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In the black of night, Clive kneels before the Ducal Throne.
“Yes, Your Grace? You summoned me?” He gazes up to the Archduke of Rosaria, the man he has given himself to, and would do so again in a heartbeat.
It suits his brother in all the ways he knew it would. There he sits the throne he was born to with legs crossed demurely, looking down at Clive through downy lashes, his cheek resting on his knuckles. Yes, that is where he is meant to be, and this is where Clive is meant for, knelt in deference.
Joshua is already good at this. So much is laid on his shoulders, and yet he rises to the task. On his seventeenth name-day and coronation their father had put in his hands all his lofty expectations of Joshua’s rule, enough to make his brother balk and shrink in on himself, and yet he is making his father’s dreams a reality. Clive is so very proud, and so very in love, and everyday he makes sure his brother knows he need not bear these burdens alone.
There was a beat where Clive thought perhaps he wouldn’t respond, until Joshua raises his hand and crooks a finger towards him, beckoning him closer. Clive obeys, subservient always.
He kneels at his brother’s feet, the stone floor cool against his fist. “Do you have need of me?”
“I always have need of you,” Joshua says, with sincerity.
Clive smiles, to himself. One could mistake that entirely for sweet sentiment, but he also sees the heat in his brother’s eyes. He has a feeling of his needs, but he should—he is well versed in taking care of them.
“What do you need?” Again, Joshua crooks a finger at him, and Clive obeys.
His rising confidence makes Clive’s chest ache with fondness. His brother was no longer the shy boy, but a grown man, a born leader, despite his hesitations. Clive knew that nervousness gnawed at him, to be Archduke and sit the throne, but to Clive that made him all the more sure that Joshua was meant for this. Many men would let their pride take them, but not Joshua. Yes, he thinks, his chest tight and warm and fond. You are born for this, and you are going to be incredible.
Rule suited him perfectly, looking even elegant and lordly despite the fact he was in naught but Clive’s shirt and wore no breeches. They had been just getting to it in Clive’s room, after all, when his little brother had a devious idea, so of course he didn’t have on his full regalia.
With his unwieldy, gangly height, Clive’s shirt barely dips low enough to cover his sex, though the rest of the material still hangs loosely on his thin frame. It always made Clive so pleased to see him in his clothes for a reason he couldn’t quite place, and Joshua knew it, taking them so often Clive had to go looking for his own clothing.
Clive moves in as he was beckoned to, a knee between his brothers spread legs and his hands cupping his cheeks, licking the taste of chewed mint from Joshua's mouth. Joshua moans low, his fingers in the fabric of Clive’s tunic and pulls Clive nearly on top of him, like he wants to be smothered with his weight. Clive licks into Joshua’s mouth without breaking away for so long, in the way he knows Joshua likes, when he’s starved for air and dizzy with Clive. He gives his brother a reprieve, a thumb to his chin and his eyes on his red, slick mouth. A string of saliva still connects them.
“I want you,” Joshua says, blunt and with heat.
“You have me, Brother.” Perhaps that was an understatement. He owned him, Clive thought happily, blissfully. There was a great pleasure in knowing your place in the world, and though he served, Clive felt a king—to be able to kneel in deference to his brother, to always be by his side and shield him from harm, forever—in this, there was no greater satisfaction in the world. In a firm but gentle hand, Joshua held his leash.
“No,” Joshua murmurs, and his fingers find their way to Clive’s breeches, trailing the hard outline of his brother’s cock before they find their way to his laces. “I want you.”
Clive laughs, and pulls his face away in feigned hurt. “Oh? Am I naught but a cock to you?” How he had fallen—so many titles he held, each more prestigious than the last, his life spent laboring to be the Shield his brother deserved—only to find he preferred his sword.
Joshua pulls Clive back to him with a hand to his chin, stroking his stubble. “Of course not, not just a cock. You have such lovely hands as well—and that mouth.” Joshua moans, shamelessly, heedless of anyone who could hear, and pulls Clive’s lower lip into his mouth to suck. Clive could have sighed—really, this was his fault.
