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The young king is pivoting the thin crown around his pointer finger, tracks the glittering movement of the embedded jewels with bored eyes. He does this often, as if he wants others to believe it means nothing to him, as if ruling a nation is a pestering chore and not a burden that plagues him every night. Only a handful know of the nightmares, the reason behind those constant shadows in his pretty face, the fear. And of that handful only Vox shares the very same dreams.
Shoto does not acknowledge Vox for some time even though he set the servants into a frenzy by demanding it was the commander who should attend his bedtime routine tonight. They had found Vox just as he was preparing to go to sleep and begged him to obey the demand, lest they had to suffer the consequences. The whole castle knows he does not have time for this, needs to get an early rest and rise before dawn to head to the training grounds. There is a war on the brink of their walls and their army consists of commoners and adolescents whose parents died in the assault a decade ago. His duty is to keep the nation and the king safe, not to coddle and indulge him. But it is his fault that Shoto had to ascend the throne long before he was meant to and, thus, his guilt led him here. And thus, he waits.
The former king’s sword hangs above the headboard, freshly polished and reflecting the floating dust in the orange light of the setting sun. His own, along with his armour and horse, is with his squire, hopefully just as clean and shiny by the morning. At least one task he can delegate to another. The dozens of others spin through his mind as he waits. The counsel, as old as the army is young, is awaiting his proposal for a frontline attack tomorrow and he can already envision the tired disgruntlement on their weathered faces. They need a good shock to their core, or a good fuck, to get out of their slump and maybe then he won’t be the only one strategizing over this war.
The crown drops to the mattress. “Have you drawn the bath?”
“Yes, my lord,” Vox says and keeps his voice steady.
Truth be told, he had to guess what salts and fragrances to use, figured he was safe with the near empty lavender oil and the rose petals. He made sure not to let any smells last in his memory. To this day he does not know how Shoto’s scent has changed since he presented as an omega, and he wouldn’t want to crumble his defence by associating his king with flowers and beeswax candles. What he associates with him now are carefree summer days and the clank of wooden swords as they had practiced as children, loud laughter as they had run away from the queen and Vox’s mother, huddling close in their hidden alcove in the south wing. It has been long since these halls have echoed the sound of joyful children.
“And did you put the carpet after you filled it? I don’t want to step on cold stone and be bound to the bed with an illness that could’ve been prevented if my knight was a little more invested.”
He is sure his irritation makes his nostrils flare, but he keeps his lips slack, does not bare his teeth at the petty jab of a spoiled omega. “I laid out the carpet and lit many candles. The room is warm and pleasant, my lord.”
Shoto stretches, links his hands and raises them high, head falling back and exposing his neck, he mewls, smacks his lips and looks at Vox with blatant, cruel insight. “Carry me there.”
A laugh almost escapes him. “I couldn’t possibly do that, my Lord.”
“If you refuse my commands, I’ll have you beheaded.”
It’s an empty threat, of course it is, he is the head of the army, is privy to knowledge the whole kingdom depends on, and Shoto.. Well, he cares for him, in a way. Even if it’s just the possessive greed of a royal who wouldn’t want to part from his favourite toy. However, there is no doubt that Shoto would punish him in some other way: Make up rumours about him, have him clean the latrine for a month – bed someone else. Vox’s firsts tremble at the memory. The whispers, the poisonous gossip, the scandal: The young king’s virginity had been stolen. When he had been half-heartedly delayed by a servant, had to push the guards aside to enter the private chambers and immediately seethed at the smell, at the stench of another alpha. When he found Shoto naked and fucked out, grinning, leaning against one of his own men. He had never killed within the walls of the castle but that day he came close to it.
He closes his eyes for a second, breathes in through his mouth. “As you wish, my lord.”
Shoto smiles triumphantly, flips a corner of the duvet, uncovers more of his strong thigh, just above the knee and, gods, he is not wearing a long gown, no stockings, his blouse barely covers his groin. He was in heat barely a week ago, three whole days Vox was sent to an escort mission to a near town, three whole days that he spent in this very bedchamber succumbed to his body, to his lust. The sheets have been changed, of course, and the carpets aired out, but there is still the promising scent of desire hanging in the fabrics, in the feathers of the mattress, in the air.
