Like a wedding night, he said.”

 

Damen curls his fingers and Laurent cries out, fingers grasping at the silk beneath them. 

 

He says, his voice almost a dazed mumble, “He would have to work very hard to amount to our wedding night.”

 

It’s true. Damen has flashbacks daily. It had been more than a night, in technicality. Their official consummation of their marriage had gone on until the sun rose the next morning, punctuated then by a long sleep, and then another several hours going all over again. It had been soft and rough, sweet and wild. Damen had not been left wanting for anything, and had made sure that the same was for Laurent.

 

Damen continues fingering him until he is little more than a pleading mess, leaning his forehead on his forearm, legs shaking to keep himself up. He keeps going until he and his cock are as desperate as Laurent is, until he thinks he might explode if he doesn’t get inside him at once. 

 

“I’m—” Damen pants, withdrawing his fingers and scooping more oil, drizzling it onto his erection, stroking it in earnest. “Can I—” 

 

“Please,” Laurent hums. 

 

Damen wastes no time, taking hold of his lover by his waist with his clean hand and flipping him over onto his back. He is a firm believer in the fact that there is no bad view when making love to Laurent, but no better view than one that is clear of his face, and all of its beauty in twitches and gasps. 

 

Laurent allows the movement, used to his husband manhandling him by this point. To his credit, he waits patiently and actually doesn’t complain as Damen takes the time to reach over and gather one cushion to place underneath his husband’s lower back, and another for underneath his head. He lays now comfortably, his legs strewn apart, cock dribbling over his navel attractively. He almost looks like he should be folding his arms and pouting, for how much he appears to want to tell Damen to hurry up, again. 

 

Damen lines himself up, slipping the head over the crease of his arse multiple times, but at least it means that he is sufficiently lubricated. When he pushes in, it is for the hundredth time a bliss that he has somehow never known, each breach into the man he loves better than the last time. Laurent’s reaction is almost that of a squeak, and Damen pushes in slowly, stopping only when he is halfway entered.

 

He reaches down, takes ahold of Laurent’s hand above its golden accessory, and kisses it. He asks, “Are you alright?”

 

It is with heavy breath that Laurent answers, “Yes. Further.”

 

Another kiss to his fingers. “Are you sure?”

 

Laurent’s brow, glistening in the yellow candlelight with sweat, furrows. “Do not mistake yourself with Lord Tynan,” Laurent tells him. “I have told you yes, I have opened my legs, so make love to me —” He stops, smirks, because he is cruel, even though Damen loves him regardless, and he says, “— Or else bring him to finish what he came here to do.”

 

He is not serious, and the both of them know that. It is another jab and barb at Damen that gets his blood pumping, and the two of them know that, too. It is beyond reason and reality that Laurent would ever follow through on that request, and yet the teasing, defiant glint in his eye does — unreasonably — get Damen going. 

 

Though, as aforementioned, everything about Laurent gets Damen going. 

 

In one quick motion, Damen bottoms out, his hip bones flush against the soft flesh of Laurent’s rear. Tightness and heat envelope him entirely and it is the height of pleasure, worth ten palaces and two countries. At least. 

 

He takes a long moment to catch his breath and watch Laurent’s reaction beneath him, head thrown back and chest heaving, fingers twisted in bedsheets. He allows his hands to trail over shaking thighs and down to his torso, skirting his fingertips over the pink hardness laying on pale skin before trailing them everywhere else. He places a feather touch over every patch of skin that he can see, making Laurent twitch and preen. He lingers over pre-existing love bites and then his nipples, teasing them again because he knows what it will do to the man, and he loves it.

 

Laurent demands, “Move.”

 

It takes everything in Damen’s body not to do as he says, sacrificing his own pleasure for an exchanged power-play right back at him. He says, “Is that what Tynan would do?”

 

Laurent stares at him through a lidded gaze, chest rising and falling, an indecipherable mind. He tells him, “Probably. And probably more efficiently, too.”

 

“You don’t want efficiency,” Damen says, drawing his hips back in a long movement before slowly pushing himself back in, holding back from his instinct of snapping his hips forward. He allows himself to plunge inside, inch by leisurely, unhurried inch, until he’s back buried once again. 

 

Laurent is panting, mouth wide to allow for the air to pass through his lips freely. His hair is strewn about it haphazardly beneath him, against the pretty silk that doesn’t hold a candle to him. His pupils are blown wide with pleasure, his eyes unmoving from scaling Damen’s body; his face, his chest, his arms (Laurent does spend a lot of time looking at his arms, unaware that Damen noticed this a long time ago), to his hands and eventually where they hold Laurent’s thighs, and lower. The section of them where their bodies join as one is perhaps the most lewdly beautiful thing that Damen has ever seen, and the pillow beneath Laurent’s back gives the other man a better chance and angle at watching it, too. As for Damen, he is unduly lucky, getting to watch both Laurent’s cock react with each movement, his balls drawing up and contracting at the sensations of pleasure, and the way that his own cock is swallowed by the paradise-adjacent opening there, narrow and hugging and so fucking hot. 