He had started too early, and spoiled Joshua too much. Spoiled rotten his brother was, content to lie back as pleasure was inevitably given to him, as was his right.
Clive found he did not mind.
“Oh, of course, Your Grace. I live to serve.”
As Joshua undoes his breeches, Clive treats himself to a fistful of golden curls, gently carding his fingers through the waves before tilting his brother’s head back by his hair. Joshua’s breath stutters, and his fingers slow, as Clive sets to proving his affection with marks, purple and deep, blooming on the pale, translucent skin of his neck. Joshua’s hands still entirely, and come to rest on Clive’s chest, digging into his tunic as he is lavished, tasted. His lashes flutter, and Clive bites down on his pulse, to feel it quicken.
He pecks up Joshua’s neck to journey back to his lips, all the while smoothing his hands up under his own shirt adorning his brother. Clive feels Joshua’s shiver as his roughened palms brush his ribs, and his hands come to rest at his chest, thumbs to each pert nipple—probably already erect from the chill in the air, honestly. There were no braziers lit, leaving the throne room cold and damp, not terribly enticing. But Joshua’s whisper to him as they lay entangled in bed had been too tempting to pass up— “Fuck me on my throne.”
He rubs each nipple in circles, from the areola to the peak, knowing from memory how they would redden from his ministrations, and Joshua breathes out a soft sound. Clive pulls up his shirt from Joshua’s hips, to see for himself, leaving his brother on his throne bare, chest heaving and eyes half-lidded. He was debauched and yet regal, the countenance of a king—Clive’s own king, and Clive wished to serve. He’d prove his allegiance again and again, would subjugate himself so low if it brought Joshua all the higher.
Clive steps back, and lowers himself at his brother’s feet once again, a comfortable kneel. Like this, looking up to Joshua, Clive feels a pleasant buzz of pleasure in the back of his mind, and marvels at the feast laid before him—his brother’s legs spread, his cheeks so red and curls tousled, and his pretty pink length curving along his thigh. Joshua scoots a bit further forward on the throne, expectant, and reaches both hands out.
Clive obliges, and fingers thread through his hair as he lowers himself onto his brother’s cock, a practiced motion, a most divine one. Joshua sighs and his hips twitch upwards at the mouth laving at his cockhead, but Clive steadies him with hands to his lithe hips. Clive sucks out a drip of precum, emitting a blithe hum at the taste, and looks up through his lashes to his brother, but Joshua’s eyes are closed, and his breaths are coming in faster.
He takes his brother in deeper, and with every bob of his head Clive earns a breathy moan, a sweet reward for his service, and Clive desires more recognition. He takes Joshua to the hilt, and he feels the legs caging his head on either side of him tremble. Joshua’s pants become more rapid, his gasps higher, quicker, and then he is pulling Clive off him, a wet sound audible as Clive pops off his cock.
“Take me,” Joshua orders, panting it like a prayer, “Take me, take me.” Hadn’t he already? Clive did last night, and he did this morning, he did as he must have done a thousand times before. He’s taken him when ordered too, and when not. Eight years he has spent trying to sate his brother’s lust, ever since Clive took what didn’t belong to him but was so oh-so gladly given. But Clive had given all of himself to Joshua, and if he needed his cock, who was he to deny his liege lord, his god, his baby brother?
“How do you want me?” Clive asks his master, licking one more stripe up his length before disconnecting, a thin strand of saliva coming with him.
Joshua lightly pushes Clive back, and rises on wobbly legs. He meets Clive’s eyes, now as tall as Clive or near enough not to matter, and he steps aside.
Joshua motions to the throne. “Sit.”
Clive shifts, suddenly uneasy. It wasn’t his to sit, and he had never wanted it, despite what people assumed of him. They whispered behind his back of his stolen birthright, of the throne he should have inherited. His stomach flips, and he turns to his brother for guidance.
Joshua notices his hesitation, and smiles, smoothing his hand up Clive’s bicep.
“I’d like to sit my throne.”