He must still be fertile.
“You cannot possibly -” Vox realises he has raised his voice. “Please, my lord, do not be foolish.”
“What, are you, are you shy, commander? You’re acting like you’ve never seen an omega before. Are you a virgin?”
If he could just – if he could just silence him. If he could just grab him by the throat and throttle those indecent words, pull him before the throne and reveal his obscenity before his people. Let them know their leader spreads his legs for a lowly knight like him. “I shall carry you to your bath but I implore you to put on at least a longer gown, my lord.”
Shoto raises a brow and then laughs, climbs from the bed way too slowly, toes tapping the flooring, and then he begins to loosen the tie of his blouse. Vox can whirl around just in time to avoid the full sight of his naked body, just barely saw the curve of a shoulder. Spit gathers behind his canines. He never thought of himself as a particularly chivalrous man, the only person who witnesses his passive side, this act of honour and patience, is in this room and is pulling at his heart’s strings like a cruel deity. Every single one of his instincts wants to claw and mark and knot. But his duty is to protect Shoto, to keep him in a condition that allows him to control this nation, and that certainly entails not fucking him. If Vox were to take him, not only would a public outcry occur, not only would they demand a new ruler, it would endanger Shoto’s very life because -, well. Vox is not a gentle lover.
He barely listens to the patter of naked feet behind him, clenches his fist until his knuckles hurt and suppresses his pheromones. He cannot mark the king. He cannot breed the king.
Then, the click of a tongue. “Calm down, knight. I am decent.”
Relieved, Vox turns - just to squeeze his eyes shut. Shoto cackles, decidedly not decent, still completely naked. “Are all alphas this dumb?”
“Have you not been passed around by enough of us to know the answer?”
Silence. Vox swallows. “My lord,” he adds. Still, silence. He doesn’t dare to open his eyes but he can smell it, distinctly and sweet: Embarrassment. It’s like a punch to the gut, hot pressure spreading through his body. It has been a while since he has gotten to taste the heavy scent of it on the tip of his tongue, not since Shoto has had diplomacy training and learned how to conceal, how to mask. Could it be that he is ashamed of impropriety? Of his own desires? Surely not.
“It’s none of your business,” Shoto says with just a hint of a stutter. The chest by the foot of the bed is opened loudly, silk whispers in the still air as cloth is lifted and then pulled over soft hair. An awkward cough. “You may carry me now.”
He bites back his oh, may I? And goes to one knee, arms twisted behind his back, ready to support Shoto’s thighs.
“Don’t be dumb,” Shoto says and rounds him, mean little smile on his plump lips. “It’s fun when you kneel for me, knight, but you are not carrying me like some kind of...potato sack. Hold me to your chest.”
Vox looks up at him, at his king, at his childhood friend, the entire limber shape of him, and curses his past self for choosing loyalty over possession. He should have mated Shoto back then, as soon as he presented, claimed him in front of their parents.
He stands and takes his king into his arms, one elbow under the back of his knees, the other around the small of his back. The gown is thin, made from the highest thread count, by the most skilled weavers, it’s a soft caress to Vox’ burning skin. He worries his desire must be radiating off of him, scorching Shoto’s comfort. He worries – no, he hopes. He hopes it permeates Shoto’s being, burns to the inside. It’s as close as he comes to marking him, ensuring that all other alphas know he has been taken care of.
What a preposterous thing to want for his king when he is leaving for war soon.
Shoto’s breath billows right under his chin and he doesn’t dare to inhale at all, the scent and taste of him so close, so tempting. He keeps his gaze set, shoulders the door open and rushes through the dim corridor with big steps. Better to make this quick. Shoto is frustratingly light in his arms, he could carry him like this for hours, his weight nothing compared to the clunky armour he is used to, could hold him up as he fucked into his leaking hole, could keep him on his knot until it takes and he’s filled and glowing. The joints of his jaw ache.
