Archive of Our Own

“You’ve done something to me,” Cassian hisses, sending the door to Lorin’s study flying wide open, feathers and papers zigzagging around the room with gusto from the ensuing rush of wind.

“Your highness,” Lorin says, eyes wide in what is clearly feigned surprise. “Are you seeking assistance with something?” With one outstretched hand, he recalls the papers to stack neatly atop his desk, quills lining up in orderly fashion just abreast. That hand—Lorin’s capable, lean fingers, angular in just the right places. What would they look like, wrapped around—

Cassian slaps that dastardly hand out of the air. “Don’t act the fool, Lorin. I know you’ve used your magic on me.”

Magic. Cassian spat the word more than said it. It’s all the rage these days. Nobles across the land can’t wait to get their hands on their own pet sorcerers to ooh and ahh at. Of course Cassian’s father, with his precious sentimentality, would follow suit.

Silvercrest has done just fine for centuries without magic, relying solely on the strength of the army that Cassian was—is, still is!—to one day lead.

But no—his father had to throw away all of that investment for a fashionable ornament. Cassian should never have allowed Lorin to weasel his way into the hearts of everyone in the kingdom. Oh, yes, of course all of those small-brained, soft-hearted fools are enamored by him and his little magic tricks. Pah. Not Cassian.

Well—not until lately.

*

It’s hard to say exactly when it started, but Cassian remembers when he first noticed.

With his father in poor health, it had befallen Cassian to slog through the complaints of the smallfolk. Father had such silly, new-age notions of kings meant to “serve the people,” which, in practice, meant hours upon hours listening to peasants moan about missing chickens or argue over disputed fence lines. It was during one of these absolute bores of a session when Cassian’s eye had been caught by a flurry of blue through the window.

Cassian’s eye had been desperate to be caught, anyhow, hungry for a distraction from some fat old hag’s incessant whining about overtaxation. A stray pigeon could have caught his eye; the fact his eye was caught meant nothing.

But a stray pigeon it was not. What had caught his eye was none other than Lorin. Typical of the man, commandeering an entire courtyard to “practice” his tricks. Show off, more like.

Were it any other time or place, Cassian would have looked away. Why, at dinner the night before, Cassian had no trouble tearing his eyes from Lorin as he entertained a group of fawning admirers with one of his usual flashy light shows. He was moving his hand in some mildly interesting way, swishing through the air just so. Two fingers, a little flicking motion like the crest of a wave: over and back, over and back.

Of course, Cassian’s attention that night was eagerly diverted by the tits on one of the serving girls, thinking about calling her into his chamber later that night and having her serve in a different manner.

But there in the stuffy dullness of the great hall with no one but the peasant woman and Cassian’s simpering little squire to whet his appetite for something interesting—there, his boredom was a higher-priority problem than his distaste for Lorin.

So Cassian had watched—begrudgingly—as Lorin made those same motions. Hand high in the air, moving over and back, over and back. The movement had made those silly, frivolous, silken robes of his fall down his arm—which was, admittedly, more muscular than Cassian would have suspected from a man who’d never seen battle. From his vantage point, Cassian could make out the fine dusting of dark hair over the supple curves of Lorin’s lower arm, twisting over his elbow, smooth as his movements and just as well-defined—crisp, he may have called it, nicely sculpted, and captivating, and—

“Your highness,” Samuel said. “Your highness!”

“What,” Cassian snapped. Yet another issue with his father’s hopeless generosity—people like Samuel dared speak to Cassian out of turn. So what if Samuel was of noble blood? He was a girlish slip of a thing who looked set to faint every time he saw blood. Hardly fit to be called a man, let alone a knight. If Cassian had it his way—which he would, of course, once he was king—Samuel would remain a squire forever, serving Cassian’s whims. Hmph. Now there was a thought.

“The poor woman’s husband?” Samuel whispered. “Who can’t work anymore on account of losing his arm in the—”

“Fine, fine, yes,” Cassian said loudly. “Twenty gold for your husband’s lost arm.”

The old hag’s eyes went wide, and she had cast herself onto the floor. “Th—thank you, your highness, oh, Lord! I’m eternally grateful, oh, your highness—”

“Enough,” Cassian said, bored again already. “Bring in the next.”

*

“Well,” Lorin says slowly. “Of course I’ve used my magic on you. If you’re referring to the spell to ward off illness… I did hear you were feeling ill last week, and I promise you I’ve been looking into it—”

“That is not what I’m referring to,” Cassian says through gritted teeth. The reminder of his illness is enough to send a feverish shiver rolling through his body, reliving the feeling. The need—the pressing, urgent need to sink to his knees—

“Please, your highness, sit,” Lorin says. Cassian shakes himself. Yes, sitting sounds good. Better than the alternative. Cassian slumps into the chair.

“Do you mean the protection spells?” Lorin continues. “It may be the new wards I set up around the castle. I admit, they’re a bit advanced even for me. No one else has said anything about it, but I may need to tinker with them if you’re feeling strange.”

The wards… Yes, Lorin had done something to them just a few weeks ago, Cassian remembers. Maybe that’s when he’d enacted his evil plans to take over the kingdom. Things did certainly take a turn after that.

*

They surround the castle like a bubble—shimmering only if you look just right, catching the light in a rainbow array, on occasion. The magical shields erected by Lorin, the subject of so much fawning and fascination. When Lorin had done a demonstration, he asked one hundred men to send an arrow towards the castle, promising a thousand gold to any that made it past the moat.

