Work Text:
“Sire,” Roche gasps, whines, around the hand pressing down on his throat.
“You’re doing so well,” his King tells him, pupils blown wide.
If there’s a line between fear and arousal, Roche has long since lost sight of it. His entire world consists of his King’s words of praise, his King’s hands. He would give Foltest anything—and he does, panting, whimpering, as Foltest’s thumbs press into his fragile windpipe.
“You’d really let me do this,” his King says, pressing down until Roche’s adrenaline spikes and he has to fight not to react.
“I would,” he rasps, euphoric. “I would.”