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Ronan's father had given him one firm rule before he had fucked off to war and died: Do not fraternize with the Witches. This included speaking to them, breathing the air in spaces they inhabited, even saying words that rhymed with Witch (which was bothersome to Ronan, who kept a colorful selection of curse words in his pocket like loose change). 

The responsibility of "nagging the middle prince" passed from King Niall of Lindenmere when he died to his oldest son, Declan, who repeated it time and time again. Do not, do not, do not associate with Witches.

Naturally, Ronan slept with one. 

It'd be a lie to say it was an accident. Mostly, he’d taken one look at the Witch and felt attached to him at the rib ever since. (Also Ronan had been thinking about how red Declan's face would turn once Ronan descended the castle steps with love bites on his neck and declare, "I've bedded a Witch!" But that was just an added benefit).

It'd also be a lie to say that he had been seduced by the unnatural charm Witches had, a type of seduction that could only be explained away by enchantment and noxious potions. But Adam Parrish's seduction on Ronan had begun before Adam had even noticed Ronan's existence in the first place. 

Ronan had been shielded in the trees, hidden by the low weeping branches of the willow and the shade of the sun behind him. He watched captivated as a boy his age of gold and sunlight danced with the Witches in the clearing, his linen shirt tossed over a patch of tall grass, arms thrown above his head. 

He was beautiful . 

The golden boy danced among the bare-breasted women, easing closer and closer to the open fire at the center of the revelry. Ronan nearly burst from his hiding spot, about to yell for the boy to stop. But the boy merely stopped in front of the flames, hair wild with orange and smoke, and stared. 

And stared. And stared. And didn't blink. And didn't breathe. 

Ronan held his breath too. 

Then, the boy tore away from the fire with a gasp, heaving for breath like someone who clawed their way from the dredges of a lake. Shouting rose to the trees as if the Witch boy had done something more impressive than suck in a breath. Slowly, the boy rose his head, took in the crowd, and lifted his hands.

"The Magician is ready to give his prophecy," one of the Witches called, bending low in reverence. 

The cacophony cheers and prayers fell silent. 

Ronan inched forward, just to the border where the golden hour ate away at the forest shadows. He held himself perfectly still, hoping the Witch boy gave his prophecy loud enough to fill the clearing and reach him. 

Hands open to skies, the Witch boy gave his prophecy. 

"This is the year the war with the Dreamers ends," he called. A chill ran down Ronan's spine. "This is the year the Witches become free." 

And there must've been something acutely wrong with Ronan, because he had just heard a magical omen that his people would lose their war, and yet all he could focus on was the smoke-scratchy sound to the boy's voice and the way all his edges were haloed in light. He wanted the boy to speak of more demise.

Dipping a torch into the fire, the boy waved it above his head, cutting the air with sparks and flames, yelling, “ Libertas perfundet omnia luce. ” Freedom will flood all things with light. 

The celebration erupted anew, breaching the limits of volume with added instruments, chanting, and dancing. Ronan had never seen anything like it. Lindenmere had always had such rigid rules, especially now that Declan sat on the throne. He wondered, for a luxurious second, what it would be like to strip off his own shirt and dance among his enemy. 

Only, when Ronan looked back to the Witch boy, the Witch boy was looking back — completely still in the grass, bodies moving and twirling around him. 

Ronan's first instinct was to duck back into the dark of the forest, but it was overpowered by the molten warmth that sank from his chest to his abdomen, sparked by a single pair of eyes on him. Ronan wanted to see those eyes up close. He wanted to lay his hands on the strong shoulders and feel the way they'd been heated by the sun and by the fire. He wanted to see how far down the Witch’s body the heat ran, if it swelled in the velvet warmth between his legs. He wanted to know what gold tasted like in his mouth. 

The boy crossed the clearing and approached Ronan. It wasn't until he was halfway across that Ronan noticed the boy's feet were completely bare. 

"I saw you, Prince of Lindenmere," the boy said. This close, his voice was even smoother. Rounded around the edges with long vowels and swallowed consonants. 

"Obviously," replied Ronan slowly. "Since you're standing in front of me talking to me." 

"I meant in my vision, while I scried. I saw you."

"Oh yeah? What was I doing?" 

A playful glint.

"Would you really like to know?"