 

Damen moves again, drawing himself out at a deliberately moderate pace before pushing himself back inside. He waits for Laurent’s quiet gasps to pass as he stills himself again, and then he speaks once more. He says, his voice shaking with the rough inclination of pleasure, “Tynan doesn’t know what you like, does he?”

 

Not yet at the point of giving in, catching his lip between his teeth and debating how much of a bitch he wants to be, Laurent tenses his body, squeezing around Damen’s head, and says, “Why? What would Tynan do?”

 

Damen is not stupid. He knows why Laurent is asking of him — what Laurent is selflessly asking of him. Laurent likes it slow but he knows what Damen likes, knows what Damen’s every instinct begs him to do as soon as he’s inside of him. That is not to say that Damen does not enjoy himself, only that he must fight back against his nature to ensure Laurent has the best experience that he can — and that is more important to Damen than any of his own needs. 

 

He supposes that this sentiment is opposed in Laurent — caring little about himself now, and offering to give Damen the best that he can, too. Their love-making is often like this, these days, the both of them striving to give the other what they desire. 

 

Laurent looks at him with eyes filled with determination. Damen pulls out in one long, slow movement, the sudden cold hitting him hard. “Tynan,” he tells him, “Would be thoughtless. Tynan wouldn’t care about your inclinations.”

 

Laurent continues to gaze at him, a question and a challenge in his eyes. He wants it.

 

“He’d—” Damen says, as he grabs himself and repositions, pushing his head past the tight ring once again. “—Fast. Hard.”

 

His sentences are not sentences, his mind, as usual when it comes to facing Laurent, clouded with lust and compromised. Damen takes in the heat in Laurent’s expression and knows that there is no need to worry. He wants it. 

 

“Fast,” he repeats, and his hands settle upon Laurent’s hips, giving him an advantage. “Hard.”

 

Laurent is daring him, finger slipping down his collarbone and over some of the previous marks made by Damen’s own mouth. Further, then, rubbing a ring around his nipple. He is coaxing him. 

 

“Fine,” he murmurs, giving in because it’s Laurent. “Fast and hard.”

 

He snaps his hips forward and it is bliss, Laurent’s body physically reacting at once, contorting with surprise. Damen waits for a moment, is about to ask how he is, if he is okay, but Laurent glares at him and he knows not to push it. So he continues, snapping back and then forth again, using his grip on Laurent’s hips to keep him in place against his slowly quickening thrusts. 

 

It consumes him, body and mind. He fucks into Laurent with a distracted but steady pace, half of his mind still preoccupied, waiting for the moment that Laurent might tell him to stop or slow down. Otherwise, he watches the way that Laurent bounces off of his hips, watches the way that his cock pumps in and out of him, mesmerised. 

 

“Laurent,” he breathes. He is secure then in his one-handed grip on his hip, and uses his other hand to reach forward and interlace their fingers, holding his hand. 

 

Laurent’s eyes are hooded, hair ruffling and knotting with each time his head springs against the sheets. He takes hold of Damen’s hand desperately, clinging to him with both of his own hands, set against his chest. Damen continues his thrusts, fast and hard as requested, the intimacy of the hand holding coupling to make a haze that Damen cannot fathom — he feels drunk; he feels like the luckiest man alive.

 

He cannot help it, then. Fixing his position on his knees, he utilises his one-handed grip on Laurent and lifts him with ease until their chests are against one another, separated by only their joint hands. Their faces are a hair’s breadth away from one another, and now Laurent sits up on his lap, cock still firmly inside of him. 

 

This new position makes Damen grunt, and he’s fucking upwards now into him, his still one-handed grip lifting Laurent and lowering him in tandem with his hips’ own rhythm. Now, he can see every micro-expression in Laurent’s face, every glint in his pleasure-clouded eyes, each tooth-dent in his plumped bottom lip. Damen’s pace is not slowed or dampened by the change of position or the heavy examination of Laurent’s features, but in fact exacerbated, driving him into a half-frenzy. 

 

“This good?” Damen asks, a whisper into Laurent’s ear, the blond strands tickling his nose. 

 

“Mm— Mmf—” Laurent mumbles, head almost falling back, fingers digging into the back of Damen’s hand. “Yes— Y—”

 

Damen, against all of his instincts, stops moving. Laurent looks up, confused, but says nothing. He doesn’t need to ask, the question already written on his face. Damen takes a moment to catch his breath. Then, “You prefer it slow.”

 

Laurent gazes at him. “I was— Trying—”

 

Damen shakes his head. “You prefer it slow.”

 

Laurent does not attempt to catch his breath before Damen resumes his thrusts, this time slow and purposeful, drawn out and long. A whimper is drawn from him and he scrambles, letting go of Damen’s hand to throw his arms around the man’s broad shoulders, his face falling to his chest. 