The washroom is two doors down, facing the gardens because that’s how the former queen liked to bathe. Many of her favourite artworks are still lining the walls, a vanity that had been an anniversary gift sits between two windows. Most remnants of Shoto’s parents have not been moved at all, upholding the suggestion that they might come back from a particularly long trip abroad just to pick up where they left. Even perfume bottles, spotless and shiny, line up before the mirror. Vox puts Shoto down on the upholstered bench, but he is not letting go of his neck, pulls his head down.
“Why are you not looking at your king?” Shoto says dangerously quiet. “You used to look at me all the time, it was so shameful and obvious. What changed, knight?”
Vox draws his eyes over that loose collar, that sharp smile, reciprocates the stare. “My lord, I am simply fulfilling my duty.”
Shoto’s palm glides through the side of his hair, over his ear, over his cheek. It’s smooth, unmarred. Although he is trained in basic combat, he never had to swing at a yelling enemy, grip a sword through the night, cut through flesh and fail against bones, fight for his life. Except for that one time when Vox failed to be there.
“Maybe I’ll lay you off, then you can stare at me all you want.” A grin. Pretty white teeth.
It is getting difficult not to inhale his scent, his thumb right under Vox’s nose. “If you so choose, my lord.”
Shoto frowns deeply. “Don’t fucking pretend like you’d just accept it, stupid bastard. You’re the most capable knight I have.”
Vox rights himself, but keeps up the eye contact. “It’s the first thing you should have done when you became king, my lord. I should not have remained commander.”
A cluster of emotions is visibly seething under Shoto’s skin and just when it seems like pity might take over does he close himself off and rises abruptly. Within moments he has dropped his gown on the carpet, lovely dip of his back glimmering in the candle light, ass round and toned, his cock slightly swollen. He sinks into the bath before Vox’s mouth can start salivating, hides under the rose petals and the drifting steam. The line between his rosy lips is harsh and everything in Vox wants to change that, wants to cause a smile, a moan, even a cry, anything but simmering anger. If things were different, if they were other people without responsibility, without the shame of death laying over them, he’d tease his king, he’d draw a sound from him with a gentle touch.
He averts his gaze, looks at the perfume bottles, notices that they have been opened and closed many times, no rust on the necks, oily fingerprints on the glass. Bile, like guilt, rises in his stomach. He moves to cross the room, but hears the hectic swashing of water.
“Don’t leave.”
He stills. He should. He must. “As you wish, my lord.”
Vox stands by a window, gazes upon the open land, the yellowing fields, the trees losing the very first of their leaves and tries not to remember them burning, illuminating a starry night not unlike this one. They had been betrayed, sold false information to await their enemies within the shadows of the forest. It was when the first sparks flew into the sky, when the main hall had already been breached, that Vox realised. As fast as their steeds could take them, it wasn’t fast enough. His armour had slowed him down on the stairs, had revealed his arrival and even though he cut a path through the opposing soldiers, he had to burst into the royal chambers to the sight of young Shoto cowering over the corpse of his parents and enemies alike, his father’s sword in his bloody hands. He wouldn’t let go of it even days after.
“Come here,” Shoto demands. He has his head tipped back against the edge of the tub, he’s flushing from the heat of the water, the ends of his hair have begun curling. His expression has slightly relaxed, though his brows are still tense. It would be so easy to make him melt.
“Kneel by the tub.”
Vox wills his scent not to betray how much it irks him to be ordered around like this. There is always this struggle within him, the need to care and protect, to be loyal to the bloodline, but also to take and push and refuse, to end the monarchy by stealing the young king and riding away with him. It satisfied him that he is the only alpha who gets to witness the king in this vulnerable state, in this room. He did not put carpet so close to the tub, did not want to risk mould, so he must endure the cold stone through the fabric under his knees, but it’s worth it, being so close to Shoto, watching the water lick at his body, his nipples wet and shimmering. Right now, he is safe. “My lord. What would you like to have me do?” Vox asks, can’t help but lower his voice.
Shoto’s mouth parts, the flat surface of his tongue just visible. The vein on the side of his neck pulses. “Keep me company. You’re always running around, swarmed by your admirers and I don’t even get the chance to speak to you.”