Ronan's palms were shaking, no matter how hard he tried to quell them. He couldn't sit still. The air was too full of magic and his eyes were too full of this lovely boy. 

"Yes," Ronan said honestly, because he was not the prince who lied. "I would like to know." 

The boy drew so close, Ronan could smell the heady scent of smoke, wine, and sweat on his skin. He wet his lips. 

"You were in my bed," the Witch whispered, a slow grin forming on his mouth.

Ronan’s mouth went dry. He’d never bedded a man before — or even kissed one, really. Usually no one caught his eye well enough for a quick fuck to even occur as a possibility. But the boy didn't need to know that. It'd been all Ronan could think about since he saw him. 

"I didn't need magic," Ronan began deliberately, "to know that was my future." 

The boy lifted a dusty brow. 

"When do your visions usually come true?" Ronan asked. He should be asking for the sake of his kingdom, for the war on occult magic his family was waging. But he wanted to know how quickly he could get his hands where he wanted them.

"My visions aren't always prescriptions. Sometimes they are merely helpful suggestions. The future is what you make of it, Ronan of Lindenmere." 

Ronan swallowed. 

"I shouldn't bed a Witch." This was the part of Ronan that was related to Declan. A small part, but a vocal one on occasion. 

"I can see why that might cause some complications. You’ve many responsibilities." The boy crossed into Ronan's space, peering up with deep blue eyes. "Does it help your deliberation if the Witch beds you instead?" 

The images were filthy. Ronan bent with his face practically chewing the mattress while the Witch knelt behind him. Hard hands on his hips, the traces of magic underneath the fingertips like a trail of perfume. A pair of lips at the small of his back, kissing delicately when it was all over. 

It was a convincing imagination, indeed.

“You know who I am. If you’re going to bed me, I think you ought to tell me your name,” said Ronan.

He thought himself quick, but the Witch boy was quicker.

“So you can hand it to your brother’s men and command them hunt me down? Your people won’t consider you the hero for besting a Witch who came to you willingly.”

Sometimes it always seemed to come to this — Ronan forgetting the truth of who he was and someone always, always reminding him. But it didn’t matter. This was something he wanted, something he could have without shame or guilt if he were anyone else.

“I thought we’d established that you’d be the one besting me ,” Ronan said, a bit heavy. The Witch’s eyes glinted. This was apparently the right answer. Ronan continued. “This war is my father’s. My brother is either too prideful or stubborn to admit that it’s time to throw the white flag. But it’s nothing to do with me. I came here to form my own opinion. To see with my own eyes.”

“And what conclusion have you come to, m’lord?”

“That I want you.” 

The boy’s hands spread open again, only this time it wasn’t to receive a prophecy from a sky-burning fire. It was an invitation. A summons. 

“Then have me.” 

Ronan took him by the face and kissed him. 

*

It wasn’t until later, when the horizon was crowned with dark purple and Ronan was delightfully sore, that the Witch said, “My name is Adam Parrish.” Ronan could hear the way the name sounded rumbling through Adam’s chest against his back. He twisted around so they were nose to nose, then leaned forward for what seemed like the thousandth kiss they’d shared that night. 

“I’m Ronan.” 

“You are more than that.” 

“Not here I’m not.” 

Not in these sheets that were too scratchy, this Witch’s cottage with the drafty windows. Here Ronan could be a version of himself that had lived a simpler life. One without unceasing responsibility and a lifetime of war. 

“When I see you again, will you be Prince Ronan of Lindenmere or just Ronan?” Adam whispered. Ronan understood the implication — Will you be the Prince killing my people or will you be the lover in my bed? 

Ronan didn’t like making promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. But he did know he wanted to see Adam Parrish again. He gave Adam the only truth he had. 

“I will be whoever you want.” 

Adam’s eyes danced, like he was memorizing the count of Ronan’s lashes and the curve of his cheeks. 

“Okay,” he said. “But who do you want to be?” 

Someone you want, Ronan thought longingly. Someone who can be with you without restraint or consequence. He thought about the war. The prophecy. About how he always had secretly thought the Witches had never done anything wrong but live their lives.  About the rising Witch death count. About what the world would look like to Ronan if Adam Parrish was added among them. It was strange, to be thinking about how to protect this boy he’d known for half a day, but it felt… important. Like all those years stifled under the royal lifestyle led to this moment, this year, where he could put his power to use and do some good for once. 