Each had dropped out of the sky like a shot bird.

Cassian’s father had retired three-quarters of the archery unit that very evening. Every moment those wards remained up, Cassian’s vision of a glowing, proud army at his command slipped further and further from his grasp. And further and further into the hands of that wicked Lorin, who no doubt was scheming to take over the kingdom.

But he only needed to hold on a short while longer. Once he became king, he’d reverse the damage his father had done. For the moment, however, Cassian had to content himself to a taste of the glory he would one day return to during his thrice-weekly training with the commander of the royal army and their most elite knights. The strongest men, displaying that strength, being rewarded for it—all was right in the world in those moments.

Usually. But not that day. Because when he’d arrived at the garrison, Lorin was there, pacing the length of the walls.

Cassian pulled the commander aside. “What is he doing here.”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Rooke said lightly. “He’s only here to check the wards, see if it’s possible to upgrade them so the walls can resist trebuchets.”

“Well, send him away.”

Rooke looked taken aback at Cassian’s vigor. “I’m sorry, your highness, but this visit was ordered by the king before he fell ill.”

Cassian fumed. “Fine. But there will be no more visits from him once I’m king, I’ll make sure of that. And see to it that he stays far back.”

Rooke laughed. “I’d hope so. Wouldn’t want him nicked by a stray arrow.”

So today was archery. What a mockery. Lorin would probably laugh to see them practice something he’d rendered all but obsolete.

“We’ll swordfight today,” Cassian said, loud enough for the men trickling in to the field to hear.

“Your highness,” Rooke said, voice lowered. “I’d planned an archery lesson.”

“I think we’ve covered archery quite enough this month.”

Murmured whispers behind him. “Your highness,” he said again, voice tight and insistent. “The men have all prepared for archery today. They’ve brought their—”

“We are to practice swordfighting today. That’s an order from your prince,” Cassian said, voice final.

Rooke’s nostrils had flared, and for a moment he seemed like he might raise his voice. Cassian almost wished he would. He’d take over as commander soon enough and then he’d show Rooke his place.

But after a moment, Rooke’s eyes had lifted to somewhere in the background, and then his whole face had relaxed. He stepped back, looking oddly satisfied. “Yes, your highness. Alright, boys, you heard him. Get changed.”

The men had grumbled. Cassian didn’t care. Samuel, of course, would fetch his things for him. It was what he was good for.

In the meantime, Cassian stood stewing in the shade of the fortress walls, watch Lorin from afar. Always in those stupid robes, out of place in a setting such as this. Maybe in the castle, amongst all the perfumes and flowers and other prissy little luxuries, they made sense. But here was a place for men. Why couldn’t Lorin just take the robes off? Cassian had caught a glimpse of his body the other day. He looked—well, certainly not nearly worthy to join the royal guard, but Cassian would grant that he looked well-built, at the very least. Perhaps with some training…

But of course, Lorin wouldn’t be interested. Even with all the glory of an army to observe, all he was interested in was studying the drab stone walls like they were the most interesting thing in the world. On occasion, he would make what looked to be a motion for some spell. Over and back, over and back, over and back…

Samuel tapped his shoulder, and Cassian startled. Had it really been enough time already?

“Right, then,” Cassian said, standing. “Let’s begin. We’ll pair off and practice defensive maneuvers first.”

“…thinks he’s already commander,” a voice mumbled behind him.

Cassian whirled. “Holden, was it? Why don’t you and I start today?”

Holden straightened up. He had on a determined glint in his eye, a small smile on his lips. Good. Cassian wouldn’t command an army of cowards. Better, in fact—Cassian would put him in his place by soundly defeating him in combat.

He’d relish the chance, actually. Holden was a personal thorn in his side. Younger than Cassian, and not of noble birth, to boot. He’d been a peasant in the outskirts of the kingdom when a border skirmish had kicked up, and he’d proven himself a skilled fighter in their ragtag militia.

It would have been a respectable story, really, if the boy only had noble blood. He probably should have been a captain by that point, but it was up to Cassian to make the final call, and he’d simply keel over before handing a title like that to a farm boy.

Cassian smiled. Yes, he was looking forward to this. “On guard,” Cassian said, drawing his sword.

“On guard.” Holden squared his shoulders. Quite fine shoulders, really. Strong shoulders. Broader than Cassian’s. Perhaps even stronger than—

Holden lunged, narrowly missing Cassian’s arm.

“Careful, your highness,” Holden said. His smile had grown into a grin.

Cassian was wrong. The look in Holden’s eye was something beyond determined. It was cocky.

Cassian only barely managed to prevent Holden from striking another blow. Holden could not be allowed to look at Cassian like that. Like he didn’t respect him, didn’t respect his authority. Yes, it was true that Holden was in peak form, a strong knight. But that didn’t mean he could look at Cassian like… like he thought Cassian was underneath him.

Like he thought Cassian belonged underneath him.

Cassian parried again, unable to find an opening to deliver his own blow. He stumbled backwards. In one last-ditch effort, he cast out with his leg and caught Holden in the calf, and he went tumbling to the ground along with him. Cassian lost his sword in the fall. Holden did not. When Cassian made to rise, he was stopped by the press of the sword against Cassian’s neck.

“Slain,” Holden said.

Holden was unmoving atop him, strong legs over his own, heavy, chin tilted up to look down at Cassian from over his nose. It wasn’t right, looking at him like that. Looking him up and down, lowering his gaze, moving down Cassian’s chest and in between his legs...

