Work Text:
In vain he roars his objections when they take him. But a “No“ does not hold against royal commands, and he knows that they’ll break him if he does not yield. So he ceases to resist and slackens and slumps against their hard, mailed hands. Perhaps that’s why they allow him to cover himself up in a thin shirt before they haul him off into the dark. The flimsy fabric does not help against the sting of the morning chill but at least it restores a bit of his dignity.
It’s a tent they drag him to. A richly furnished tent. A royal tent. All red tapestries and flickering candle light. They throw him to the floor like a sack of grain, like a common serf. And he does not take kindly to that, he will remember it when the time comes. But for now there are more pressing matters to solicit his attention, like the reason he’s been brought here, before the King’s brother, in this fashion. They would not have dared to treat him this way, if he had not already been found guilty of something. So he rather stays on his knees, even after the guards have left, a model of humility.
A fire warms the place into a stifling heat. A heat that reminds him of his journeys to the East, when sweltering nights pressed down on his feverish body, and he tossed and turned aflame with desires and drunk on fantasies. Yet these days, nightmares have taken the place of sweet dreams and it would seem, he’s just landed himself in the middle of one. This is the heat of purgatory not one of sensuality. Foreboding creeps over his skin and goosebumps erupt in its wake and he keeps his head down, his eyes locked to the ground. Still he can’t help but notice that the paravent behind the makeshift throne is resembling a confessional and his stomach lurches at the wicked twist this adds to the setting. And he’s to be proven right about this being some sort of inquisition.
Prince John’s words are ever so soft when he asks him: “Do you love me, Gisborne?”
“Yes, Sire,” he answers without hesitation as he understands John’s conviction of his loyalty to be the thread his life hangs by.
He has been the right hand of Vaisey long enough to know how to act the submissive part. The erotic implications of the situation are not lost on him nor is the open threat on his life and he is determined to do whatever it takes, to get out of this unscathed. Easily he slips into a role he has played countless times before. Yet, despite all calculations, his reaction to the offer of becoming sheriff comes nearly natural to him. The way he lifts his head to the suggestion, lips half open, eyes blinking with surprise and something reminding of shyness – it’s only half an act. Half of it might be actually genuine.
John leans down to him, his voice thick with promise. “Does it please you that I have such confidence in you?” he whispers.
“Yes, Sire,” Gisborne replies in a tone even huskier than usual. He looks up at his Prince in the most angelic, most appraising way he can muster, his blue eyes glittering with admiration, the slightly parted lips full of suggestions.
“A private secret we can share. And you will do this for me, Gisborne, because you love me.” John’s hand strokes his cheek, so soft against the sharp stubble. The tips of his fingers touch Gisborne’s lips and they part just a little more, barely enough for John to sense the sweetness beyond.
It’s a tightrope he walks, a thin line between compliance and offence. He does not know where this leads. Oh well, his body certainly knows, as there is already the familiar heat pooling in his belly. But his mind, his mind is not so sure about it. Will John leave it at the unspoken threat? Or will he consume what has been offered in a gesture of submission? Seal their pact with blood? Or is he misreading the signs of sexual tension? It could cost him his head if he’s not careful.
Gisborne does not dare to enquire. He holds still and waits for things to come, well aware that there is nothing he can do about the outcome of events. Whatever John has set his mind on will happen, whether he’s willing or not. But he trusts his body to be pliable, willing to adapt rather than perish. If there is something he can count on it’s his survival instinct; it never has failed him. Not yet.
The feeling in his gut has not belied him, he realises, when his Prince speaks again. “I shall have another demonstration of your love, Gisborne. One to precede the murder of the Sheriff.”
“Whatever you ask of me, Sire,” Gisborne answers, his voice as low, as deep, as seductive as he can make it and still be safe.
A thumb brushes over half-opened lips and dips into moisture. Obediently, Gisborne lets it glide over the rim of his teeth, meeting it with the shortest flick of his tongue. Short enough to be a reflex or accident. No need to rush to assumptions. But then it can’t be good not to react at all and he’s going to play this safe.