“We’re preparing for war, my-”
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” Shoto’s agitation ripples over the surface of the water. “You think I’m not very, very aware of the violence that will happen? I know everyone thinks of me as the inexperienced boy king, too young to sit on the throne, but I was there, Vox,” and his voice trembles, “I know that war isn’t honour and glory and all that bullshit, I know it’s awful and – and -… I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I didn’t want this to happen again, I swear. You believe me, right?”
Vox’s heart, fragile organ made of blood and flesh, has broken many times and he knows it will break many more times in the future. There is no comfort in knighthood. “We are doing everything we can, my lord.”
It is obvious that Shoto is not satisfied with the answer. He sinks down, until his shoulders are submerged, rubs a flower petal between his thumbs. The candlelight catches in the strands of his dark hair.
“My lord,” Vox tries and lays a hand on the rim of the tub. “I am here now. What is it that you want from me?”
His pulse quickens as Shoto takes his hand and aligns their palms, wet fingers sliding between his knuckles, a drop of water running down his wrist. “Take care of me. You said that you’re fulfilling your duty. Your duty as a knight is to make sure your king is well. Then do so.”
So, Vox does.
It takes a while for them to settle, for their tense shoulders to drop, for his touch to become firm. He begins by taking a cloth and running it down Shoto’s calves, rubbing soap over the arch of his feet, in-between his toes, massages the soft soles with his battle-scarred thumbs. Shoto twitches, giggles until Vox digs in and then he sighs, stretches. His eyelids droop, become heavier when Vox’s hands dip under the water to scrub his knees. Beneath the floating petals and the increasing cloudiness, he can see Shoto’s cock growing. He wonders if he’s getting wet, too, if his hole, just a touch away, is aching.
Shoto clutches his wrist before he can go any higher. “My back,” is all he says, swallows loudly. Vox has half a mind to ignore him, to wrap his palm around his pink cock and tug him off right here, force an orgasm out of him. It takes all his might for his scent not to spike and push against the boundaries of this omega’s mind.
It is apparent in Shoto’s open face that he knows this, revels in having Vox do as he says, spoiled little lord, spoiled little brat. He flicks water into Vox’s face, laughs and laughs, makes him add more lavender oil, makes him shed his vest so the wet linen of his shirt clings to his chest. He is doing it to cover up his embarrassment, pulls his knees up to his chest to hide his crotch as Vox kneels behind him and cleans his back, then goes to wash his hair. His head is small and vulnerable in Vox’s hands, his scalp soft. Satisfied hums fill the silence as Vox massages the back of his neck, his temples, rubs in the soap and prevents it from running down his forehead. As much as it enrages him to have this omega so close and out of reach, to be unable to take him as his own, his heart beats for him. As long as he gets to be by his king’s side, all frustration and worry are worthwhile.
“How many people have you... how many have joined your bed, knight?” Shoto asks and Vox’s thumb slips, down his neck and way too close to his mating gland. The softest little sigh bursts from Shoto’s damp lips, his lashes flutter shut, and his knees fall against the side of the tub. Vox nearly bites him right then. “What a crude question, my lord, I couldn’t possibly speak of such matters to you.”
“Fuck you. I know you talk to others about this. I know you’ve fucked almost every omega on these grounds.” He almost imperceptibly arches into Vox’s touch.
“Seems like you don’t need me to answer your question then, my lord.”
His voice is surprisingly calm for the fact that his mind is racing with the knowledge that Shoto has been observing, asking about him. How does he go about it, does he just ask the servants what omega the commander of his army has bedded recently? Does he secretly seek the trace of Vox’s scent on his people? Does he lie awake and agonize over it?
Vox realises he is gripping the crown of Shoto’s hair so hard his knuckles have paled. Hastily, he lets go and steps back, hides his shaking fist behind his thighs. “My lord.” His tongue is heavy. “May I leave, my lord?”