It was only then that Cassian realized what Holden must be feeling: Cassian was hard. Achingly, painfully, evidently hard, if the look on Holden’s face was anything to go by.

Everyone was looking at him, looking like they all knew it too, even though certainly there was no possible way they could. Lorin was in the crowd, Cassian remembered. Had he just seen Cassian’s failure? What did he think of Cassian now? Surely he was thinking that Cassian was unfit to lead. Surely they were all thinking it.

“Get up,” Cassian commanded, flushed. Holden had complied, but the smirk never left his face.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, your highness?”

It had been so long since he had lost a fight that Cassian had forgotten. A bow, to indicate defeat. Cassian flushed even deeper. There was no way he would bow to a man so insolent, so disrespectful.

“You are dismissed,” Cassian had growled. “Everyone is. Training is over.”

*

The memory heats Cassian’s cheeks. But it’s a reminder, at least, that Lorin had only been checking the wards that day. The actual spell had gone up a week later—decidedly after Cassian had begun to feel strange.

“No,” Cassian finally says.  “That wasn’t it, either.”

Lorin frowns. “I want to help you, your highness, but you will need to tell me what’s wrong.”

Cassian fidgets uncomfortably in the chair. “I’ve been having—thoughts. You’ve been making me have thoughts,” he amends quickly, “that are—obscene.”

Lorin has the gall to laugh. “I can’t make you have thoughts, your highness. Even magic has its limits.”

Cassian goes red. “I knew that.”

“Did you, your highness? Magic can stretch one loaf of bread into twenty, or entice a plant from seed to tree in a fortnight, but even the most powerful warlock can’t create something from nothing. ”

“Then,” Cassian flounders. “Then that’s what you’ve done to me.”

Enticing his thoughts. That has to be it. Doesn’t it?

*

Cassian had all but cast the incident out of his mind by the week’s end, skipping the rest of that week’s trainings in preparation for a visit from Lord Olean. Father would usually handle pleasantries with the visiting lords while Cassian was free to do whatever he wished. The last time Olean was in town, he’d spent the afternoon hunting with the visiting knights before bedding the man’s daughter.

But there Cassian was, trapped. He’d remembered Olean as a fearsome, strict sort of fellow, but he must have been getting soft in his old age, for all he was doing was droning on about tea. At least they’d taken lunch outside, and the old codger was getting too blind to notice Cassian’s wandering eye. Rosalind must be around somewhere. Perhaps after he dealt with business, Cassian would find her and bed her again.

And there she was, tucked into the corner of the garden. That shock of red hair, those tits, he’d recognize anywhere. He turned for a better look—only to nearly lock eyes with Lorin, spared only by the fact that he was leaning over to whisper something in Rosalind’s ear.

Cassian’s ears heated, and he turned hastily back towards Lord Olean.

What was that all about? Were they fucking?

Not that Cassian would care. In fact, it would be the most respectable thing Lorin had done, bedding Rosalind. She was a beauty, soft curves, a wicked smile. Maybe Lorin would be able to fuck a squalling babe into her. But then again, Cassian didn’t. What, was he thinking that Lorin’s seed was more potent than his? Rot. He’d bet the bitch was just barren, anyhow, or else Cassian would have saddled her with a babe when he’d fucked her two months ago.

And it was a moot point anyways, because of course Lorin wasn’t interested in her. Cassian was sure Lorin’s tastes lay… elsewhere. Yes, perhaps he’d take her from behind like a dog, so as to better pretend. Cassian snickered to himself, disguising it as a cough.

Though—Rosalind’s hair would be too long for Lorin to pretend she was anything but a woman. Cassian’s hair was—well, he supposed it was quite long, too, but a masculine shoulder-length befitting a prince. From behind, though, it might be mistaken as a girl’s, shiny and golden. Hah. How funny would it be for someone to bed Cassian, imagining he was a girl—

A loud slurp brought Cassian back to the table. Lord Olean was sipping his tea, peering strangely at him.

Cassian cleared his throat. “Do go on, my Lord.”

“I was simply asking about the possibility of aid from your stores to help my people weather the drought,” he said.

Foolish of the man to dare make such a request. It wasn’t Cassian’s fault that Olean’s family hailed from the rain shadow of the great mountain, rather than the fertile wetlands where Cassian had been born. If any of Olean’s men wanted to avoid famine, why, they should just pick up and move. Else they should prepare their own rations, rather than relying on Silvercrest’s generosity.

But Cassian supposed he could throw the man a bone, if it made him stop talking quicker. “Very well. Speak to Ambor about bringing you to the storerooms, take what you need.”

“Fantastic, your highness. Now, then, have I told you that this tea comes from…”

Cassian had already begun losing focus again, eyes drifting back to Lorin and the motion he was making with his hands—over and back, over and back. Rosalind giggled, enchanted by him like everyone else. How stupid. That was how everyone should treat Cassian. Instead, everyone in the kingdom acted like all they wanted to do was fall at Lorin’s feet. Kneel before him. Worship him. Serve him…

Service—Cassian shook himself. Yes, he should call for the serving girl, call for a glass of wine. Tea only made him jumpy. Made him—think strangely. It must be the tea. He clapped his hands.