Clive frowns, confused, before a smile splits his face in realization. Ah, yes, he supposes that was true—before he sat the Ducal throne, he sat Clive. Even before he had him on his cock, he was often on Clive’s lap ever since he could leave the crib. Clive’s body had belonged to his brother before he even realized it, and the thought squeezes in his chest warmly.
Clive sits, still feeling a strange, nervous tingle, a whisper to him that he doesn’t belong—until he feels the weight of his little brother in his lap, a good, familiar feeling. He relishes the warmth of Joshua’s back leaning against him, and instinctively brings his hands to cup around his front. Joshua straddles him, and cranes his neck back for a kiss.
With one hand on his brother’s slender, craned throat, Clive kisses him, and the other reaches below the curve of his bottom, two fingers eager to slip inside. Joshua takes his fingers with ease, pliant and slick with oil, because Clive had already fucked his brother open on them before they even got here. Clive strokes into him, slow and methodical, and messages his sweet spot to hear higher, breathier moans.
“You don’t need to—don’t make me wait,” Joshua puffs, grinding down on his fingers. But what if Clive wanted to hear him sing? Truly, there was nothing more lovely than the Phoenix’s trills.
“So impatient,” Clive chuckles, his breath moist and hot. He ought to withdraw his fingers entirely, to teach his brother patience. But who was Clive, to not give as his lord demanded?
As commanded, Clive withdraws his fingers from Joshua’s velvet insides, leaving him with one last stroke to sate him—if possible—for the few moments he would be empty.
Clive slips his fingers underneath to his laces, slightly awkwardly as he is straddled, to finally free his cock from the confines of his trousers, breathing a moan of relief. Before he would seek any sort of satisfaction, he always ensured his brother was thoroughly pleasured first.
The head of his cock feels lovely resting on the cleft of Joshua’s pert rear, and Clive allows himself to rock against him, between his soft cheeks. Joshua grinds back against him, eager, and impatient. Clive finds the vial of oil he brought with him for this purpose, uncorking it with his teeth and spitting the stopper out. He drizzles the contents directly onto his length and Joshua’s hole, uncaring for his ruined trousers, and spreads the oil with his fist on his cock. For good measure, he skims his length to coat his fingers and then swirls them inside his brother, just to hear him moan.
Satisfied, Clive hands reach under Joshua’s thighs for purchase on him, and he can feel them flex in his grip.
“Joshua,” Clive says, so his brother will back look at him, to scorch him with his heated gaze.
With their eyes locked together, Clive spears the Archduke of Rosaria on his cock, the heart and power of the nation in his hands, gasping and grinding back for more, more. As if Clive already hadn’t given him everything he had, even his heart, his life. Still, he strove to give him yet more, as he is commanded.
Joshua is pliant in his hold, forcing the burden of movement entirely on Clive, content on being cherished and spoiled by what his elder brother gives him. But Clive is strong, and he could think of perhaps no better use of his strength. He fucks into his little brother like he was a sheath fitting a sword, bouncing him bodily, a perfect sleeve, made only for Clive.
Joshua lolls his head onto Clive’s shoulder as he receives him, his face so red and his mouth lax. His hands grip at Clive’s forearms moving him, not helping Clive at all, just feeling. In the staccato of his wet pants and gasps, Clive realizes he is speaking—a whimpered mess of sounds, beginning with yes, yes, more, and ending with Clive.
The slick sound of skin hitting skin echoes out in the empty hall, louder even than their gasps. It is a room he knows well, where he had known he’d serve in since he was five summers old. At their debauchery, Clive supposes he should feel shame, to be doing this, here, on the very throne that once sat their father. But he felt none. Was he not doing his duty? Serving the Phoenix’s every need? All Clive felt was loyalty, love, and pride. He would joyfully give Joshua all he had, again and again, and it was Joshua’s to take, as was this throne—and this hall.
When Joshua reaches to take his length in hand, Clive bats his hand away. If he wanted his brother’s cock, he’d get his brother’s cock. He only needed Clive to give him pleasure, as was his duty. He need not lift even a finger, when Clive was here. It is his job, after all, and he knew he could do it well.
