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The king’s cock tore into Fulco like a sword.
Fulco gritted his teeth, swallowing a pained moan. The cock, though brutal, didn’t really injure him – by now, Fulco’s hole was much too used to the treatment. Though it had been different the first time. King Randulf was young and unused to asking permission or being patient, and back then he’d also been unfamiliar with the workings of a male body. He’d assumed Fulco’s ass was the same as his new bride’s pussy; that he could just ram it in, and that the wetness which eased his way was natural.
He’d been apologetic, afterwards, but only as much as a ruler should towards a lowly guard. Fulco, too, didn’t whine and just took it – that was probably his first mistake.
Nowadays, Randulf considered Fulco’s ass his due. Whenever the queen was indisposed – or if she just wasn’t feeling like indulging him that night – the door to the king’s chambers opened and Fulco was called inside. He wasn’t guarding the king’s rooms alone, so everyone knew, the queen included. ‘At least a man doesn’t have a womb to give him a bastard,’ she had apparently said.
Fulco grunted when the king spread his legs wider and deepened the angle. As usual, pleasure seeped through the humiliation and pain like an insidious rivulet of heady mead.
Fulco’s own prick swelled.
He tried to look anywhere but at the king’s red, sweaty face.
For some unfathomable reason, Randulf always took Fulco front-to-front. Fulco didn’t know why that was. From behind would be much easier. Randulf wasn’t interested in Fulco’s cock, and Fulco had no breasts for him to fondle. They didn’t kiss, and Fulco’s raised, hairy legs always dangled above them so awkwardly.
Fulco considered asking for a change of position, but ultimately couldn’t go through with it. Maybe, he reasoned, it was what Randulf thought proper bedroom conduct. Bluebloods held some fancy notions about fucking. Fulco had once heard that, for propriety’s sake, noble ladies were supposed to do it without undressing, with their eyes closed, and only on the nights when the moon was new.
Maybe that’s why the king seemed to prefer Fulco over his wife?
On the next harsh thrust, Fulco couldn’t help but moan. The sound was tiny, barely audible amongst the slaps- and grunts-interspaced silence. Randulf had noticed, though; Fulco could see it in the king’s triumphant gaze.
That had been another mistake – Fulco letting himself enjoy it. During their fervent, unskilled couplings, there always came a moment when the balance shifted, and the king’s relentless rutting, instead of halted groans and pained grimaces, forced shivers and need under Fulco’s skin. Fulco’s untouched cock woke like a thick, pulsing miracle. His cheeks and chest flushed as if with fever.
This was one more reason Fulco would’ve preferred it from behind. Because, while the signs of his discomfort seemed to escape Randulf, he always noticed when Fulco enjoyed himself. He didn’t say anything while they were in bed – he was too busy fucking – and afterwards…well.
They didn’t really talk much.
Besides, even if Fulco wanted to insist he didn’t like it, he had no leg to stand on, nowadays.
Some nights, Fulco thought he might’ve agreed to bed Randulf anyway, had he had an actual choice.
After all, it wasn’t as if he was bedding anyone else.
The latter wasn’t entirely the king’s fault. Fulco hadn’t exactly had the greatest luck with the lads, even before he’d been ‘spoken for’. He was too standoffish, apparently. He couldn’t flirt to save his life.
None of it bothered Randulf any, not even that first time, when he’d taken Fulco clumsily on his own wedding night. After having performed his husbandly duties, Randulf had been drinking heavily with the other lords, so the only thing Fulco expected to happen when he was escorting the swaying king to his quarters was depositing the half-conscious man on the royal bed, and maybe having to take off a pair of fancy boots.
What he certainly wasn’t expecting was Randulf pushing him down and ordering him out of his clothes.
That first night, the king had hurt him some, but he hadn’t hurt him much. And he’d waited a week before approaching Fulco again, sober this time, and more receptive to the idea of artificial lubrication – although, even to this day, it was on Fulco to provide and apply.
Honestly, Fulco had never had to suffer such a clueless, uncaring bedfellow. Why was it then that his body quickened and his heart skipped a beat when he thought of their shared nights whenever he touched himself in the privacy of his own quarters?
Damnation, the look on Randulf’s face when Fulco had spent on him for the first time! As if it had never crossed the king’s mind that Fulco was also a man; as if the mere fact of being the one taken robbed Fulco’s cock of all function.
Randulf grunted from the strain, redoubling his efforts. Fulco’s ass numbed and heated from the easy friction. He clenched on the king’s cock, chasing the now-pleasant ache and the tiny shivers, causing Randulf to lose his rhythm.
