Work Text:
“Look me in the fucking eyes, princeling.”
Oriand couldn’t remember anymore what lead to this.
“That’s right, got your antlers,”
What possessed him to, in the quiet and dim grey of night, slip into Dunwick’s room and finally taste him.
“You can stay just like that.”
And, when Dunwick didn’t wake through a shuddering orgasm that first night, what in the gods’ names had possessed him to keep coming back.
“Now, how many— unff—”
Maybe it was the look on the much larger man’s sleeping face as he had finished in Oriand’s mouth each time.
“How many nights have— hhhhhhhhhf—”
Maybe it was the taste of him still on Oriand’s tongue the next morning, when he made eye contact with Dunwick over their breakfast.
“Have you been— hng— sucking me— grrh—”
It didn’t matter.
“Sucking me off, you fuuuuuuucking royal brat?”
Oriand’s eyes rolled back in his head with that last blissfully, painfully slow thrust. Dunwick’s hand, large enough that he could grip Oriand’s head with his antlers braced between his fingers, gave Ori’s head a little shake.
“No, no, princeling, open your eyes.”
Dunwick stopped moving, buried inside him. Oriand’s knees were pressed up to either side of his head, his hands pinned beneath his own back. Dunwick’s weight kept his hips still, and a large hand now wrapped around his throat.
“What did I fucking say?”
The prince struggled in place as he forced his eyes open again, meeting Dunwick’s gaze with a wild, almost feral need.
“Good boy,” Dunwick grunted. “I’ll ask one more time.”
His hips pulled back slowly until just the tip of him remained inside Oriand, then snapped forward to punctuate each snarled word.
“How— many— times?”
“Six!” Oriand gasped. It was all he could do to keep his eyes on Dunwick’s. A cruel grin spread over Dunwick’s face as he stilled again.
“Six,” he echoed, mockingly.
Ori whined as he felt his face flush deep red.
“Six times. No wonder my sheets got sticky so fast.”
Oriand tried to hide, tried to pull his arms from beneath his and Dunwick’s weight, to turn his face away. Dunwick’s hold on him was unforgiving. That large, warm hand slid up Ori’s neck until it was gripping his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Dunwick spit onto Oriand’s tongue.
“Swallow.”
The Crown Prince did as he was told. The responding laugh was cold.
“Look at that. So good at following orders. But you’re still thinking for yourself, aren’t you, princeling?”
Dunwick rolled his hips again, just once, but it was slow, calculated, and his cock dragged against that most intimate of places inside Oriand. The resulting noise that tore loose from Ori’s throat was nothing short of humiliating. Dunwick was laughing at him again, but he was losing control almost as quickly as his prey. He allowed himself another ruthlessly slow thrust.
“There it is. That emptiness behind your eyes.”
Ori tried to think, to focus his now bleary eyes on the man above him. A sharp slap across his face ended that before it really began.
“Thaaaaat’s it, stop thinking and let me do what I want with you. You’re nothing more than a toy, hm?”
A tear slipped free and dragged a watery line down Oriand’s cheek. Dunwick’s vision narrowed to it, to Oriand’s desperate whimpering, to the way his jawbone felt under flesh and blood in Dunwick’s hand, to the wet tongue pushed forward in Ori’s mouth as though he were about to pant like a dog.
“No, not just a toy,” Dunwick amended, watching intently as another tear slid down Oriand’s face.
Another whine from Oriand’s lips, a little drool escaping the corner of his mouth, and Dunwick lost control. He released Ori’s jaw and instead grabbed him under both knees, pressing them back into the mattress on either side of Oriand’s head, and rammed himself so deep into the little prince that he could see his outline in Ori’s stomach if he looked. As it was, he was still watching him cry.
“A puppet,” Dunwick snarled as Oriand’s cunt spasmed around him. “A wooden fucking marionette. Letting me— hhrrrgh— pull your strings—”
Dunwick released Oriand’s legs and gave his little antlers a tug for emphasis. Oriand gasped, tears flowing freely now, and Dunwick could feel him trying to lift his hips to meet each thrust.
“Letting me fuck you— hfff— like this is all you’re made for— nnnggg— like you could resist even if you wanted to—”
Oriand’s orgasm hit him without warning. He shuddered and cried out and fought it, but it was far too late. His back arched painfully as he spasmed around Dunwick. As soon as he realized what was happening, Dunwick dropped a hand down to rub quick, harsh circles into Oriand’s clit. Ori sobbed in response, all that pleasure turning painful all at once, but Dunwick was relentless.
“Letting me fuck you stupid, letting me use you, letting me rip as much pleasure as I want from you, because gods know you took what you wanted from me.”