But that meant being Prince Ronan, the version of himself that didn’t watch rituals in the woods or take Witches as lovers. He didn’t think he could give up the parts of himself that did those things. That would mean giving up Adam.

Adam’s thumb caressed the curve of Ronan’s collarbone. 

Who do you want to be? 

“I want to be both. I want to be the person that frees you.” 

They could not know it then, boys unaccustomed to ever getting what they wanted, wrapped under thin sheets and still tasting of salt and sweat. But the spirits of Lindenmere favored their dreamer prince and their Magician.

And great things happened to those the gods favored. 

*

Five months later many things had changed. 

Declan had doubled down on castle guard, limiting movement in and out of the Lindenmere castle. The war had shifted in favor of the Witches, though death counts had somehow lowered on both sides. Spring turned to Summer. And Ronan fell in love. 

But then, in those five months, things for Ronan stayed exactly the same. He still snuck out of the castle as often as he could and avoided war meetings. He still spent hours exploring in the woods, practicing his dreaming. Most of all, he still wanted Adam and Adam — he thought — still wanted him. 

The nature of their circumstances meant that they both exercised caution. The few witches that knew about Adam’s affair certainly wanted to slaughter Ronan on sight, but were subdued when Adam told them I saw this man in a vision during Beltane. He is mine. This had quieted the Witchs’ complaints (and made Ronan feverish) almost instantaneously. Most of the other Witches did not know of Adam’s secret affair with the Lindenmere prince, or if they saw Ronan, they didn’t match his face to the traitor in their minds. 

Although he had been looking forward to bragging to Declan about his unholy encounters, Ronan still hadn’t revealed Adam’s existence to his brother. It was safer that way. Declan had been rumbling about wanting to track down the Witchs’ Magician and kill her. Ronan very wisely did not correct him. Instead he asked, “What has the Witch Magician ever done to you?” 

“She prophesied that the Witch’s would win the war,” Declan answered, not looking up from the maps spread on his desk. 

“And what happens then?” 

“We lose , Ronan.” 

“We lose what, Declan?” 

Declan hadn’t had an answer. But Ronan didn’t need one. The war had been bred out of the dreamers’ desire to be the only magical beings in the realm. They believed their magic to be a gift from ancient deities. When the witches made their own magic, the dreamers had tried to smother them out. 

It was wrong. The assurance of knowing so took away any guilt Ronan had about being with Adam. In fact, it only made him visit the Witch Village more.

They walked a dangerous line. Ronan knew this. As days of wartime passed, Ronan’s affection for Adam grew almost unbearable, a constant weight on his chest that wanted to drag him back to his Magician’s cottage. He didn’t think he could be blamed for this. Adam was wise beyond his years, wittier than Ronan had expected, and full of heart to the brim. There were parts of his physical aspect that Ronan favored, as well — Adam’s freckled face, his hands, his soft ass, his hands — but it was Adam’s company that drove Ronan to madness. He craved it every minute of every day. He visited Adam often. 

One night, a Witch with a necklace of roses and a sea of curly hair caught Ronan sneaking out of the village. She had paint on her face and the usual glint of magic in her eye. Ronan had nodded politely in her direction, only to be shoved up against a wall with a knife to his throat a moment later. I know who you are, Prince Ronan, she growled. And I don’t take kindly to spies. Give me one good reason I shouldn’t slit your throat right here and now. 

Ronan had said the only thing he could think of: I love your Magician.

So she spared him and gave him her name: Jordan. Not because his words moved her, but instead because killing the Magician’s lover was a dangerous undertaking. But she did demand a boon, something that would keep her from revealing to all the other Witches who the tattooed boy was amongst their rank.

He looked at her speckled face and clothes and said, “I can get you paints.”

“Show me where they are,” she demanded. “So that I can go get more whenever I need them.”

There was no choice. Ronan had snuck her into the castle, shown her where the portrait artist hid his most expensive paints, and gave her full permission to visit again if she should run low.

They’d parted ways and Ronan thought that would be the last he saw of her. 

But five months had changed a lot of things.

The biggest was the night Declan had come to the banquet hall one hot September evening and announced that he’d fallen in love with a Witch and that the war was over. Jordan had walked in a second later, magic twisted around her smile, a smirk in Ronan’s direction. Ronan didn’t want to know how she met Declan, or how many times she snuck into the castle for the sake of seeing him. It just mattered that the war was over. All because the royal brothers loved Witches. The clashing of magic would cease, the torrents and sieges, they were all over. 