Shoto twists around and seeing his blown pupils, his glowing cheeks, his mouth bitten a deep red, cuts the last strings that hold Vox back. His scent seeps from him, rises to his own nose, awfully thick and selfish, eradicates everything except his own desire from his mind, but it hits Shoto even harder. He whimpers and his head sways, water splatters on the ground as he spreads his legs in a flash, good little omega, good little whore – Vox has his fingers wrapped around his throat, is pulling his head back so far that his adam’s apple strains under his skin, that his flushed chest rises in an arc. His nipples are peaked and tight, the dip under his ribs glistening, and he is fully hard, little omega cock swollen and begging for touch. His hole must be wet, too, needy.
Vox inhales deeply, drags the eager omega scent of him down to his lungs. Tenderly, he lays his thumb over Shoto’s throat, leans down to nose at his ear. “You are playing a dangerous game, my lord.”
“I -,” Shoto says. “You’re a, you’re a bastard.”
“Now,” he tightens his fingers ever so slightly around the rise of his windpipe. “Why would you insult your bravest knight like this, my lord? Such foul language doesn’t become a king.”
“Fuck you. Fuck you, you can’t speak to me like that, I’ll have you -”
Vox chokes him. Sweat breaks out under his palm, Shoto’s mouth gapes open, his hands come up, searching for purchase, he’s struggling, gasping, so scared. The smell of his slick has infused the water and is now rising with the steam. There is a wanton omega before him, ripe for the taking, and he is going to claim what is his. He has had enough, enough of being pushed around by someone who should beg for his knot, who has been teasing him in the most ridiculous of ways, not even speaking up and asking outright, just hinting, skirting around the topic, weighing himself safe in his position. Vox will make him feel fear again.
Hands clutch his wrist, try to loosen his grip, but he only tightens it, watches Shoto’s face turn red, watches his cock strain under violent ripples of the water. “Your insolence knows no bounds, my lord. Acting as if your royal status could protect you from harm,” Vox says, just enough to be heard over the splashes. “Did you think I would kiss and coddle you? When you were forgoing your undergarments, did you hope I would gently caress your thighs and press love into your skin? When you let my subordinates fuck you, did you hope I would pull you to my chest and praise you for it?”
Shoto shakes his head, mouths something unintelligible.
“Ah.” Understanding blooms within him. So his efforts to conceal his wants might’ve been futile, but he has been seen, understood, their childhood has not been forgotten under the ruins of death and duty. “You want me to hurt you.”
When Shoto nods, it must cut off his air even more.
“You have heard how I treat my lovers, haven’t you?”
He feels each slope of Shoto’s windpipe and lets off to allow just one rattling breath. “Yeah.”
“And you are so jealous,” he realizes just as he says it. “You pine after your knight, don’t you young king?”
He manoeuvres Shoto until he’s further down in the tub, then slides a palm between the angles of his shoulder blades. Careful not to allow the water to come up past Shoto’s cheekbones, he submerges the back of his head until the soap in his hair has dissipated, stares back into wide, unblinking eyes. He has to dig deep into the side of Shoto’s neck to keep him from drowning, from slipping between his fingers. “Do you feel that, my lord? Your life is in my hands. You threaten to behead me but if I was suddenly running down the corridor, yelling for the doctor, there was an accident, the king hit his head and has drowned, do you think anyone would dare to doubt me? ”
Shoto is still gripping his wrist, is fighting to hold himself up with his legs, working his core and, with that, displaying his leaking cock above the waterline.
“Look at you, getting hard at the prospect of death.” His heart hammers against the cage of his ribs. This is what he couldn’t do back then: Have complete control over Shoto’s life, be the sole keeper of him.
Vox lets Shoto go, unceremoniously drops him into the water and watches him come up for air, cough and splutter, wipe his eyes. Angry marks line his throat, the bags under his eyes have turned ashen, but he looks up at Vox with hazy trust.
“Kiss me,” his king demands in a rasp. “Vox, kiss me.”
Vox chooses to comply and bows down, cups Shoto’s face with his hands and bites into him, draws blood with the first nip, sucks on his lips. This first taste of him is as fulfilling as it is devastating. He should’ve had this years ago, should have been the first to bruise his lips, should have swallowed his blood when he should have mated him. It makes him all the more violent now, greedy as he licks over Shoto’s tongue, behind his canines. He doesn’t allow him to kiss back, keeps him limp with his thumbs on his chin and the tip of his pinky ghosting over his mating gland.