He earns himself a smug little smile. So the path is set, he thinks, wondering briefly if he can follow it through. Exchanging one master for the next is easy. But meeting their expectations, that’s a completely different task.
Vaisey rarely made demands of pleasure. Most of the time he would content himself with humiliations and small acts of chastisement. To be precise, simply punishing him seemed to put the Sheriff in a far better mood than actually indulging in carnal needs and desires. Gisborne strongly suspected the cause might be cruelty rather than mercy, since the sexual act would at least grant him a feeling of closure, of forgiveness, of relief that pain in itself could not provide. But his satisfaction was not necessary for Vaisey’s hold over him, on the contrary. The hungry dog is more obedient than the well fed. However, as time passed he stopped questioning the nature of their relationship and came to accept it for what it was. It never was his to define in the first place, Vaisey made sure of that. And without the freedom of choice, matters are simple.
The narcissism of Prince John on the other hand presents a completely different challenge. While Vaisey never had the slightest doubts about himself and the power he held over others, John needs to be assured, allured and flattered. He will not gain pleasure from breaking resistance but from voluntary submission. He desperately craves to be loved, even if he does not understand what it means, that love is not adoration nor worship or dependence. But who is Gisborne to teach him such things? He above all who failed so miserably at loving, who destroyed rather than let go what he deemed his and his alone.
He holds still when John’s hands travel the length of his neck, over the tightness of his shoulder, tracing the gaping collar down to his broad chest that, at Vaisey’s request, he keeps meticulously shaven. Although the fingers are soft, the skin unblemished by labour or handling a sword, their touch is neither gentle nor passionate; it is less of a caress than more the probing of a child testing a new toy.
Gisborne wills himself to be compliant and even moans when well trimmed fingernails pinch his nipple. “My King, I am yours, body and soul,” he breathes in a studious performance of devotion. The title was chosen perfectly, as John gasps at the form of address rather than the words that followed it, just as he’s supposed to and Gisborne is filled with pride of his manipulative skills, albeit in this case, every common whore would have done the same. Oddly enough, the thought stirs up arousal in the pit of his stomach and he is thankful for it. Thankful for every little fantasy, that will guide him through this, safe and sound.
“Say it again,” Prince John demands, a fist buried in Gisborne’s hair, tearing brutally with hardly concealed excitement and the pain of it goes straight to Gisborne’s cock, tugging at it like the stroke of a hand.
“I am yours, my King,” he repeats, his voice barely more than a purr, and in his mind he adds Use me like the whore that I am for I will do anything to become Sheriff. Anything at all.
It’s his ambitions he thinks about when watching Prince John fumbling with his britches to get out his half-hard prick. A sceptre as weak as his claim to the throne, it seems. The way he holds it, as if not entirely sure what to do with it, makes it quite clear that he lacks the determination to see this through properly. Instead he passes the decision to Gisborne who, though a little surprised by this turn of events, gladly takes it.
Carefully, he weighs the options in his head. He is convinced, his Prince would love to be impaled by his cock, thick and hard as it is. To be held flush against his broad chest, while he’s pounding into him from behind. But you can’t fuck a king without having to fear for your life. No one fucks a king and lives to tell the tale. All the more so if that king’s really only a prince who is rather moody and erratic and insecure. So that’s out of the question, Gisborne decides. He could let himself be mounted of course, but he seriously doubts that it would be a pleasurable experience and as it’s apparently him who’s in charge, he’s not planning on giving up the control over what’s happening.
All put together, there’s only one option left, that will have the desired effect and leave him in control, even if it won’t do anything to relieve the ache between his own legs. But that’s the price one pays for power, and Gisborne is only too willing to trade places for once. As much as his position allows it, anyway.
With a reverie copied from the most skillful of whores he’s ever encountered, Gisborne crawls closer and still kneeling, lifts his hands. One he slips under the Prince’s balls, the other encloses the swelling flesh. His hands don’t compare to those of a woman, large and calloused as they are, yet they’re no peasant’s paws, either. Fingers long and strong and elegant, he’s got the hands of a noble, a knight, a warrior. They’ve seen battle and death, they held reins and gave orders. He knows the appeal of that, and when he dips his head, it’s not only to take his Prince into his mouth but also to hide his smile, sly and shrewd.