By the time he looked back towards that shady corner of the garden, the two were already gone. Perhaps they really were going to fuck after all, even though Lorin was obviously not interested in women. Maybe he really would take her from behind, or in the dark. But that didn’t feel right. Lorin was so clearly a fan of spectacle. He’d probably be the type to have his partners ride him, put on a show.

Or maybe, actually, Lorin was simply the type who wouldn’t care what he was sticking his cock in, so long as it was warm and wet. Maybe he’d just have his partner sit under his desk in that tower of his, so it wouldn’t matter who was doing it. Perhaps that’s just how Lorin liked it—the service of the act. Then that long hair would be useful after all. Yes, perhaps Lorin would grab it, use it to guide his partner. Or perhaps he would simply lie back, make them sit and warm his cock for hours as he worked. Perhaps he’d make Cassian—

He stood up so suddenly his knee knocked into the table, a teacup breaking on the ground.

“Your highness?” Olean questioned mildly, blessedly unaware of how out-of-sorts Cassian was.

Cassian cleared his throat. “Excuse me. I’ve got to go.”

“But your highness, I was just speaking about the possibility of additional funds, to repair the bridges damaged in the—”

“Yes, yes, whatever you wish,” Cassian said quickly. “Speak to—speak to—oh, you know who to speak to. I’ll sign off on it later.” By his last words, Cassian was already yelling from halfway across the garden. He all but missed the small smile on Olean’s face.

*

Things went well and truly downhill from that moment.

Once he’d breached the thought in his mind, it was like a dam had broken. The mere sight of Lorin walking down the hall would send a shiver down Cassian’s spine, would have him change direction and send whichever members of the court he was entertaining scrambling to follow.

Surely they were suspicious. Cassian didn’t miss the way they would look between each other. But the questioning glances were far better than the alternative. Because if Cassian did not remove himself immediately, he would find himself swept away by the current of his thoughts.

At dinner one day, he’d spotted Lorin in the corner of the banquet hall, seated close to the fire, illuminated from behind like some divine figure from a stained-glass window. Who did Lorin think he was, sitting like that—looking like that?

Cassian soldiered on and took his place at the head of the table, intent on not letting Lorin ruin the dinner for him. He was the prince! A warrior! No mere mage would make him wilt. Not even one who was shrugging off his robe, revealing a sculpted back that rivaled the knights Cassian so admired. Not even one who might be able to pin Cassian down like that soldier the other day, if he tried—but Lorin had no training, so Cassian would overpower him easily. Unless, of course, Lorin was simply the superior swordsman—

Which was a ridiculous idea. Lorin might clearly surpass Cassian’s skills in magic, and perhaps in education, and charisma, and—well—but Cassian certainly was stronger of body.

But maybe in close combat, absent the swords or bows that Cassian was accustomed to training with, perhaps then Lorin might be able to overpower him. And surely Lorin, unaware of the rules of combat, would have no qualms playing dirty. No weapons, no armor, no clothing—Lorin might, then, be able to wrestle Cassian to the ground. Though if Lorin wanted to keep him there, he’d surely need to rely on a coward’s tool like rope, else Cassian would break free. Yes, Lorin would need to tie him up if he wanted to keep Cassian docile as his hands moved down Cassian’s back, his arse—

Cassian had not lasted past the first course.

*

“So… I’ve made you have thoughts,” Lorin says, skeptical. “Please, your highness, elaborate.”

Cassian feels like shrinking into the chair. How is he to admit these thoughts to the very man who has inspired them?

“I’ve been having thoughts of… laying with men,” he finally settles on.

Lorin’s eyebrows go up. “And you’ve never had these thoughts before?”

“Never like this. Only ever—the other way around.”

Cassian is not naive. He’s known plenty of knights who lay with men. He’s seen it in shadowed corners of the castle or the back of a tavern. Using a man like Cassian would a woman. It had admittedly crossed Cassian’s mind, once or twice.

But he’d never imagined himself the one being used.

“It’s natural to be curious, your highness.”

“No, it’s not that,” Cassian snaps, frustrated. Will his humiliation never end? Will he need to confess to Lorin every shameful urge, every disgraceful action? Will he need to submit his whole mind to Lorin? “It’s being—ah—underneath.”

“I must admit, I don’t see the issue.” A brief smile flashes over Lorin’s face, almost as if he's holding back laughter. But it's gone before Cassian blinks again. He must have imagined it. 

Of course Lorin wouldn’t see the issue. Lorin is the very type of man that Cassian would have—does!—look down on. Cassian had once found him entirely distasteful. Smug and prissy and unfit to be a man, just like… well, just like Samuel.

“I’ll... explain,” Cassian says.

*

After the banquet, Cassian had taken to leaving the castle grounds, so as to better avoid Lorin. But absent Lorin, the thoughts did not stop—they merely found new targets.

Trying to drink himself into a stupor at the taverns worked well enough, though Cassian would inevitably find himself staring too long at the brawny arms of the barkeeps, throwing down heaps of coin before fleeing. When he attempted to go for a ride he’d ended up so distracted by the rippling back of one of the castle’s stablehands that he was nearly thrown from his horse.

One especially hot day, he’d disguised himself with a shawl and taken a walk down to the port, seeking the fresh salty breeze and perhaps an airheaded little wench to wet his cock in. Instead he found himself captivated at the edge of the docks, watching the sailors unload their cargo.