Oriand had nowhere to go, but still he writhed under Dunwick’s attentions. His hands tore at the sheets beneath him as he came again and Dunwick cursed under his breath.
“So fucking tight, princeling, even tighter when you come—”
Another desperate pull and Ori’s left arm came free. He pushed at Dunwick’s chest to no use; the man was a wall of chain mail and muscle. Dunwick seized his wrist and forced it up over Ori’s head, pinning it there.
“Not getting away that easy, Your Royal Marionette.”
He pulled Oriand’s other arm free and brought it up to join the first. Both delicate wrists fit a little too perfectly into one of Dunwick’s hands, and he took a moment of stillness to appreciate just how fucking small Oriand was beneath him. He could still see his length buried in the prince’s guts, bulging through his stomach. Oriand’s skin was pale and soft and unmarked but for two symmetrical scars on either side of his chest, still a little pink as though freshly healed. His now-free hand traced light touches over those scars. Another sob from Oriand, this one softer, more raw. Dunwick glanced up to his eyes, searching. He flattened his palm in the centre of Ori’s chest to feel it rise and fall.
“Take a breath.”
Oriand did.
“Slower. Savour it.”
The prince obeyed.
“Another.”
Dunwick’s toy did as he was told.
“One more.”
The Royal Marionette did as it was told.
“I am going to wring four more orgasms out of you, puppet. One for every orgasm you stole from me while I slept.”
The Royal Marionette opened its mouth. Dunwick stuffed two fingers into it before the toy could say… whatever it was about to say. He pressed its tongue down, making it gag.
“No, puppet. You don’t get a say. Marionettes don’t have opinions. They just… dance.”
Dunwick began a brutal pace, fucking his toy’s mouth with his fingers at the same time as he fucked its cunt with his cock. The toy made pathetic sounds of protest, but its hips were rolling up to meet his.
It didn’t take long before the Royal Marionette was coming undone around him again. Dunwick didn’t slow, didn’t pause. He was getting close, too, and the toy was making such beautiful, pitiful sounds that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. He let go of the Marionette’s wrists so he could grip its skull again, holding it in place as he brought his other hand down to slap its clit once, twice—
The Royal Marionette came a fourth time as its clit was slapped, a gurgling sound rising from its throat, and that was finally enough to push Dunwick over the edge. He growled into his toy’s ear as he filled its hot cunt to overflowing and pulled away long enough to admire the mess, to let the puppet catch its breath and to let the sight of the Crown Prince reduced to this fucked-out thing beneath him engrain itself into his memory.
Finally, Dunwick dragged his fingers over the Royal Marionette’s clit, testing. It sobbed, but its hips still tried, uselessly, to meet his touch. Dunwick laughed, voice low and dangerous.
“Two more, puppet.”
It shook its head. “Ca-can’t—” Its voice was hoarse.
“You can.” Dunwick pulled out ever-so-slowly, watching his load gush from the toy’s royal cunt.
“Ple-ease, please, I need—”
“Oh, silly little puppet, it doesn’t matter what you need.”
His eyes glinted wickedly as the toy clenched around nothing.
“What matters is what your puppet master needs.”
He lined up, his tip just barely prodding at the Marionette’s entrance.
“And what I need, my Royal Fleshlight,” he growled, “is two more of your. fucking. orgasms.”
And he pushed his full length back into the puppet's perfect, pretty pussy.
Much later, Dunwick let his arms finally give out, and he dropped onto the bed next to Oriand. Ori stayed where he was, blurry eyes readjusting to the flickering candlelight. After a moment of silence, Dunwick propped himself up on one elbow to look at the prince.
“Oriand,” he said, voice low, careful.
Ori blinked hard and his eyes drifted to meet Dunwick’s.
“You with me?”
A nod, slow, unsure. Dunwick reached for the water flask he kept on his bedside table and slid his free hand under Oriand’s shoulder blades to help him sit up.
“Drink.”
Oriand took the flask with trembling hands and drank.
“I’ll clean us up and—”
The prince cut him off with a raised hand. He touched thumb and middle finger together on one hand, said a word in Infernal, and snapped. The familiar, wet-dirt smell of Prestidigitation settled over them, and the mess melted away.
“Right,” Dunwick gave a soft laugh. “Forgot you could do that.”
Oriand was still and quiet. Dunwick’s stomach tightened.
“Oriand. Look at me.” The prince’s eyes were still distant. “Let me… Can I hold you, princeling?”
That got his attention. Oriand sat up a little straighter and his pupils shrank in to focus.
“You… what?”
“Can I hold you?”