The king regained his control quickly, and kept snapping his hips – this time with purpose. Somehow, with many tries and almost as many errors, he’d learned where to aim to make Fulco’s cock leak and his balls tense. At first, Fulco had thought it mere luck, but no. Randulf could now make him see the moon and all the stars – deliberately.
If he wanted to.
He seemed to be wanting to do that more and more, nowadays, although Fulco wished the reluctant awakening of the king’s generosity included putting a hand on Fulco’s cock. Fulco had tried to touch himself exactly once, to bared teeth and a glare so disdainful his cock went soft in the next heartbeat. He hadn’t tried since – he’d just lay there, trying to touch Randulf as little as possible.
Fulco was used to being more proactive with his infrequent lovers. He’d had his share of cock, but even then, he used to be the one in charge. He’d buck into his man, or ride him like an unruly horse. He’d laugh. He’d take.
There used to be none of this wretched meekness.
On Randulf’s cock, Fulco wanted to squirm. He clenched, grunted, and moaned. He strained towards Randulf’s skin without daring to do anything about his embarrassing lust.
He felt exposed, weak.
Randulf owned him. Not only as his employer and his king – Randulf possessed the very core of him. His was all the heat pooling under Fulco’s sternum and deep in his belly. That swirl of unwanted need. The heated looks Fulco couldn’t help but send him sometimes across a crowded throne room. Fulco’s thoughts when he was standing guard alongside his unsuspecting fellow men – of spreading his legs, of skin, of movement. All Fulco’s secret pains and his deepest pleasures now belonged to Randulf.
He felt Randulf as he walked. Three days rarely passed between his king’s indulgences, and never more than a week. Fulco’s new reality was a sore hole. It wasn’t even unpleasant – not like it used to be – it just made Fulco constantly aware of his new place in the castle’s life. His current standing changed little – being a man, he hadn’t gotten the lavish privileges of official royal courtesans bestowed upon him. That was probably another reason the queen didn’t mind him as she would’ve minded them, and why the entire court pretended as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening instead of engaging in excited, wild speculation.
Fulco didn’t want luxuries or influence, and he certainly didn’t want gossip. Still, being acknowledged would’ve been…
Nice.
He turned his face away and closed his eyes.
Above him, Randulf growled. His movements snapped faster and more precise – that’s what always happened when the king felt Fulco wasn’t paying him enough attention.
The rapid thrusts pumped a barrage of small moans out of Fulco; they made him heat with shame.
His arse kept clenching on Randulf’s cock against his will, pleasuring Randulf in a way only a tight hole could pleasure a man. It had been months since Fulco had experienced that particular sensation himself – Randulf seemed a possessive sort, and while Fulco was never right-out ordered to stay out of other people’s beds, he didn’t want to test him unnecessarily. From the start of this, he had to be exclusively Randulf’s.
Aside from the mandatory – if infrequent – visits to the queen’s chambers, the king also hadn’t bedded another.
The very idea made Fulco blush – that, instead of an easy indulgence, he could be a proper lover. That, despite in essence being ordered, this could be more than a simple service any whore could perform. Randulf wasn’t bedding whores, after all. Just Fulco.
The contradictory feelings warred inside him. This was forced, unwanted, wrong. It was unsatisfactory and passive, and so unlike him. He needed more, even if this was to remain just fucking. Yet his heart quickened with anticipation every time the door he was guarding creaked. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the hard lines of Randulf’s thighs and back.
His cock filled the moment Randulf gave him that look.
Sometime through this, and completely out of the blue, he started wanting Randulf. Slowly, imperceptibly, the defiance which was brewing inside him turned to desire. To intense, pure lust.
Randulf thrust deeply, sliding straight into and through Fulco’s pleasure. Fulco’s moan mixed with the sloppy sound their bodies made coming together. Randulf grinned down at him and rolled his hips. Then he rolled them again, and Fulco could no longer help himself.
He let go of the linens he’d been gripping – to not grip anything else – and reached for Randulf’s body. Surprise flashed on Randulf’s face, but this time, the king didn’t push Fulco’s greedy hands away. Given free rein, Fulco grabbed at the muscles moving under the skin of the king’s back, groped, mapped them, then – when the rebuttal still didn’t come – he sneaked his right hand lower, onto Randulf’s backside.
Randulf’s eyes widened.
Fulco dug his fingers in.
The king groaned.