They shouldn’t be working during the heat like this. Why were they? Ah, yes, once Cassian’s father had fallen ill he’d reversed the old man’s silly laws mandating break time, adamant that it would only make the peasants lazy. They were working in the heat because Cassian had forced them to. It would be only fair, then, if they were to force Cassian to…

A sailor spat onto the planks, and Cassian was rocked with such a filthy, unsavory desire to have been in between the sailor and his target that he nearly unbalanced himself.

“What the fuck,” Cassian whispered aloud. The sailor couldn’t possibly have heard him, but he glanced up, locking eyes with Cassian from across the dock. His heart seized in terror. The sailor couldn’t know, couldn’t. But the way he was looking at Cassian—it was as if he knew exactly what Cassian had been thinking.

Cassian started locking himself in his room after that, claiming illness.

That was, if possible, even worse. He’d lie writhing in bed, curtains drawn, cock hard to the point of weeping but too terrified to touch for fear of making it real. Thoughts could be dismissed as merely thoughts. If Cassian were to touch himself then he’d be the kind of man—no, less than man—that got off to the thought of being taken, of being fucked, of being used.

Just the image would send Cassian’s cock to attention again, and the whole miserable cycle would repeat. He could not allow himself to touch. He could not.

But he was so hard, and it had been days. Maybe if Cassian made sure to keep his mind on Danya, his favorite whore at the brothel, or Genevieve, that chambermaid with the big tits, or Rosalind…

Once couldn’t hurt.

Heart pounding, Cassian had all but ripped his breeches off and wrapped a fist around himself.

Fuck.

It felt good—incredibly, implausibly good. Like he was a boy of twelve again, discovering his own cock for the first time. Like he could come in a mere twenty seconds. Cassian worked his cock, keeping his mind carefully blank. Twenty seconds came and went. He trembled and kept tugging, feeling as if he might combust. The feverish burning under his skin had gotten so hot, and it was only getting hotter.

He was certain he must be sweating like a pig. Or like the carpenter who’d come to repair a broken window the other day, who had glanced down at Cassian from his ladder, down over his strong-looking legs…

Cassian’s cock twitched in his hand. Think of Danya, or Genevieve, or Rosalind with her long, red hair, that hair that Lorin must have pulled when he’d fucked her, yes, of course he would be rough with her, because Lorin was so strong that it only made sense to fuck and take whatever he’d please, Lorin…

Cassian groaned, stomach swooping with the intensity of feeling that always preceded orgasm. He pumped his cock once more, twice more, thrice—and again, and again, but nothing ever came. The feeling only kept building.

Maybe he really was ill after all. Cassian whined and squeezed his eyes shut, continuing to tug at his cock. He could not handle this for much longer—this deep, burning, aching need, this bone-deep urge to be filled. He would go truly insane.

So preoccupied was he that he didn’t notice the door swinging open until a squeaking “Oh!” rang out in the room.

Cassian’s eyes flew open. Standing in the doorway was a red-faced Samuel, holding tightly onto a tray of food, as if he feared he would drop it.

Cassian could feel his own cheeks redden. Samuel had seen his cock plenty—that wasn’t that he was ashamed of. It was the thoughts running through his mind of what he wanted to do to Samuel. What he wanted Samuel to do to him.

“Your highness?” Samuel finally asked, half breathless.

Samuel might do. Samuel was—hardly a man to begin with. If Cassian were to lay with Samuel, it wouldn’t mean anything. In the dim light, just a sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains, he could pretend Samuel was Danya or Genevieve or Rosalind. Cassian wouldn’t even need to look at his face, with Samuel standing above him—

No, it would be Samuel on his knees. That’s what he would do. Call Samuel over and command him to his knees and rid himself of these pesky thoughts for good.

“Samuel,” Cassian said through gritted teeth. “Lock the door and come here.”

Samuel’s tongue came out to wet his lip. “I don’t think I should, your highness. You seem like you’re still ill.”

He had never questioned an order before. Why start now?! Cassian wanted to tear out his hair.

“Come here now,” Cassian demanded. Tried to, anyhow. It sounded more desperate than demanding.

Samuel certainly seemed to think so. He hesitated at the door. “I’ll go get the nurse—”

“Samuel—please.”

It may very well have been the first time Samuel had heard the word from him, ever. His mouth had popped open in a ridiculous little “o”. Cassian would deal with that later. But in that moment it didn’t matter, because it had the intended effect: Samuel took a tentative step over.

Cassian moved to the edge of the bed, heart pounding, eager beyond words.

Samuel took another step closer, eyes dropping to Cassian’s cock, which jerked at the attention. “Wow, your highness, you actually are…”

“I’m what?”

“Erm. You’re actually in need of…” Another step, and then Samuel was grinning. “…help.”

It was a grin Cassian had never seen on Samuel before. It looked almost—self-satisfied. But that couldn’t be it. No. He was giddy at the thought of sucking Cassian off. That must have been it.

He stepped even closer, until he was just in front of Cassian, and Cassian had to look up at him from his seated position. Of course, that wouldn’t be a problem when Samuel was on his knees. Just tell him to get on his knees. Just order him down.

Down—Cassian looked down. Caught sight of the bulge in Samuel’s pants, and could think of nothing else.

“Your highness?”

“Samuel,” Cassian said, eyes unmoving from their target, mouth slack.

Tell him to get on his knees.

On his knees…

Cassian slid down off the bed. Samuel could—would—reciprocate later. At the moment, Cassian simply needed to—to see Samuel’s cock, just to know that’s not what he wanted.