Adam was safe.

Ronan shot up from his chair, practically sprinting toward the door. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Declan demanded, but Ronan ignored him. 

“What?” he heard Jordan say. “You didn’t think you were the only one to fall in love with a Witch, did you?” 

*

By the time Ronan made it to Adam’s cottage, the nighttime had turned the humid air to chirping crickets. Adam lived in the attic of his landlord Persephone’s house, who kindly informed Ronan that Adam was already asleep, but that he still might like to see his prince anyway. Ronan had come to bring the good news, let Adam be the one to brag that his prophecy came true, but he had a feeling Persephone already knew. 

Ronan climbed the stony steps and slipped into Adam’s room as quiet as a shadow. 

Adam was on the bed, sheet loosely draped over his shoulders. He was hugging the pillow on Ronan’s side of the bed, cheek nuzzled into the plush center. Ronan felt his heart give a strong tug. 

They could be together now. They could start the life they’d whispered about in the quiet hours, watch the sun rise and fall over a thousand blissful days. Just this morning, it’d seemed like a dream, an impossible reality that only they could know. This was a different sort of reality. 

Ronan lowered himself to his knees beside the bed and leaned over Adam. He brought his face up to the side of Adam’s face, thumbing over the expanse of freckles that were practically white in the moonlight. Adam didn’t stir. 

Encouraged, Ronan placed a kiss in the spot where his thumb had been, so lightly he barely felt Adam’s warmth. He added another between his brows, a third beside his ear. It was a mountain of snowflake kisses — on the bone of Adam’s chin, on each appled cheek, on the very tip of his nose, over each eyelid. 

It was the last two that made Adam stir awake. His arms appeared from beneath the blankets, lazily wrapping around Ronan’s back, though he didn’t open his eyes. 

“Ronan, come to bed,” Adam rasped, tugging up weakly under Ronan’s arms. “Your side is cold, but you’ll be warmer if you lay closer to me.” 

Ronan nuzzled their heads together, smiling softly when short curls brushed against Adam’s longer hair. He let his lips linger at Adam’s temple, only for his lover to stretch up his chin for a real kiss. The first one missed, landing on the underside of Ronan’s chin. The next was closer, but too close to his eyelashes. Ronan moved to lay atop Adam and everything slipped into place — Adam’s mouth landing warm and sure on Ronan’s, the heat between their legs lined up in a sensitive swath of warmth. Ronan felt the kiss in all the darkest corners of himself. 

“Something’s changed,” Adam murmured against Ronan’s lips. “You’re happy.” 

“I’m not just happy. I’m fucking ecstatic.” 

“I’m a Witch, your highness. Not a mind reader.” 

Ronan gave Adam a kiss so deep, he tasted the sleep on the edges of his mouth. And then, he told him. 

“The war is over. The Witches and the Dreamers have agreed to an armistice.” 

Adam’s eyes snapped open. 

“No,” he whispered, eyes glinting. “...Truly?”  

“You saw it yourself. You doubt your own prophecy?” 

Adam’s lips draw into a thin line as he remembered Beltane, then, upon complete remembrance, he covered his face with his hands. This came to the chagrin of Ronan, who quite liked staring at Adam’s face without the veil of his own hands. He pulled Adam’s palms away, then pressed his lips to each one. Adam buried his face into Ronan’s throat instead, still uneager to be seen. 

“What’s the matter?” Ronan asked lightly, giving Adam a little nudge. 

“That…wasn’t a prophecy,” confessed Adam into Ronan’s skin. “My vision had nothing to do with the war. It was just a lucky guess.” 

Ronan blinked. “You’re joking.” 

“I wish I was.” He let out a dramatic sigh and dropped his forehead onto Ronan’s shoulder. “Stars above, I’m so relieved the war actually ended this year. Calla would have killed me if she found out I lied.” 

A low rumbling laugh bubbled out of Ronan’s lips. But then he remembered that wasn’t all that Adam had predicted on Beltane. It wasn’t that he would feel cheated if the truth was that Adam lied to get Ronan in bed. He’d been prepared to resort to measures that were even more desperate. It was only that there was a small bit of assurance that came from their love affair being magically foreseen. Something that scented of fate and red string.