Emboldened, the air in his lungs much heavier than it would’ve been from just the fucking, Fulco pulled Randulf’s hips harder into himself.
Randulf’s sweaty forehead landed on his shoulder, and Fulco felt a shudder run through the body above him. Hot lips and an even hotter, muffled curse burned his skin.
Fire seared through Fulco’s untouched groin. His balls tightened as if gripped.
Experimentally, he squeezed Randulf’s ass again.
The king made a sound which went right to Fulco’s cock. The prick inside him felt like it was made of steel. It felt huge and utterly fulfilling, the dull, wonderful pleasure-ache surrounding it the best thing Fulco had ever experienced. Randulf’s hips pumped sharp, sudden pleasure into him, which then thrilled through Fulco’s entire body. The burning soreness hadn’t entirely disappeared, but now it just added a bright, exciting edge to all the other sensations which Fulco was feeling.
Tears pricked his eyes, but they weren’t the tears of pain, reluctance, or sorrow.
Randulf fucked him with quick thrusts, shorter than before, but incredibly deep. Their lust-heated, sweaty bodies rubbed close, Randulf’s pubic bone pressing deliciously against Fulco’s heavy balls.
Still testing how much he was allowed, Fulco squeezed Randulf’s rib cage between his raised tights, then squeezed his own buttocks and hole on Randulf’s next thrust.
Pain shot through his shoulder as Randulf bit him.
It didn’t feel like admonishment.
In the position they were in, Fulco didn’t have a great range of motion. With his spine bent into a bow and his legs obediently spread and raised, there wasn’t much he could do. He tried, though – now that he could.
Now that Randulf hadn’t pushed him away.
He twisted his hips and worked his muscles no matter how much his back and tights ached. He pulled Randulf close to himself. With every thrust, his cock, now pressed, if lightly, against the cradle of soft skin and coarse hair, twitched with anticipation. Fulco groped and rubbed Randulf’s meaty butt, greedily learning its forbidden shape. His other hand, wrapped around Randulf’s shoulder and back, moved up and up, as if on its own accord – into Randulf’s dark hair.
Randulf trembled.
Fulco gripped tighter.
It became like a trance. There were no sounds except grunts, groans, moans, and the wet skin sliding together. Randulf was no longer looking at him – he buried his face in Fulco’s neck and shoulder, mouthing randomly at Fulco’s skin. His sex-ruffled hair tickled Fulco’s nose.
Fulco’s eyes fell closed.
This didn’t feel like just fucking anymore.
They moved together now, in a single wave, slower, their joining now painful in a different way. The ache bloomed higher, in Fulco’s chest, sweet and weirdly non-physical.
Fulco wanted.
Fulco needed.
“Please, touch me,” he whispered into Randulf’s ear.
At the sound of Fulco’s voice, Randulf’s hips twitched deeper. Without lifting his face out of the crook of Fulco’s neck, he shifted. More of his weight pressed on Fulco, then a warm hand shyly wormed itself between their bodies.
Hot, sweet pressure enveloped Fulco’s starved cock
Fulco choked on a moan.
Randulf stroked him, as unskilled in this as he used to be in all else during that first night when it all had started. His touches were uneven, crude and broken, and he scraped the hard callus on the side of his thumb over the delicate ridge under Fulco’s tip, but Fulco didn’t care about the imperfections.
Randulf was touching him.
Willingly.
He’d listened to what Fulco said, and did what he asked of him.
Fulco’s mind was white like snow unsullied by feet, but somewhere under that blankness a shy hope took root. That maybe…
Maybe if Fulco asked – just sometimes, just for little things – this weird, wretched life of his could become not only bearable but actually fulfilling.
Even if only after nightfall.
Even if just a bit.
Randulf stroked and squeezed him, and Fulco held him to himself like a proper lover should. They moved in unison – uncoordinated in the exact same way. Fulco knew, deep down, that his grip in Randulf’s hair must hurt – just like the echo of pain still bloomed inside him; just like Randulf’s too dry, calloused hand hurt his oversensitive cock – but he couldn’t make himself stop. After all, Randulf wasn’t complaining – and neither was Fulco. The intensity was necessary; it was something they both desperately craved. Bodies close – closer than ever – mouths silent, their eyes turned and hidden away.