Cassian pulled Samuel’s breeches down with one quick tug. Samuel’s cock sprang out, hard and red and at attention, nothing soft or girlish about it. Samuel was supposed to be… well… Samuel was only a squire. He was meant to serve Cassian. To serve…

Cassian licked his lips. He could not wait to serve Samuel.

“You will tell no one about this,” Cassian said.

“Not a soul,” Samuel breathed.

Cassian leant in.

Samuel’s cock in his mouth was foreign and cumbersome and something close to bliss.

“Wow,” Samuel said again, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Your highness—Cassian—”

It wasn’t right for Samuel to use his name, like he was Cassian’s equal. No, it wasn’t right, because Samuel wasn’t his equal. Samuel was his better. That—that was wrong, somehow, but in the moment it felt correct. Rather than think much harder about it, Cassian took Samuel deeper into his mouth, moving back and forth experimentally. Pride thrummed through him when Samuel gasped and gripped his hair.

“Oh,” Samuel said, choked. “Good. That’s good.”

That felt more correct. He was doing good, though it was only his first time. It made sense that, being of noble blood, Cassian was just so naturally good at everything he did. Even things like sucking cock. Things like taking it like a good whore.

“Cassian,” Samuel moaned. “I can’t believe it actually…”

But Cassian never found out what it actually, because Samuel came before he finished the sentence, holding Cassian’s head in place. He wouldn’t have moved even if he could have.

It was only then, with Samuel’s come on his tongue, that the heat building under his skin for the past few weeks finally dissipated, if only the barest bit, relief washing over him like cool water.

Not only relief. Something else felt wet. Cassian touched his thigh.

He’d come. Just from that.

*

Lorin is still scribbling silently in his journal, even after Cassian has finished his story. Cassian glances around, anxious. Did he say too much? What does Lorin think of Cassian now? Does he think of him as a whore—and would that be such a misconception?

“You see the issue now, surely?” Cassian all but pleads. “Samuel is my squire. He is meant to serve me. Perhaps I may have entertained the idea of laying with a man if that were the case. But I’d never thought I’d be… that I would be the one…”

“Serving.” Lorin snaps his journal shut.

Cassian nods miserably.

Lorin leans back, looking at Cassian appraisingly. “So—the issue is that you want to serve?”

“Yes,” Cassian says. His hands are gripping his thighs so tightly it’s a wonder his trousers haven’t ripped. Perhaps if he grips harder his hands will draw all the blood from away from his cock, already hard and aching, which has just jerked traitorously at the way Lorin has just said the word serve.

Lorin sighs. “I’m sorry, your highness, I still must admit that I don’t see the issue. As I recall it, your father always did say that a good king is one who serves his people.”

Cassian stands, fuming. “You still don’t—you—my father is an idiot who’s got it arse-backwards. A king is meant to be served.”

Lorin stands, too, slamming his palms to the desk. Cassian flinches. “Your highness,” he says darkly. “You’ve barged in here, accusing me of something drastic, and now you’re yelling at me?”

Cassian shrinks away. “I’m—I—”

“Sit back down,” Lorin commands. “And tell me exactly what you are accusing me of.”

*

A few summers ago, Cassian had been wounded while hunting, a deep, ugly scratch on the side of his thigh. Though the pain had abated a few days into his healing, it had begun to itch like he had never felt before. The healer had told him that to avoid doing more damage, he needed to settle for scratching around it.

Cassian’s little… tryst with Samuel had felt like that. It helped—a bit. But all Cassian wanted to do was dig his fingers into the wound, damn the consequences.

At the very least, Cassian no longer felt a singleminded desperation to drop to his knees, and so he returned to the court at once. He was certain Samuel didn’t breathe a word to anyone, but he couldn’t help feel that all eyes were on him. That the maids knew. That they were all laughing at him, just behind his back. But if he let the thoughts of the smallfolk bother him—well, Cassian would be unfit to be a prince, and that simply wouldn’t do.

Perhaps that was why, only two days after his “recovery,” he had strode into training, head held high.

It was a miserable, wet day, and with little room in the garrison’s indoor space for proper swordplay, the men were practicing hand-to-hand combat. They were already going at it by the time Cassian arrived. Paired off, stripped of their wet clothing down to their underthings, covered in a thin sheen of rain or sweat or both.

Cassian knew immediately that he had made a grave mistake.

No one had seen him yet. He could simply slink back out under the cover of the heavy rainfall. He only needed to tear his eyes from the spectacle in front of him. From the shirtless men, glistening, strong, powerful, the men who Cassian would one day command…

“You know,” said a voice from behind him, loud enough that several men stopped their sparring to listen, “I never did get that bow.”

Cassian turned, blanching when he saw the source. “Holden.” Had Holden always felt this much bigger than him? Had his chest always looked so firm? Had his voice always sent a shiver down Cassian’s spine?

Holden only raised an eyebrow. “Well, your highness?”

Something was wrong with Cassian. Very wrong. Just a moon prior, he would have stripped Holden of his knighthood just for the impertinence. To demand he bow to someone born of blood so much lower than his, in such an insolent manner!

But, well. It was routine when sparring, and Holden had won their spar. It would be sign of respect between men, nothing more. An acknowledgement of the skill of your opponent. A sign of understanding that they were, in some way, better. A literal lowering of oneself beneath the other, a prostration before a more superior man, a submission…

Only once he heard snickering from the men around him did Cassian realize he was facing the floor.