“What did you see, then? Anything?” Ronan asked lowly. 

Adam buried his face further into Ronan’s chest, but Ronan could feel how warm his face had grown. 

“Us. In moments of climax. Many of them.” 

“So when you said that you saw me in your bed…” 

“It was all I saw. When I came to, I thought I’d fallen into the fire, my face was so hot. The last vision was of you, watching in the forest. That’s how I knew where you were.” 

Images flashed across Ronan’s mind, moments they’d shared over the last months. Moments where Adam’s legs tightened around Ronan’s shoulders as his cock sent release down the back of Ronan’s throat. Moments where Adam had filled him from behind with his seed, thrusting into him so deeply, Ronan’s own cock and bollocks had ground deliciously into the mattress and soiled the sheets. It was no wonder Adam had sought him so urgently. If Ronan had a prophetic vision of such pleasure, he might’ve ruined his trousers like a teenaged boy before he could say the first word of Let’s fuck . 

Ronan told him as much. Adam pulled back, a bashful smile on his face. 

“That was part of it, but it wasn’t just that. You know I pay attention to my visions, Ronan. I appraise every last detail while I’m in that moment. And I saw you, all I could see was something important. As if—” His gaze turned to the floor. “As if there was love in the act. I suppose I thought that there could only be that much love between us if the war was over, so I made that the prophecy. I can see now that such a presumption was overly hopeful and that physical relations can work just fine without any—uh, affections.” 

It was one of the most beautiful things Ronan had ever heard, but Adam looked as if he wanted the earth to swallow him up. Ronan couldn’t stand it. 

“You weren’t overly hopeful. At least, not as far as I’m concerned. You were right about your vision,” he swore. 

Adam’s eyes snapped up to Ronan. He worried at his lip with his teeth which made Ronan want to volunteer his own mouth as tribute. 

“Did you not know?” continued Ronan.

“Not for sure. You’ve never spoken it. But—do you?” 

“Love you? Yes .” He said it as simply as if he were saying the ocean was blue. As if trees shed their leaves in October. As if he had been born knowing it, before he knew the words to make it heard. “I care about you beyond my kingdom and my crown. Beyond anything else in my life. You truly did not know?” 

Adam gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Who am I to presume I bear the love of a prince? I’ve nothing to offer you.” 

Ronan’s arms slipped around the center of Adam’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest until their ribs slotted together. On instinct, Adam’s hands found their way into Ronan’s curls, though his expression still held uncertainty. Not at Ronan. Adam had once told Ronan that even with the war between their people, Ronan was the most certain thing in his life. The trouble between Adam’s brows was directed at himself, as if Ronan’s face were truly a mirror and not the eyes of a man who loved him. 

“That’s nonsense,” Ronan said simply. “I am the richest man in the world and not for my family name.” 

This did some good at easing the tension lines on Adam’s forehead, but he was still frowning.

“Declan will never let us be together.”

Ronan’s lips erupted in a crooked smile. 

“Ah, that’s the beauty of it,” he said. “You didn’t ask me how the war came to end.” 

With more clarity than Ronan could have mustered if he were sitting directly on top of Adam’s manhood, Adam said, “Well now I’m asking.” 

Tilting his face to let his lips brush lightly against the stubble on Adam’s jaw, Ronan told him. He told him about his first encounter with Jordan, about how he’d taken her into his home and welcomed her as a thief. He almost left out the parts about how Ronan hadn’t actually seen her after that, except Adam asked for clarification on the story’s missing pieces. 

“Why didn’t she turn you in in the first place?” asked Adam, finger trailing in repeated lines down the back of Ronan’s throat.

“Because I told her I loved you. She believed me.” 

Adam’s lips parted just enough to let his soft sigh coast over Ronan’s forehead. 

“You loved me even then?” 

The truth was vulnerable, but it was all Ronan had. “Before you saw me in your vision. You were just a Witch boy with open hands, but I knew.” 

Finally, finally, it was enough for Adam. His arms draped around Ronan’s shoulders once more and closed their lips together. Ronan returned the kiss with such force that Adam fell backwards against the mattress, head landing in the center of his soft pillow. Ronan had caught him against the worst of the fall, arms strong around Adam’s frame. He settled between the cradle of Adam’s legs, finding it warm and familiar. 