The soapy water has drenched his shirt, is soaking into his trousers but he doesn’t want to get inside the bath, instead hauls Shoto up by one shoulder and thigh and wraps him around his hips. His skin is warm, especially where their chests adjoin and Vox’s fingers dig into his round ass, close to where he must be hottest. He hears drops hitting the stone, then the carpet as he walks over to the vanity and lets the perfume bottles shatter on the floor with one broad sweep to put Shoto on the wooden table of it. Glass crunches under his shoes, dozens of aromas cloy the ear and he immediately regrets his thoughtless actions, their scents now covered by the stink of rotten flowers.
It’s because he tastes salt that he realises Shoto is crying silently, tears mixing into the water on his face, breathing uneven and hiccups silenced by their lips. He presses closer, bullies apart Shoto’s soft thighs and grinds against his cock, hopes his heartbeat is felt through the drenched linen. Steadily, he runs his palm over Shoto’s trembling chest, squeezes around his nipples, imagines the flesh swelling with milk. “What if I gave you an heir, my lord,” he muses, kisses the leaking corners of Shoto’s eyes. “What if this lineage of royals would be dirtied by a lowly knight?”
Shoto moans and crosses his ankles behind Vox’s back, pressure nearly too tight. “You can’t, I’m must marry the –”
“Who would stop me?” He asks, gropes Shoto’s tits, pulls on them. “Who is there to save you from me, hmm?
The stench of the perfumes stings in his nose and lapping over Shoto’s neck and into the dip of his collar bones mostly tastes like lavender, but when he sucks in his nipples he imagines them throbbing, can almost feel them leaking, something thick, something sweeter than the bath water. Hands tug on his hair but without direction, Shoto squirms into his mouth and away from his hips, so Vox tips him back against the foggy mirror, feels goosebumps break out under him. He kisses them, over each rib and mole, over Shoto’s bellybutton and hipbones, sinks his teeth into the mounds over his hips and the flesh of his thighs. White indents adorn the silken skin after he is done, some speckled with blood, many framed by purple bruising. The lower he goes, the better he can detect the overshadowed smell of omega slick, and when he sinks onto the cushioned seat, the first thing he does is press his nose into the crease of Shoto’s thigh and groin.
The skin is dewy from sweat, soap and precome and below that bitter fragrance he can taste sweet, sweet boy. He licks the underside of Shoto’s balls, sucks them into his mouth one after the other, listens to the gasps above him. Slowly, he traces the pulsing veins up to the flushed tip, worries his tongue into its underside and its slit, sucks on the beads that trickle out and onto his palate. He grins sharply at the intense reactions, rests his teeth on velvet skin. “Do you like getting your little omega cock sucked, my lord?”
“Vox -,” Shoto is holding himself very still, eyes cast on Vox’s mouth. “Please, careful, don’t hurt me -”
His voice is still so very rough, it will stay like this for days and Vox despises the thought of him coming up with a lazy excuse, will ensure everyone knows the truth. He pushes the flat surface of his front teeth against the hood of Shoto’s cock and revels in the scared whimper, claws into Shoto’s thighs to prolong it and shoulders closer as he does so. It has always brought him satisfaction to pleasure his omegas orally, to savour not just the taste of their slick but of their come, too, to compel them to tremble in want while he teases a finger around their hole or threatens or scars them. If it were anyone else, he’d be much more forceful, but for now he swallows Shoto’s cock down, makes it tight and wet, speeds up when Shoto hiccups on a slower ah please, holds his balls in one hand and makes sure they throb under the squeeze of it.
“It’s - it’s not -, can you, can you go lower, please, Vox, please,” and when Vox ignores him, Shoto attempts to push him further down. “Fuck you, c’mon, don’t be a bastard, don’t defy your king-”
Ironically, Vox almost chokes on a laugh, has to pull up and throw his head back: “Oh, please do show me how you would make me? Do you truly think you have any power over me?”