Something was happening between them, something that had been a long time coming. A part of Fulco had been wanting it for a while already; he just had no idea how to reach for it. Randulf, though? It must’ve been a complete surprise for Randulf. The entitled prince, turned entitled king, turned entitled lover. The thought that he could want to please someone beyond himself must be unthinkable. Even before, when he’d been painstakingly learning how to thrust into Fulco’s hole to bring him the most pleasure, he’d acted like it wasn’t happening. The one time Fulco tried to mention it when they were done, Randulf interrupted him mid-word, instantly turning cold. When they were fucking, Fulco’s pleasure was an achievement; afterwards, wanting it was a shameful thing unbefitting a king.
If Fulco’s brain was working even a little, he would’ve wondered what would happen today. If Randulf’s perception of himself – of what a king could or should – would prevail or crumble to dust. But he was drunk with pleasure, with closeness, and couldn’t think at all.
There was only Randulf’s scent, clean and lightly perfumed, and so unlike anything or anyone Fulco had ever smelled. The softness of his skin, hairy chest rubbing against his chest. That hand on his cock, a hard, hot prick working tirelessly between his legs. The pleasure – building inside him, like a mountain, eager to erupt through the earth.
“Harder, please, harder,” he heard himself say.
Randulf listened again.
They moved, more frantic with every passing moment. Fulco moaned continuously now, the sound modulated by the depth of Randulf’s thrusts. His shoulder and the side of his neck throbbed – sucked on, bitten, sucked on again. It built and built, until he was a mere inch away – just a single, solitary step between him and the most perfect oblivion.
“The tip. Squeeze the tip!” he ordered.
Randulf squeezed.
***
They were laying beside each other. Still panting.
Not touching anymore.
“I…” Randulf started.
Fulco tensed, but no more words came.
Fulco risked a glance at the side of Randulf’s face.
The king was staring at the maroon canopy with furrowed brows.
Fulco swallowed, then took a risk again. “Thank you,” he said.
He forwent the ‘sire.’
Randulf’s brows furrowed more. He looked at Fulco, opened his mouth, then his cheeks colored.
He hid his face.
He shifted to his side – his back to Fulco.
Fulco also turned, but towards instead of away.
He touched Randulf’s sweaty skin, and when the king stiffened but did nothing, he boldly plastered himself to the entire length of Randulf’s suddenly strangely inviting shape.
“Thank you,” again, he whispered into the king’s damp, messy hair. “That was very kind of you, and I appreciate it. You made me feel so good. I don’t remember feeling this good ever before.”
“Stop talking,” Randulf ordered, but it sounded more like a whine.
Even in the low candlelight, Fulco could see his ear was red.
“But I am grateful,” Fulco kept pushing his luck. “You never touched me like that before – no one has, since you took me into your bed – and it felt beyond wonderful.”
There was a bit of silence. Then, “…no one?”
Fulco nuzzled into Randulf’s hair and kissed his nape. “No one.” Carefully – giving the king plenty of time to stop him – he wrapped an arm around his waist.
He pressed his spent, sticky groin into Randulf’s backside.
Randulf’s breath quickened, but he didn’t react otherwise.
He didn’t even stiffen all that much.
“You were so good to me today,” Fulco continued his praises. He wasn’t certain which of the night’s events had gifted him with this boldness, when precisely the things had changed, but suddenly he was no longer afraid of reaching for the things he wanted. “So, so good. With your body, your mouth, your hand.”
“I bit you,” Randulf’s voice was quiet. “Many times.”
Fulco scrapped his teeth over the soft place where Randulf’s neck met his shoulder. “I liked it.”
Randulf trembled.
“You like that I liked it?” Fulco asked.
There was another long silence.
“Yes,” came the soft reply.
“Then why are you ashamed?”
“You’re my subject. I’m your king.”
Now it was Fulco’s turn to furrow his brows. The answer was what he’d been expecting, yet for some reason, it didn’t sound entirely right.
He asked, “Is that all?”
This time, the silence was so long, Fulco almost gave up on the answer. He already committed to feigning sleep – to delay as much as possible the moment when he’d be ordered to leave the king’s warm, very comfortable bed – when Randulf started talking.
His voice was barely audible.
“You didn’t like it at first. At all.”
Fulco said nothing to that – after all, it was true.
“You…” Randulf continued. “You didn’t like it for a very long time.”
Less true, but Fulco stayed silent.
This was finally leading somewhere.
“Philippa doesn’t like sleeping with me much, either. She says…” Randulf swallowed. “She says I’m clumsy. That no matter what I do, it’s always such a duty. That she’s only doing it because she must.” He laughed, and his laugh was bitter. “With how I am, I’m never going to please her, so I can as well stop trying. We need heirs, and we’re going to have heirs, but that’s where it all ends.” He paused. “Am I just a duty?” Randulf swallowed. “To you?”