Outside Adam’s window, Ronan could vaguely hear Maura Sargent’s voice shouting to a crowd, followed by a blast of loud cheers. 

“Looks like the news is out,” Adam said warmly, gaze unstraying. “Do you want to go celebrate?” 

Ronan didn’t answer. Instead, he put a fingertip to Adam’s mouth and pulled down the bottom lip until he could see the glossy red there. He kissed it, letting the sensation of bliss sweep over him. Adam rolled up into him, brushing his hot heat where Ronan could feel every touch, every brush of fabric. He would’ve come here completely naked if he’d known it would save him from leaving Adam’s embrace to undress. 

Adam was quicker, though. When he shoved Ronan onto his back, he went willingly, splayed across the bed in complete surrender. The movement was so unexpected that it forced a rush of lust through him so strongly, all Ronan had the strength to do was stare hazily up at Adam and run his hands over his own chest. He watched Adam do away with their clothes, whimpering as more and more of their bare skin lined up. By the time he was done, Adam was laying flat on Ronan’s chest, Ronan’s hand carding through his hair. 

“Tell me what you want,” Adam begged. Ronan grinned.

“Lay waste to me, lover.” 

The shift was tangible. A crackle of magic in the air. A quiet gasp. The pounding of drums outside.  Adam descended upon Ronan in a deluge of mouth and hands and teeth and skin. It was all Ronan could do to hang on, hands clinging against Adam’s freckled shoulders as he pressed sucking kisses to the hollow of Ronan’s throat. 

Ronan was hard between them, weeping arousal from the tip. He pushed his hips upwards, desperate for the relief of friction, but Adam pushed him even deeper into the bed. 

“Patience, my prince,” he said. He swirled a finger over the head of Ronan’s cock, collecting the slick moisture and sucking it into his mouth. This was nearly too much for Ronan, but the trials continued when Adam lowered his mouth onto him. Adam hummed. “I thought royals would taste of gold.” 

“You know my taste,” Ronan groaned, clutching uselessly at the sheets. 

“That I do,” Adam said, smiling. “You don’t taste like a dreamer, nor a prince.” He dipped his head to sample the delicacy again. “You taste of burned fruit and musk.” He swirled his tongue around the tip, then underneath. Ronan was thankful for all the noise outside to muffle out the noises he made. 

“And me?” continued Adam. “What’s my taste?” 

“Rain, fuck, ” Ronan gasped out with no hesitation. He could recall the many times Adam was on his tongue, weighing him down. The taste came to mind as easily as if it had never drifted away from the forefront. He remembered a word Adam had taught him months ago. “Petrichor, or whatever the fuck.” 

Adam pulled back, letting Ronan still lean against his lips.

“Rain?” he asked curiously. There was no seduction in his voice like there had been, and often was when they were together like this. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.” 

Ronan let his fall back in frustration as the high of his climax dipped. 

“Well I’ve had you often enough to know, haven’t I?” 

“I suppose you have,” replied Adam with a low chuckle. “You just had an answer so readily available. Makes me think you like me, or something.” 

“I adore you. Now fuck me.” 

Adam’s teeth nipped at Ronan’s hip bone. 

“As you wish, your highness.” 

Adam slicked his finger in a canister of oil next to the bed then rubbed against Ronan’s entrance, finding the flesh pliant from their lovemaking early that morning. It seemed so long ago, another hasty moment of Will we ever have this? and What if this is the last time? But now, there was forever. Ronan hoped Adam intended to take advantage of every moment. 

Ronan’s body welcomed the intrusion. After a few careful thrusts of his fingers into Ronan’s body, Adam turned his lover so his back to his chest. He added another finger, his free hand roaming over the ink of the Lindenmere royal crest on Ronan’s back. The touch elicited a pleasant string of gooseflesh that Ronan felt into the marrow of his spine. 

“I’m ready,” Ronan whined, stretching his head back to look at Adam. They kissed — long, just once. 

Adam pressed inside. Ronan let out a broken, shaking breath. 

“That’s it,” Adam murmured once he was pressed at the hilt to Ronan’s ass. “You look so good when you take it like this.” He gnawed at Ronan’s shoulder, then gave another long thrust, and another, until he was moving in earnest. “If only the Witches had known it would be so easy to best the prince of Lindenmere.” 