Shoto glares at him, yanks on his hair and uses his naked feet to try and shove him off the bench but he is so much weaker than him, cushioned from luxury and withered by stress. Vox lets him kick and push for a while, though he keeps his mouth where it is, sucks on the throbbing shaft until he tastes the tang of blood. It’s charming how fruitless the aggression is, almost a massage on his sore muscles. “Useless omega” he says after he decides they are done, bites Shoto’s abdomen harshly, fondles his cock as if he was inspecting a piece of meat and then slaps it with the back of his fingers. “You are not fit for the throne.”
He underlines his words with another hit, rams his elbow into the soft inside of Shoto’s thighs to keep his legs spread and catches his flailing wrists with his other hand. It does make it difficult to slap him again but he is nothing if not determined, raises his forearm as much as he can and brings his palm down with a harsh sound.
“Please, stop, Vox, Vox, Vox, stop-” Shoto cries out, finally, finally, he sounds close to giving in to sobs.
“Stop me, then,” he says, feels himself grinning. “You have barely tried. Are you not a king?”
Before the next slap lands, Shoto bends down, his teeth bared, and then he bites into Vox’s lower lip, crashes into him so hard his jaw smarts. Immediately, blood spills between them, down their chins and into their mouths, he gives back as much as he gets, opens up the wounds in Shoto’s lips, cuts into his tongue. He doesn’t have the space to keep hitting but tightens his fist, prods his nails into vulnerably thin skin. The heat beneath him and in the room is blurring his mind and he feels his chest vibrate with growls, it’s not much longer until he won’t be able to hold back and knot the wet hole in front of him.
Suddenly, he hears words pressed into his tongue, quiet whines that pierce his very soul: “Am I a good lord to you, Vox? Am I a good king?”
He rests their foreheads against each other, breathes in Shoto’s shaky exhale. His boots reconnect with the wet floor, glass turning to powder. The perfume still hangs the air, no chance to dissipate with the steam and the closed windows, but he has memorized Shoto’s scent and taste now, has absorbed him deep into his body. With their eyes so close, their pupils flitter back and forth, dilate until he can see his own reflection. They look at each other and Vox is reminded of that scared boy he found back then, covered in blood and sweat.
“I still look at you,” he confesses into Shoto’s skin, brushes his bloody lips against his temple, a curl tickling his nose. “I never stopped looking at you. I couldn’t, you are simply too...”
Vox slides his hands around Shoto’s waist and lets him feel his hardness, hugs him close. “Yes. Yes, sweetheart, you are.”
His heart speeds up, speeds up even more when warm pressure palms over his crotch and his trousers are tugged down enough for his cockhead to meet slick skin. He twitches forward on instinct, grinds into the tender space between balls and inner thighs.
“Take me,” Shoto says quietly, guides him to his hole. He’s holding onto Vox’s shoulder with a fearful grip. The vanity creaks. “You can take me, will you? Make me yours, I’ve al- I'm yours, Vox, please. Please.”
The heat of him is all-consuming, pulsing around Vox as he stretches him out slow and steady, feels his muscles give in and relax, his slick easing the way. Nothing has ever felt so good and welcoming, so entirely righteous. He has been correct all along, there is no going back now, even if by some miracle they were to part, their scents would have already intertwined, he would have already left his mark inside the king. He hears himself groaning, panting into Shoto’s cheekbone. “Fuck, my little whore, my little omega, my sweetheart, I’m going to breed you, fill you up, keep you on my knot.”
“Can’t, you can’t knot me, we’re not allowed to mate -”
“I will,” he snarls, brutally shoves in to the hilt. They both release a moan and he fucks more out of them, curls his elbows under Shoto’s knees and bends him into a small shape, hollows him out. The edge of the table cuts into his thighs, the perfume bottles crumble further, candle flames flicker in the margins of his vision. He watches Shoto’s contorted face, his lashes flared with shock, his mouth an open wet hole, his hairline damp from water and the sweat that trickles into the corners of his glossy eyes. With every thrust, his brows and cheeks tremble, his pink neck moves with his desperate swallowing. It makes obscene sounds, he’s nearly choking on his own saliva and Vox adds to it by spitting on his sloppy tongue. “You’re going to take all of me, aren’t you?”