Denied, Joshua reaches instead behind him to grab a fistful of Clive’s hair, arching his back to do so. The angle deepens their coupling, and with the more force Clive slides his brother on his cock, the harder he’s grabbing his hair, a sweet little reward for him, a delicious burn. At a particularly hard thrust Clive’s certain he’s just lost some hair, and Joshua keens, a surprised note. His hands grope to his own midsection. Joshua presses a hand to his belly, and shudders in a gasp.
“Clive— oh, Brother—feel.” He guides Clive’s hand with his own, to lay upon his stomach. And there Clive feels himself, feels his prick filling his brother up, his belly noticeably distended with him. Clive snaps up harder, to feel himself against his palm, and groans. His hands still on Joshua’s belly and he pushes there, shifting Joshua’s rear closer, leaning his shoulders forward so he has to grab for purchase on Clive’s legs. Clive hovers over him, brackets Joshua with his body, and lifts his entire body up by under his knees. The angle is deep, as he knows Joshua likes.
“Brother, yes, like that, oh, Clive—”
Heat roils in his belly at his master’s pleasure, at the beauty of the Phoenix becoming unwound. Every sigh is a songbird’s trill, and Clive plays his little brother like a harp with every bounce, his gasps a choir.
Clive is burning up, like only his brother can do to him. He shakes, shakes with the knowledge that this wonderful, powerful being, a god disguised as a man, was only for him. Because who else? Who else could give this to him, know Joshua as well as Clive did? No one could show him this servitude, this reverence, could make him come undone like his elder brother. He was made for him like no other man could be—as Joshua was made for Clive.
What was a master without his slave? He was no master at all. A master is defined by the need of his servant—Joshua by his need of Clive. As much as Joshua owned Clive, did Clive not own him in return? His embrace, his kisses, his slick heat—his heart. All of it, given only to Clive, the luckiest man in the world. Yes, Clive was richer than any king. This exquisite creature was his alone to know, to cherish and serve. The Phoenix nestled into a cage of his brother’s making, content in his arms, knowing that he was home.
“Joshua,” Clive pants into his brother’s ear, meaning Your Grace, my king, my god— but all those have the same meaning anyway, and it is Joshua. He shudders at his brother’s tight heat, a little bit of heaven stowed away just for him.
Though he is servicing his master, like this Clive controls the pace, sliding his brother’s pliant body on his cock, and it is so heady, to be given this privilege. He is close, but needs Joshua’s pleasure. Only then can Clive give him his own. Clive bites into his brother’s shoulder, feels him tense and cry out, knowing how much he loves to be marked, much too lenient with Clive’s leash.
His release is sudden, shuddering and writhing in Clive’s arms, his length twitching with every spurt of seed. Joshua comes unwound, his prick entirely untouched, because he only needed his big brother’s cock to sate him. His brother’s fluttering walls are a command for him to follow, and Clive ruts up all the harder, eager to comply with his master’s demands.
Clive fucks him through his peak, because Joshua likes it when it’s all too much. Joshua pants and whines, his softening cock still drooling seed as he’s pounded. He is entirely limp, free for Clive to use as he likes—a reward for a Shield’s job well done.
Joshua leans his head back on Clive’s shoulder, his eyes teary with overstimulation, but graces Clive with a little tired smile all the same. His brother’s gentle smile shouldn’t excite him as much as it does, and he’s lifting Joshua, still seated on his cock, Clive’s arms wrapped around his waist as he deposits the Archduke on his throne.
He hugs his lord tight, laid across his back, and in only a couple hard thrusts he’s giving his brother his seed. Eyes closed, he pants against Joshua’s neck, and feels him turn to press a kiss against his cheek, as if pleased to receive every pump of spend while Clive rolls his hips into him.
Joshua gasps ragged breaths, still sheathed on Clive’s cock. “How am I to sit here, without thinking back to this?”
A sudden laugh bubbles out of Clive. “It was your idea.”