Ronan, on his part, felt very bested. He also felt like he didn’t mind overmuch. He snatched out to hold the bedpost, muscles straining with the exertion of keeping up with Adam’s unrelenting assault. 

It was strange to think that he could have this whenever he wanted. The very idea of it had been so much like a dream that even living it now was more than Ronan could fit in his chest. His affection for Adam multiplied unboundedly every time they spoke, every time they met eyes. It was the type of love his mother had promised him he’d find, never believed her about. But it was more than just a story, or even an exaggeration. It was real. 

He just didn’t know what Adam wanted. He had stated his feelings quite plainly and Adam…Adam hadn’t said much of anything. If Adam hated the idea of Ronan loving him, they wouldn’t be doing this now. But if Adam didn’t love him now, could he grow into it?  Was it possible to fully love someone who might one day inherit the kingdom that tried to slaughter your people? 

Was it possible to love Ronan?

Behind him, Adam stopped moving. 

“Are you alright?” 

“Yes,” Ronan answered, hand finding Adam’s where it rested on his hip. “Keep going.” 

Adam leaned forward with a cautious thrust forward, then stopped. 

“You’re completely soft again,” he said. 

“I’m alright. Keep going,” Ronan pressed. 

Adam slipped out, and suddenly, Ronan felt empty and cold. 

“Not until you tell me what you’re thinking about. It must be important enough to distract you out of your favorite position.” 

Ronan could hear the smile in Adam’s voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn around and face him. It was a happy fucking day. It was the day Adam had (sort of) prophesied about, a day that they had prayed for since the first time they laid together. So why did he feel so…uncertain? 

Adam’s palm rubbed comforting circles between Ronan’s shoulder blades. 

“If you don’t think you’ll ever love me, will you tell me now?” asked Ronan tightly. “Because I know we make sense in…other ways and that’s worked out pretty well so far. But you need to tell me now if it’s not going to happen for you so I can—fuck, I don’t know what I’m talking about. Forget I said anything.” 

Adam was still behind him, the soothing hand coming to a halt. 

“Ronan,” he said gently. Ronan squeezed his eyes shut. “ Ronan.” 

Adam tugged him by his shoulder until he was laying flat on the blankets, staring up with a guarded expression. 

“Why do you think I don’t love you?” 

The question made Ronan draw his lips into a thin line. 

“Because I said it nine thousand fucking times and you didn’t say it back. Because being with a royal is harder than it looks.” 

“Have I ever done anything that would make you think that this was just for the fun of it? Because I know we’ve only known each other half a year, but I truly thought you knew me better than that.” 

“You fucked me facing away from you,” stated Ronan petulantly. 

“Because you said it feels better for you that way! But if it bothers you so much—” Adam hitched a leg over Ronan’s thigh, setting his warm ass on Ronan’s cooling lap. The heat that had fled a moment ago was back, though more intense somehow. 

Adam leaned over the length of Ronan’s body and took his face in both hands. Ronan shifted back into rightness. 

“I love you,” Adam said deliberately, “so much that I foresaw it above the Witches winning a decade-long war. That is not little to me. Your importance is not little to me.” 

Ronan swallowed against a lump in his throat. 

“And the prince thing?” 

“I’m sort of the prince of my people, if you think about it. We’re right on course.” Adam nuzzled his nose into Ronan’s cheek. “Please say you believe me.” 

“I believe you,” answered Ronan thickly. 

“Good.” Adam sat up. “Now will you let me ride you?” 

Ronan nodded. Adam sank down. 

*

There were a lot of written laws in Lindenmere. Pay your taxes on time or file for a legal extension. Do not pilfer baked goods from your neighbors bakery, no matter how fresh they are.  Do not ride your horse on the wrong side of the street. 

There were many unspoken rules in Lindenmere too. Many were related to keeping the peace, pieces of common courtesy that were noticeable when broken and did wonders at lowering the death-by-frustrated-neighbor numbers. The most well known implicit rule, Never ever fraternize with a Witch, had faded out of common knowledge when King Declan married his Witch queen. 

In its absence, of course a new one had to take its place. 

It was this: Do not, do not, do not interrupt Prince Ronan and Prince Consort Adam Parrish when their door was shut and both were inside. Both princes did not react kindly to being interrupted. 

And at any rate, you probably didn’t want to interrupt them anyway.