Oriand’s eyes narrowed suspiciously for just a moment; then his expression settled into shy agreement.
“Yes, I… I’d like that.”
They shifted carefully, as though moving across eggshells. Dunwick leaned back against the headboard with pillows squashed behind him and, with a little help, removed his chain shirt. Oriand slowly, hesitatingly, settled between Dunwick’s legs, with both his legs slung over one of Dunwick’s and his head resting on Dunwick’s chest. Dunwick wrapped his huge arms around Oriand’s torso, and they sat in comfortable silence for a long time.
“That was intense, I know,” Dunwick began, finally. Ori nodded. “Was it… did I hurt you?”
“Not any more than I wanted.” Ori admitted, burning face half-buried in Dunwick’s chest. Something prideful was rising in Dunwick at the fucked-out sound of Oriand’s voice and the feeling of Oriand’s small hands on his skin.
“Did I do anything you didn’t want?”
“That is a harder question to answer than one might think,” Ori said. He crooked his head back to look at Dunwick, his vision clear now. “You did things, called me things that, any other day, would have cost you dearly.”
“But not today?” Dunwick couldn’t stop the slow grin spreading over his face.
“Not today,” Ori agreed. “There were a few moments there where I… I don’t have a good word for this. Lost myself, I suppose? But not in a bad way.”
“Sub space,” Dunwick supplied. “You went into sub space. Have you never felt that before?”
“I have never felt a lot of the things I felt tonight before now.” Oriand sighed. “I am… painfully inexperienced.”
“And how are you feeling now?” Dunwick asked, tentative.
“Strange.” The prince became pensive. “At first, when we finished, I felt wrong. Like I got lost in the— what did you call it, sub space?” At Dunwick’s nod, he continued. “That headspace was so good, and then we were done and it was like I was still floating and I couldn’t grab hold of anything solid. And then there was your voice and your… solidness, I suppose. Like a beacon. And now I am more myself.”
“That’s good.” The solid mass of heat and muscle closed in a little more around Oriand. “Can I ask a few more specific questions?”
“A few. I am… losing the energy to speak.”
“We can talk about it in the morning some more if we need to, but I want to be clear on some of what happened tonight.” Dunwick paused. When there was no objection, he spoke again. “I slapped you.”
“In multiple places. Multiple times, if I am recalling correctly.”
“Yes, yes. That was all— good?”
“It was all good.” There was a smile in Oriand’s voice now, giving Dunwick the confidence to keep going.
“I pulled on your antlers—”
“You have to ask?” Ori sat a little straighter in Dunwick’s arms. “Did you not… that was what made me cum the first time.” At Dunwick’s wild, prideful grin, Ori smacked his cheek. “Going to have to work hard to knock that ego back out of you, am I?”
“Oh, there’s no going back on that one, princeling. I got six orgasms out of you, I’m going to be floating on that high for a couple tendays at least.”
Oriand rolled his eyes and settled back into the cuddle.
“You have more questions?”
“Yes, thank you princeling. I called you some interesting names, you seemed to like them but I want to make sure. Puppet and toy, good?”
“Good,” Ori nodded.
“Marionette. Your Royal Marionette. Good?”
“Very good.”
“Royal Fleshlight?”
“Good.”
“Good.” Dunwick paused. “I touched your scars, and you had an… interesting reaction.”
Ori’s hand came up and hovered over the scars in question.
“They are still somewhat sensitive. I had the procedure done less than a tenday before I came here.”
“Did it hurt?”
Oriand hesitated. “It was a surgical procedure.”
“No, I meant— wait, it hurt to have it done?”
“There are limits to the amount of pain control that can be applied by a sorceress and a palace physician. Especially when the subject must remain conscious and maintain concentration.”
“Why would you… I’m clearly missing a greater context here.”
“I would rather not discuss it further, if I am honest. The whole ordeal was rather unpleasant.”
“Fair enough.” Dunwick took a pause to absorb this new information. “Right, so… the scars. Did it hurt, when I touched them?”
“No.” Oriand’s face was red again. “I… liked it more than I would care to admit. When you put your hand on my chest like that, it made me feel more secure. I needed that moment, those breaths and the time to recognize where we were going. One more question, and then I am going to pass out.”
Dunwick nodded. “Only got the one left for now, anyways. How was I?”
Oriand faced him again, and rested one hand on Dunwick’s cheek.
“You were perfect,” he breathed. “I would not change a thing that happened between us tonight. Not one second of it.”
Dunwick placed one of his hands atop Ori’s.
“May I ask one last question after all, Your Highness?”
“I would smite you for it, but you called me Your Highness, so ask.”
“Could we… do this again?”