Shoto shakes his head, no can’t we can’t, but he is leaking so, so much and his swollen cock rubs into Vox’s abdomen, leaves a trail of sticky fluid, thin strings that connect their stomachs. His hole has already loosened up, so ready to be widened, made to be knotted.
“Is this what they made you feel?” He growls, angles them differently and draws his strength from his back, knocks Shoto upwards. “All those alphas that fucked you? Were you as much of a mess, whining and drooling for them as you are now? You look pathetic, my lord. You look like the boy you are, how everyone sees you, silly little king pretending it takes nothing but sitting on a thrown and wearing a crown to be a competent ruler. How shameful.”
Shoto garbles a noise, sputters his name. Vox buries his teeth in his already bruised throat, drags them down and towards his mating gland. “I should have been your first, my lord. I should have been the first to fuck you open and I should have done it the day you were crowned, should have taken you right after the ceremony, made you my royal wife.”
“Why,” a wet gasp. “Why didn’t you, Vox, what took you so long, why did you keep me waiting, why-”
He kisses him quiet, spits his guilt between his marred lips, swallows the blood that he spilled himself. His own eyes sting with tears and he can hear Shoto crying again, his nose stinging with the smell of salt. The base of his cock swells at that and he makes sure its noticed, keeps pulling out in a slow move and fucking in roughly, squeezing himself into giving flesh. The tip of his cock tingles, all of it pulsates and fattens up, he has never been so hard, so desperate to breed.
“Vox, no, you can’t, you can’t knot me, if anyone finds out – what if -”
“Fucking - shut up, Shoto, shut the fuck up and take it, you damn whore, you’ve wanted this since you were a little pup, you do not fool anyone.” His hand automatically comes up to wrap around Shoto’s throat again and he chokes him, strangles his cries, tilts his head to the side when he feels his knot expand so much it barely pops out – and with the next shove, when he seals himself inside his omega, he bites into Shoto’s neck, severs the skin over his mating gland and owns him.
Beneath the garbled moans and sniffles, Vox can clearly make out the alpha alpha oh fuck oh gods oh gods please, can hear the submission bleed into Shoto’s voice, into his body. He goes so limp in his arms, falls into himself and further into Vox’s teeth. So many years of desperate commands and arrogant smiles and ridiculous punishments for imagined transgressions, months of fear and worry of battle, and now he’s melting, mewling, marked.
Vox comes inside his king, his seed locked in his eager hole and it will take and it will create an heir, continue the bloodline, ensure the survival of this kingdom. He will do anything in his power to keep his omega and their child alive; he will win the war and the next, he will tend and care for them, fulfil their every need. “Call me your lord,” he says in a low growl, lowers his lids in violent desire.
Shoto looks up at him with dazed eyes, his omega mind dumbed down and fucked out, he’s speechless, thin tip of his tongue resting on his puffy bottom lip.
Vox thumbs his chin. “Call me your lord, sweetheart, and I’ll let you come, hmm? Don’t you want that? It will feel so nice, you want to feels nice, don’t you. Yeah. Sweet little boy.”
Shoto nods and his mouth opens, a hoarse throat coming deep from within him.
“There you go, you can do it, let me hear you.”
“Vox...,” so quiet, so strained. “Alpha. My -…please, my lord, please.”
But Vox does not need to do anything, doesn’t even have time to force his knot deeper or lower a hand, because Shoto sobs and comes, droplets spurting up to his glowing chest, spilling down his cute cock and to where they are bound. His hole spasms around Vox, milks more out of him, makes him moan, makes his knot swell further. “Yeah, yes, you’re doing so well for your king, what a lovely little wife you’ll make, so sweet and obedient. I know what you need, sweetheart, I can see. I can see it in your pretty eyes, do not worry. Do not worry, my darling.”
Their scents, now nearly one, have overtaken the stench of the perfumes, must be seeping under the door and into the hallway, are infusing the carpet and the curtains, and they will spread throughout the castle, he will fuck Shoto in every corner, in every wing and tower. He is king now, not yet by crown but by bite and blood, and no kingdom nor royal will fall under his rule. Not again. Not again.