 

Damen uses the newly freed again hand to get himself two handfuls of his arse, using it as leverage to slowly pump into him, hearts beating hard against one another. At this angle, Laurent’s cock is trapped between the two of them, friction rubbing against it, making Laurent’s breath speed up.

 

“Oh—” Laurent gasps, hot against Damen’s sweat-slicked skin. “I — Damen, Damen.”

 

“This is better,” Damen whispers, watching Laurent come apart, watching his whole body react, twisting. “You’re so beautiful.”

 

Laurent moans in response, lurching his hips forward to push his hardness against Damen’s lower torso again. Damen pulls him in and tries to remain forward enough that the contact is constant, but each thrust has him leaning backwards, a conundrum. 

 

“I—” Laurent breathes, and then one of his hands is leaving Damen’s shoulder and instead slipping down between the two of their bodies.

 

This has been a somewhat new development for them. Laurent had never before wanted to be in control of his own pleasure — had never enjoyed being aroused or entertained it, had certainly avoided orgasm at every chance that he had. 

 

But Laurent now takes himself in his hand, too overcome with Damen’s presence, Damen’s touch. He is beginning to enjoy himself, a long journey but a sweet one, learning that he deserves pleasure also. 

 

He jumps at his own touch, his hardness still sensitive from his recent orgasm anyway. Damen rolls into him at a deep and unmeasured pace, mouth hanging open with arousal, sweet adoration in his eyes. Laurent is struggling to process the onslaught of pleasure coming from both ends, his fingers hesitating around himself as Damen pushes into him and — judging by the look on his face — manages to hit that sweet spot each and every time. 

 

“I— Much longer,” Laurent mutters, cohesion lost to his speech a long time ago. He jerks himself slowly and Damen just watches, transfixed and desperate to not come at just the sight of this. He wants Laurent to bring himself off first, with the sensation of Damen full and still fucking into him, but the sight is getting almost too much —

 

Laurent tenses then, and Damen knows that it is coming. He pushes through the mental barriers and manages to keep going, even to his own hand, and then he’s there, spilling over his fingers and pressing his hot-wet forehead to Damen’s shoulder. Through his orgasm, he twitches, squeezing around Damen perhaps subconsciously, or perhaps to coax him, he’s not sure — but it works. Coupled with the sound and knowledge of Laurent’s climax, it is not difficult for Damen to find himself soon after doing the same, pumping himself and his come deep inside Laurent’s body. 

 

Tynan had wanted to do that, too.

 

He does not remove himself immediately, but just holds the man against him. They are sticky and in immediate need of the baths, but it can wait. Laurent is limp against him, and most likely won’t be able to move for many moments yet, anyway. 

 

When their heartbeats have slowed against one another, Laurent speaks again, once more finally coherent. He does not look up at Damen as he says it, but pulls himself somehow even closer, every inch of his body against that of his lover’s. 

 

He says, “Not as good as our wedding night, but still far better than what Lord Tynan could have done, I imagine.”

 

Damen laughs, wrapping his arms around him, holding him tight at his chest.

 

*

 

They are clean and presentable the next morning, when they appear to again thank and give their formal farewells to Prince Torveld. The Council are present also, as well as Tynan — who is sporting two black eyes, a bruised nose, and an impressively red and purple ring around his throat. He does not make eye contact with Laurent or Damen and keeps his head down, even as the Council whisper their disapproval for his actions right in front of him. 

 

Damen and Laurent embrace Torveld, pleasantries and genuine apologies and thanks shared between them. He tells them that Erasmus sends his well wishes and is faring brilliantly, his Patran almost better than his own nowadays. Damen announces that they shall arrange a visit to Patras in the months after Laurent’s coronation, as soon as is possible for them to come. 

 

When they are facing the back of the Patran party, waving them off and away from the palace, Laurent turns to him.

 

“Not too soon, I hope,” he mutters, so that the Council cannot hear him. “I expect first a month of celebrations.” And Damen nods, because that is what tends to happen. 

 

It is not until Laurent leans in closer still and whispers, “Perhaps enough to rival our wedding night…?” That Damen understands the implication. 

 

When the Patran party are over the horizon, Damen leans down, his lips nudging his ear. He says, “I had better get my practice in, then.”

 

They retreat from the viewing balcony in laughter and touches, leaving the Council to stand agawk.

 

“I still cannot get used to the Prince acting so…” Jeurre says to the group. “I do not have the word.”

 

Herode smiles, still looking after them. “I believe that the word you are looking for,” he says, “Is happy. And may the Gods help anyone like Lord Tynan who tries to interfere with that again.”

 

He leaves them then, in mumbles and gossip about the strength of the Akielon King. Herode thinks of the many years of despair that the Prince has suffered through. If the King of Akielos is the cure to that, he ponders, then he can be as indecent, as strong, and as Akielon as he so wishes. 

Notes:

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