“You—I—” Cassian straightened, flustered. The snickers dissolved into coughs. “I demand a rematch. Hand-to-hand. If—when I win, you’ll not stop at a bow. You’ll kneel.”

“Of course, your highness. If you agree to the same. And let’s make it interesting, hm? If I win, you’ll promote me to captain.”

“Excuse me?” Cassian laughed incredulously.

Holden only shrugged. “You’ve nothing to worry about, unless you think you’ll lose.”

“Fine,” Cassian grit out, stripping himself of his sopping tunic before he could think twice about how vulnerable it made him feel, left only in his breeches in front of all the strongest knights of the kingdom. “Let’s get it over with.”

Holden grinned. “So eager to be on your knees for me?”

Cassian, unable to deny it, did the one thing he could do: He set his jaw and charged.

He caught Holden off guard, sending them both crashing to the ground, Cassian atop him. For a moment Cassian felt himself again, the thrill of victory singing in his veins.

But then Holden wrapped his arm around Cassian’s own and twisted, loosening Cassian’s grip, and bucked him off completely. Cassian stumbled back to his feet. Who was he kidding? Holden was so strong, so powerful.

When Holden charged, Cassian only managed to fend him off for a blow or two before Holden had him in a grip of his own, body pressed against Cassian’s back, one arm holding Cassian’s down against his sides, the other around Cassian’s throat, so tight that when he bent backwards Cassian’s feet were lifted entirely off the ground.

Unable to breathe, Cassian’s struggles were futile. He was weakening by the second. He kept kicking, frantic at the thought of what it would mean to lose—again. To kneel before Holden. To offer him a position above his own. To show everyone that Holden was above him…

“I yield,” Cassian rasped.

Holden let him go, and Cassian fell inelegantly to his hands and knees, gasping for breath.

After he’d lost his first battle against Holden, the other knights were silent. This time, they erupted into cheers. Cassian trembled with anger and shame as he pushed himself off of his hands—and then he began to tremble with something else, as the motion brought him face-to-face with the front of Holden’s breeches.

Above him, Holden snorted. “I look forward to the announcement of my promotion.” If Cassian could have glanced up, there would surely be a mocking smile on Holden’s face. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Only a thin layer of fabric separated Cassian between him and Holden’s cock. Cassian only needed to lean forward…

“Your highness,” Holden said, scandalized. But he pressed his hips toward Cassian’s face all the same.

Distantly, Cassian was aware of the men’s shouts growing louder, sounding more like hoots and hollers than proper cheers. But it seemed inconsequential to Cassian in the moment. All he could think of was how hot he was, how feverishly hot, how delirious with need, and how the remedy to all he was feeling was right in front of him. His cock strained in his breeches. Just as Holden’s was straining in his. Cassian shivered with the anticipation of it. He leaned closer. Closer…

“What’s going on here?” boomed a voice behind Holden’s shoulder.

Cassian looked up. “Commander,” he said weakly. Did saying that title always make him feel so eager to be commanded?

Holden didn’t seem chastised in the least. “The little prince lost a fight. I told him he had to kneel.”

“Not you,” Rooke said, turning to Cassian. “Your highness, this is the second time you’ve distracted the other men during training.”

Cassian glanced around. It was true. No other knights were sparring, now. They’d all circled around to watch his fight with Holden, and now that it was over they had crept closer and closer, encircling Cassian in a thicket of legs. Cassian trembled. “I—I’m sorry.”

Rooke sighed. “You’re not showing much respect for the time of these fine men, are you?”

“I’m sorry,” Cassian said again. He could not remember the last time he said sorry for anything, but there at the feet of his commander and captain, at the feet of all the strongest knights in the kingdom, there was nothing else Cassian could do but beg their forgiveness. “Please—let me make up for it. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” A man called out from the crowd. “Oi, make me captain as well!”

Holden laughed. “Have some originality, Kent.”

“Settle down, boys.” Rooke said. “How about this, your highness. In exchange for wasting our time now, we’ll cut down training to once a week.”

“But—the strength of our army,” Cassian said weakly.

“Well, what about that Lorin fellow? He’s been asking to set up more defensive wards, and even offered to augment our force with offensive magic.”

Magic. Magic? Rooke wanted him to allow more magic into the great kingdom of Silvercrest? “I…” It should have been the easiest no in the world. But Cassian glanced around at the men above him—so many strong, fine men, with powerful legs and tented breeches—and was almost delirious with need.

“Okay,” Cassian agreed. “Just—please—”

Rooke and Holden shared an inscrutable look between them. Then Holden’s face broke out into a wide smile. “Right, then, little prince,” Holden said, unlacing his breeches. “I think it’s time you really showed your respect.”

*

Just as had happened with Samuel, the delirium had abated slightly as soon as Holden had gripped his hair and come, thick and salty and divine, down the back of Cassian’s throat. And it had abated a little more after that, once Rooke had done the same. And Kent, and Oran, and Edward, and so many more—even though some of them hadn’t come in his mouth at all, but shot their seed all over his face, his golden hair, his fine eyelashes, his uncovered chest, until he was sticky with come all over, including in his own breeches.

Cassian shuts his eyes at the memory. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, because it left him more clearheaded than he had felt in weeks. Clearheaded enough to recognize that something was very, very wrong—and to recognize who must be behind it.

“I am accusing you of making me this way,” Cassian says, “I—did things I never would have done. And agreed to things I never would have agreed to. I agreed to allow magic into this kingdom! All because I was—because I was—”

“Because you were desperate for cock,” Lorin says, matter-of-fact. “And you think I did this to you.”