Fulco sucked in a breath to answer.
Randulf interrupted him before he could. “No! Don’t answer that! I know I am – how could I not be – you don’t have to say it, or, even worse, lie to make me feel better. I…don’t really want to know the truth. That’s why I couldn’t…” Another silence. “Do you understand?”
And, somehow, Fulco understood.
Because, if you don’t acknowledge you are trying, or better yet, if you never try at all, then there is no possibility of failure.
Of rejection.
If you just order, and never ask.
If you never admit, even before yourself, that you care about the answer.
Fulco snorted.
In his arms, Randulf stiffened.
Fulco hugged him tighter. “For a king,” he said, “you’re such a bloody dunce.” He sighed. “Hell, I’m a dunce, too. I should’ve told you long ago what I wanted.”
“But you tried,” Randulf said. “A few times. I think? I was just too afraid,” his voice became quieter, “that what you wanted wasn’t me.”
“It is you.” Fulco groaned. “Sometimes I wish it wasn’t, but it is. It would’ve been much easier if you were someone I could influence more easily – or at all – and not a bloody king, but we are who we are.”
Fulco didn’t say that he still held a grudge about how it all started, and that he probably always would. Randulf seemed to know that. And it wouldn’t have helped anything.
“We are who we are,” Fulco repeated. “I’m your subject, and you’re my king. As my king, whatever your wish, I’ll need to obey. You have power over me, you always will, and I have no power over you. That’s just how things are.”
“Do you want a posting…that will take you away from—”
“No, I don’t! Are you listening?” Fulco unglued himself from Randulf’s back and pulled on his shoulder, turning the king to face him. “I want you despite all that! Even if it’s damn annoying.”
Randulf avoided his eyes. “You should hate me,” he said.
Fulco sighed. “Yes, I know.”
He examined Randulf’s face, still blotchy from the exertion but otherwise unblemished and perfectly smooth with youth. And God, was he young. When he had taken the crown three years ago, there was talk about his suitability and a possible need for a regent – talk that still hadn’t entirely died down. His body was hard from exercise and his fingers calloused from the sword, but there was no trace of the distinguished beard many expected from an experienced ruler, and Fulco knew it was because Randulf still could not grow one; he didn’t even have to shave all that often. Fulco, who had to put a razor to his own face every morning, lest he look like a forest animal, envied him that. And he marveled at the rest of the king’s body, which, in contrast, was covered with more than enough manly hair.
Pity that, under all the fancy clothes, the court couldn’t see Randulf’s chest or groin.
“I don’t hate you,” Fulco said. “I want you.”
Maybe if he kept repeating that, Randulf would finally believe him.
Randulf just looked at him for a long time.
Fulco broke first. “Damn it, say something!”
“I…don’t know what?”
Fulco looked to the Heavens for help. “That you want me, too, or some such?”
The king’s blush returned full-force. “I thought that was obvious?” he started babbling. “I mean, we wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t… I mean, you’re the most handsome—”
Fulco couldn’t take it anymore, so he kissed him.
Randulf looked startled.
“That not okay?” Fulco asked.
“No,” Randulf said slowly, “I just… I mean, we haven’t – before.”
“And whose choice was that?”
Randulf ran away with his eyes.
“So,” Fulco said, “shall we continue as before, or could this maybe become…” He took a deep breath and risked it. “More?”
“M-more?”
Fulco played with Randulf’s hair, then gently slid his palm down the sweaty back. “Yeah,” he said. “Me, properly sharing your bed. Us – touching and kissing, and maybe even talking about the things we want. You know. Like lovers do.” He looked into Randulf’s half-hopeful, half-panicked eyes. “That is – if you want for us to be lovers.”
“I do!”
Fulco smiled. Then he relaxed fully against Randulf’s body and, telegraphing his movements, brought his lips closer to the king’s.
Randulf, who, bless him, now knew what Fulco wanted, met him midway.
They closed their eyes and kissed for a while. It was clumsy – like everything new between them – but you had to start somewhere. Practice would make it, if not perfect, then at least very good.
“Fulco, I…” Randulf said when they lay tangled together afterwards.
“Hmm?”
“I’m s-sorry.”
“I know.” Fulco’s eyes were already closed and sleep slurred his words. “Doesn’t change the things you did. I’m not going to forgive you.”
“I know. I’m still sorry.”
“Good.”