“I don’t know how I’ll get through court, now,” Joshua groans.
That sounded like his problem. Fully spent, Clive collapses on top of him, hearing an indignant squawk as his little lordling brother is smushed between him and his throne.
“Clive, you’ll kill me,” he hears wheezed out. Clive could fall asleep, here and now, but that would probably cause a ruckus in the morning. So he relents, and frees his trapped brother. Gingerly, he slips his softening cock from him, and hears a little sigh. Clive’s seed seeps out of him, a surprising amount, considering they had been at it before earlier in the day. He knows Joshua prefers it inside, but it really is quite the mess.
Clive thinks. The thought of Joshua leaning on his throne, shaking as his Shield sets to the task of cleaning him, licking his spend out from inside him, is very appealing, but he’s fairly certain they’ve really already pushed their luck far enough. He decides to sacrifice his own tunic, pulling it over his head. Joshua is putting his—or rather, Clive’s—shirt on when Clive pushes his legs apart, to sop up the seed spilling from him. If they were caught on the way back to their room, it certainly would be crass, what with Clive having no shirt and Joshua no breeches, but he figured semen dripping down the Archduke of Rosaria’s legs would be a sight worse. Well, it was an excellent sight to Clive—but to a poor unknowing maid, or gods forbid, a relative—not so much.
He rids his brother of as much seed as he can—enough to at least not make a mess as they walk back to take a bath. Clive was very ready for a bath, and then sleep. Joshua, too, needed to be put to bed.
He needed his rest, or he was like to fall asleep during court tomorrow. Ruling was truly boring work, but Clive was glad of it, for it meant their nation was at peace. And Joshua was patient besides, especially for only a man of eighteen summers. Regardless of how dull it was, he sat on his throne and saw all who sought audience with the Archduke of Rosaria, to hear their pleas and concerns, from noblemen to common folk alike.
“Ready for bed?”
“Founder, yes.”
Joshua goes to stand, but Clive is quicker. He crouches down, and hooks one arm under Joshua’s knees and the other round his middle, lifting his brother into his arms with ease.
“Clive— I’m much too old to be carried,” Joshua whinges, and yet he does not struggle. He always complained, but that never stopped Clive. He lays his head on Clive’s shoulder, looking up to his elder brother with a face that is only mildly peevish.
“Not to me.” As if there was ever going to be a day he put Joshua down and never held him again. There were certain luxuries he demanded to be paid, and that was certainly one, greedy in a way a servant shouldn’t be. But Joshua didn’t mind.
“We ought to get back. We’re going to get caught, like this. You are somewhat under-dressed.” Clive thought he certainly still looked regal and lordly even unclothed, but most would not agree. He knew he was right where others were wrong, though.
“It’s my castle,” Joshua says flippantly. “I can dress at my own discretion.”
“Even no breeches?”
“My castle,” Joshua repeats. “And they’re my breeches.”
“Tell that to Mother,” Clive says dryly. Joshua’s eyes go a bit wide at that, and he clears his throat.
“I’d rather not. Let’s head back.” He begins to squirm, much to Clive’s complaint, until he is forced to place him back on the ground.
If he wasn’t going to take the free ride, then Clive was going on ahead. He’s almost out of the throne room when he notices his brother has not followed.
Joshua is standing there, idly stretching his arms. He leans his head back and sighs, a weary sound, and gazes to the ceiling.
“I’m so tired,” he says in earnest.
Clive knows what he means. It wasn’t due to their row—he was used to that—it was the weight. The weight of a duchy and all her people, and the weight of a god simmering inside him. But he need not bear this burden alone.
Clive goes to him, and presses a palm to his shoulder, his thumb smoothing over his collarbone.
“I know.”
Joshua gave everything of himself to Rosaria, and so Clive would give himself to Joshua, in recompense.
“Sure you don’t wish to be carried?” Clive says with mirth.
Joshua only smiles, and takes Clive hand in his and leads him out of the throne room. Clive lets him lean on him, as they make their way back to their chambers.