“Yes!” Cassian explodes. “I know it’s been you all along. I know it. You’ve made me…”

“Say it. What have I made you?” Lorin paces around the desk, leaning over Cassian, who is frozen in his chair.

“You’ve… you’ve made me want—“

“Say it like I said it,” Lorin commands.

Cassian’s mouth is suddenly dry. “You’ve made me desperate for… cock.”

Lorin hums. “What else have I made you?”

“Desperate to—serve.”

“And how,” Lorin says, “are you so sure it’s me?”

“Because,” Cassian says, eyes wide, voice hardly a whisper, “I want to serve you most of all.”

Lorin snaps his fingers, and the chair Cassian is in shrieks backwards over the floor, just enough to make space for Cassian to sink to his knees at Lorin’s feet.

Slowly, without taking his eyes off of Lorin, heart pounding through his chest—he does just that.

Lorin snaps his fingers again, and his breeches unlace themselves. Such power. How had Cassian ever seen Lorin as anything but clearly superior to him?

Cassian looks at him for permission, near salivating with desire.

“Go on, then,” Lorin says.

Cassian doesn’t need to be told twice.

As soon as his lips close around Lorin’s cock, two things become incredibly apparent—bright, clear spots of light in his mind, like Samuel has just thrown open the curtains on a sunny day:

One, Cassian was right. Lorin had done something to him. Because the moment his lips close around Lorin’s cock, it’s like the world is right again. The itch, scratched; the sneeze, satisfying; the sword fit neatly and smoothly into its sheath. The feverish need burning under his skin has broken, and that it’s only happened when Lorin’s cock has nested so sweetly on his tongue is proof perfect that it has indeed been Lorin all along.

Two, Cassian does not give a damn.

How could he, when he feels like this? Lorin’s perfect cock, resting so sweetly in his mouth, tasting like the ambrosia bards sing of. He could stay like this forever. He wants to stay like this forever, warming Lorin’s cock, feeling its weight in his mouth, worshipping Lorin’s cock—

Lorin pulls out.

Cassian snaps back to himself. The shame, anger, fear, hatred, all come rushing back like the tide. Cassian gasps, dizzily scraping his mind for enough will to stand up and stumble backwards.

Lorin smiles. It’s—predatory.

Cassian takes another step back. “No. No. You… you can’t do this to me. My father…”

“Your idiot father who’s got it arse-backwards, you mean?” Cassian’s mouth opens and shuts. Lorin smirks. “Such a shame. A good man’s legacy tarnished by an heir insistent on ruining decades of his work. I thought it a fitting parting gift to him to mold you into an heir worthy of his title. An heir that lives up to your father’s philosophy on ruling. An heir that serves.”

At that, Lorin takes a step closer. Cassian stays rooted to the spot, trembling with the effort it takes to not close the distance.

“My father would never want me to serve like this.”

Lorin shrugs. “Well. I wasn’t lying when I said magic can’t make you have thoughts. It’s not my fault that your idea of what it means to serve has always been so bound up in… personal pleasure. Perhaps I wouldn’t have needed to take that liberty if you weren’t so averse to serving your people in a traditional way, but then again…” A slow grin spreads across Lorin’s face. “Perhaps I would have done it anyways. As a nice reward for my service to the kingdom. Besides, I haven’t exactly heard anyone complain.”

Anyone—

The bottom drops out of Cassian’s stomach.

The stares at the banquets. The whispers of the maids. Holden’s insolence, Samuel’s sudden confidence, even Lord Olean’s odd placidity.

They’ve all known.

“No,” Cassian says, horrified. “You bastard. You can’t do this to me.”

“Oh, but why not? Haven’t you noticed that everyone is so much happier? Perhaps I’ll just have you serve the kingdom this way forever. On your knees for every farmer if it makes you concede to lowering taxes, on your back for every porter and every carter if that’s what must happen to finally fix those roads.”

Cassian moans in anguish. Anguish, certainly, because there is nothing appealing at the thought of sinking to his knees in front of any lowborn peasant, sweaty after a day’s work hauling feed to the market, rough with his hands and eager to work off some steam—

“Though I suppose that wouldn’t be necessary if someone else took that nasty task of serving the people off of your hands.”

Cassian shuts his eyes, tears welling up in the corners. It’s what Cassian has been waiting for all along. The admission, not just that Lorin had done something to him—but that he had done so with the express intent of taking over the kingdom.

And yet, the only thing that comes out of Cassian’s mouth: “Then—what of me?”

“I think you already know, little prince. Don’t you?” Lorin takes another step forward, and lays a heavy, guiding land on Cassian’s shoulder. Cassian sinks obediently to his knees. It feels so, so unbelievably good to obey the implicit command, to do as ordered. Cassian does know. He’s known it all along.

“You won’t have to worry about serving the kingdom,” Lorin says, gripping Cassian’s hair and guiding him back to his cock. His perfect, incredible, powerful cock. “You’ll only have to worry about serving me.”

There is a distant part of Cassian that knows it—that the moment the desperation clouding his mind clears, he will remember his hatred of Lorin. That he will remember his hatred of himself, for giving up his kingdom, his army, his power, his future. But the part that knows is secondary to the far larger part that needs.

“Please,” Cassian begs. “Please, let me serve you.”

Lorin smiles. “Your highness, I would like nothing more.”