It’s hardly the first cock he sucks and it won’t be the last. Still it’s different from the ones he’s had before. Prince John tastes of scented oils and perfumes with only the faintest hint of bitterness beneath. Too sweet, too contrived for Gisborne’s likings. He prefers the natural smell of a man, feral and intimate and honest. He prefers someone to hold him down, be it in an act of dominance or passion, until the salt of his sweat mingles with the salt of his come and he’ll have relief. The struggle is part of the thrill – and here is none to be had. Even if Prince John should try to exercise control, Gisborne already knows he doesn’t wield the power necessary. It lies with his guard, his deathman, his torturers – and none of them are here right now, neither in the flesh nor in their imagination.
Again he reminds himself that it’s not doing this out of fear nor because of a threat, but for his ambitions. He is serving his Prince, wilfully, and again he thinks in the Sheriff’s voice. A slut, Gisborne, that’s what you are. At least this brings him into the right set of mind. Strange how even in the very act of betraying him, Vaisey is still with him.
Fingers closed at the cock’s base, rubbing slowly, Gisborne licks its tip, circling the head with his tongue, finally finding the little slit and dabbing at it, playfully, before sucking up the length into the warmth of his mouth. He is careful not to take it in too deep, he doesn’t like to be chocked if he can help it. That’s one of the reasons, he’s using his hands too. The other one being, that it will be faster this way. Vaisey of course would not have allowed it. He would have had his wrists bound behind his back and then fucked his mouth, only laughing at the way Gisborne gagged from the pressure in the depth of his throat. He used to take his time with him; a simple fuck could last hours and frequently was accompanied by humiliation and pain, but in the end, when he let Gisborne come, he had the most intense orgasms of his life. The memory fans the flames in his belly and he hums with pleasure, deep in his throat, knowing very well what the sound will do to the cock in his mouth.
He looks up at his Prince who’s slumped back against the rest of his makeshift-throne, the handsome face slack with pleasure and astonishment, as if surprised by Gisborne’s skills. “Oh yes,” he moans. “Show me how much you love your king…”
The slight shaking of his thighs indicates that he’s already quite far gone and Gisborne, rather chuffed at his accomplishment, puts on another mask from his vast collections of slatternly expressions. Eyes hooded, lips swollen and deliciously stretched around the royal cock, he locks his gaze to Johns’ and never breaking eye contact he sucks in earnest, the movement of his lips mirrored by the rhythm of his fingers, stroking firmly, relentlessly, until John’s hips jerk and rise and then at last he spends himself into Gisborne’s willing mouth.
He swallows as much as he can, the whole load of salty, bitter-sweet cum and in his mind, Vaisey pats his head in a gesture of gratification and croons Drink up, Gisborne. Atta boy.
Eventually he is dismissed. John waves his hand impatiently at his promises of fulfilling his duties and the task at hand and Gisborne, understanding that he is overstaying his welcome, stands and with one last bow takes his leave.
As soon as the tent flap drops behind him and he steps out into the morning chill, he wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, suddenly disgusted by all the spit and spunk. It’s like waking from a dream, aroused and confused and disoriented. Anger and unsatisfied need are struggling inside his body, fighting for supremacy, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He considers a stop at a lake in the forest on his way home. To wash off the shame and the nausea that’s beginning to coil in his stomach. To free his throbbing erection from the tightness of his trousers, wrap his fingers around it, feel the delicious pressure on his cock…
At the thought a fantasy begins to take shape, it becomes the warm mouth of a woman or her sweet cunt and he wants thrust into it, without restraint. But then he realises that it’s her he’s fantasising about and he feels sick again and livid and furious. There has to be another way to relieve the tension, someone has to pay for what has been done to him. Now that he’s in good graces with the Prince again, he’s tempted to find one of his royal guards, one of the men who wrenched him from his bed tonight and dragged him to this bloody tent. He’d shove him to his knees in just the same manner he himself was thrown at John’s feet - and then he’d fuck him blind…